Imagine for a moment that you’re in a workout class. You probably know the feeling — a hot room, a big whiteboard listing every brutal exercise you’re about to endure, and maybe a group of people beside you, sweating it out on the same journey. The intensity is high. Your strength is fading with each passing rep. You feel like you’ve given it all you’ve got, and you’re ready to call it quits and head home for the day.
My dad was uncharacteristically quiet, and it worried me. He sat on a bench in his room staring down at his legs with a wearied, almost defeated expression on his face. We’d been dealing with large, open wounds from weeping edema (signs of his progressing congestive heart failure) that extended from both his ankles to his knees, and the healing process was painfully slow.
The season brought warmth, birds, and flowers, but I barely noticed the beauty and life around me. I was caught in a funk darker than the bleakest winter day. Physically, I had been sick with an infection I couldn’t shake. Spiritually, the enemy was assailing me through the bitter words of another. Emotionally, I was in turmoil because of the failing health of my husband.
My anxiety was rising as I rifled through every possible place I could think of. After two days of searching, I was still coming up empty-handed. I dug around in the garage, in my junk drawer, in the pile of hardware, in the purse I had worn to the store to measure for a new hinge … everywhere I could think of.
I had reached a breaking point. I felt spent, desperate even. Both my body and soul were at a point of exhaustion. How much longer, Lord?, I cried within.
A number of years ago, I was invited to speak on a radio program for Christian mothers. When I began to talk about prayer being one of our most important motherhood tools, the host stopped me short. “Prayer is great, but it’s not a very practical solution to our daily problems,” she countered.