|Posted by Donna Dawson on October 30, 2013 at 5:30 AM|
Night gapes at me with jeering eyes. I have stayed the hand of pain for one more moment. I wish I could say it was an act of faith but the chemicals in the bottle course through sleep slowed veins, searching for the source that steals my respite. God never promised that I would feel not the bite of pain only that he would carry me through it and so I rest in his hand, in this moment. I choose. I choose to believe he is. I choose to believe he can and will and while invisible fingers pinch and press and slowly release a hungry grip on the endings of nerves and the vise on my skull cranks open the fraction, I choose. He is God. He has spoken and either he lies or he doesn't. I choose to believe he doesn't. So while one of man's attempts to be God speeds through my plasma and I ponder the frailness of my faith, I choose to believe that his choice wasn't the giving of the pain but the holding me through it.