The chit chat of embers tells me the hour is late. Logs no longer dance with flames, only low orange memories, dropping their last glowing kernels into ash below an iron bed.

I must soon head to my own.

Jim and I are making progress with our joint replacements, some days like snails, others at a faster pace.

My break was caused by a fall, but Jim prepared ahead for his new shoulder by stocking up on wood for our wood burner, as well as for the fireplace. Throughout summer and fall, he split wood from trees he downed with a chain saw and determination.

Each stretch of oak, maple, cherry and ash has a story within; an acorn, whirlybird, or other sprout to thank for its beginnings. The warmth permeating our kitchen is a gift as old as the sun, compressed energy released from wood like a genie, some escaping up the chimney toward the stars.

Prayers too, swirl upward. We trust the Spirit is in all we lay on God’s altar. Places holy to the Sacred Three and fire belong together, like the story of Moses in the wilderness, where he spotted a startling sight:

“Now Moses kept the flock of Jethro his father in law, the priest of Midian: and he led the flock to the backside of the desert, and came to the mountain of God, even to Horeb. And the angel of the Lord appeared unto him in a flame of fire out of the midst of a bush: and he looked, and, behold, the bush burned with fire, and the bush was not consumed” (Exodus 3:2 KJV).

I don’t know the full significance of the backside of the desert. It sounds like a desolate place, yet isn’t that where many of us most deeply encounter the living God?

I wonder if I would have recognized that moment as sacred as quickly as Moses did. One of the hidden graces of a broken hip, complicated by cancer, is time to rest and ponder all that brings meaning to my days.

Right now, Job Number One is to avoid slipping. I also don’t want to fall into a trap of asking, “Why me?”

I’m not trudging thru a desert like Moses, but sometimes feel I’m pushing a walker through the sand. The biggest obstacle, other than lingering pain and walking with ease, is not bending over less than a ninety-degree angle.

It sounds simple, but frustration creeps in when a series of “can’ts” interfere with my intentions – I can’t open the bread drawer, plug a charger into an outlet, sweep the floor, reach a book high on a shelf, or easily slip into bed.

Not that I need to. We have plenty of helping hands and are thankful for every smidgen of kindness we’ve received. The thing is, it’s unnatural to depend upon others. I was mulling over this when I glanced toward the window and noticed a pile of notes on the windowsill.

One scrap says it’s hard for women to allow others to tend for us. The secret is to enter into moments of dependency with an attitude of acceptance rather than resignation, asking for peace as I release control.

Okay, God. I (literally) got the memo.

There’s also a suggestion to look at what’s happening through a kaleidoscope of contentment and gratitude, focusing on Jesus, asking him to wither away remnants of self-pity entangling my feet and soul.

Yes, Lord. Don’t let me trip on my own ego.

The fire is gone. I’m headed to sleep, precious sleep, knowing :

Angels’ hands held mine today,

Guides on less familiar ways,

with Love that overshadows me,

from my dear friends, the Trinity.

All will be well.

Texting Thru Recovery/ Indiana Gazette

Angel by Kelsey Andrews, Curated American Artists TM for Kirklands