“The years of our life are seventy, or even by reason of strength eighty; yet their span is but toil and trouble; they are soon gone, and we fly away.”
‭‭Psalm‬ ‭90‬:‭10‬ ‭ESV‬‬

In the night, I’m awakened by deep pain in the upper right arm. I turn to the other side, feed my arm though the pillow, let my hand rest against the headboard.

For a few moments, who knows how long since sleeping either feels like a long long time or only just a minute.

The ache returns. I shift. I reposition.

I sleep.

My trainer says it’s likely the tendon that has some tearing. So I choose a lighter weight.

I don’t stop lifting.

She adds it’s likely the baby carrying and pauses and with no regard for my emotions, concludes…

Also, the painting, the steady and repetitive motion of the brushing of paint on a canvas.

And I’m startled in a serious way.

“Ohhhh…” I say.

Meaning, “Oh no!” but keeping that tinge of grief to myself.

Then the advisors advise.

“Rotator cuff”, “tough surgery”

“You don’t want to mess with that.”

“A supplement is what you need, CoQ10 is wonderful.”

So, yes. I’m now a supplement(s) consumer.

Because I’m painting still and I’m still holding the baby.

I’m growing. I’m aging. My arms are past sixty years of good and meaningful use.

Moving towards 70.

Contemplatively beginning to number my days.

“So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.”
‭‭Psalm‬ ‭90‬:‭12‬ ‭ESV‬‬

I’m walking with my grandson in the same morning way I walked with my four year old granddaughter. She loved and loves talking.

He likes music.

Soon, he’ll be running.

I’ll be teaching him about the “stay in the middle, middle, middle, middle.”

To keep his eyes on the road, to distinguish between a root and a snake.

Soon, he’ll be sprinting.

My legs will need to be able to keep up.

So, I keep moving.

I keep using what I got.

And I’ll keep growing.

I’ll make sure the soil of my soul is fertile.

My arms connected like branches to the nourishment of the vine, my Savior.

Because like the worn out tendons, the much used bones, the hands and fingers used to hold and to create and to cherish the objects I’ve been gifted to make.

I must care for them.

I must nurture my growth.

Wisdom comes in knowing.

In knowing, God’s not finished with me yet.

I’m still growing.

The majestic oak that cushions the curve is shedding its bark. Brownish grey paper size pieces of bark are scattered in the weeds. The thick and arm like branches from the hefty trunk are now a pristine color.

I told myself last week

“Your branches are brittle, your reaching has distanced you from the vine.”

I’m less than seven years from seventy.

My mama was buried the day before her 70th.

Hers and my health are not close to the same but our stories are marked by similar trauma, a similar tenacity and I believe, a comparable hope and a love for living.

I thought of her in the fog of today’s morning. I have things I want to say.

“It’s unfair”, I said to no one within hearing.

“Yes, it is.” I answered and continued into my day.

Knowing she’d say “Choose life today, Lisa. Choose life. Keep turning the page.”

Keep growing.

Continue being brave.

The pains you’re noticing are proof.

Proof of your choosing life despite pain, despite unfairness and in the midst of necessary change.

Keep returning.

Returning to rest in me.

“This is what the Sovereign Lord, the Holy One of Israel, says: “Only in returning to me and resting in me will you be saved.

In quietness and confidence is your strength.”
‭‭Isaiah‬ ‭30‬:‭15‬ ‭NLT‬‬

When my children were babies, we walked to the creek, the clay road with deep ditches, one holding my hand or running fast ahead, the other held tightly in my arms…one hand under the booty and the other around the chest.

Holding tightly.

Holding on.

Without limits or conditions.

Love keeps us strong, letting go while embracing new.