I am continually with you; you hold my right
hand. Psalm 73:23
I stopped typing … mid-sentence.
What was going on? I wiggled my right thumb, pressed the space bar a few times, and wiggled it again. Why did my thumb joint hurt . . . suddenly?
My mom's arthritis issues came to mind. She lost the ability to cut apples, peel potatoes, slice bread, and even write well because the joints in her thumbs prohibited her from doing so. My heart sank. Wasn't I a little young for this? Didn't God know I needed my hands to keep house, cook, and write? Didn't I deal with enough limitations? And why my right hand?
Another voice echoed in my thoughts. That of a doctor … four years after our car crash. "People who've been victims of trauma develop severe arthritis after ten years." She pointed her finger at me. "You have six years left." Eight years had passed.
Over the next few weeks, the pain came and went. Some days, I could type and work like normal. Other days, I noticed some discomfort—not bad, but enough for me to breath a prayer asking God to preserve my hand and thumb capabilities.
What was going on? I wiggled my right thumb, pressed the space bar a few times, and wiggled it again. Why did my thumb joint hurt . . . suddenly?
My mom's arthritis issues came to mind. She lost the ability to cut apples, peel potatoes, slice bread, and even write well because the joints in her thumbs prohibited her from doing so. My heart sank. Wasn't I a little young for this? Didn't God know I needed my hands to keep house, cook, and write? Didn't I deal with enough limitations? And why my right hand?
Another voice echoed in my thoughts. That of a doctor … four years after our car crash. "People who've been victims of trauma develop severe arthritis after ten years." She pointed her finger at me. "You have six years left." Eight years had passed.
Over the next few weeks, the pain came and went. Some days, I could type and work like normal. Other days, I noticed some discomfort—not bad, but enough for me to breath a prayer asking God to preserve my hand and thumb capabilities.
A long-forgotten phrase came to me as a
whisper at first, nudging me to look it up. I found the words tucked
in the writings of Isaiah: "For I, the LORD your God, hold your right hand; it is I who say to you, 'Fear not. I am
the one who helps you'" (Isaiah 41:13). I noted verse 10: "I
will uphold you with my righteous right hand."
In ancient days, the right hand signified strength, authority,
and blessing. I drew great comfort from the prophet’s words. The God of
the universe holds my right hand, the very hand
giving me trouble. His presence scatters my fears and offers reassurance—just
as when a friend squeezes your hand, sharing hope and warm support without a
word. Only God’s touch is better.
Infinitely better.
Humanly speaking, I will pursue a healthy lifestyle, including an anti-inflammatory diet. But every time my thumb acts up, I'm prompted to remember that God promises to hold my right hand with His right hand.
Tweetable: Are you holding God's hand?
Sarah Lynn Phillips has authored numerous articles, devotions, and poems for both online and print publications. She offers a vision of hope in the hard times through her writing and speaking. Her favorite place is home where she enjoys spending time with her family, hosting her writers' group, and reading a great story. Contact Sarah: sarahlynnphillips3@gmail.com. You can get her book, Penned Without Ink, by clicking on the image. 
No comments:
Post a Comment