The other day, we had a family worship time. I had high hopes. I looked for some fun, energetic children songs on YouTube and we all sat down to worship. But then, my children saw the hand drums under the TV and decided they wanted to play along. Ok, that would be fun. We pulled the drums out and we sang and played. My daughter soon lost interest in the Moroccan doumbek she was pounding and climbed into my wife’s lap. I then picked up the drum and tried to keep beat with my left hand as a sort of therapy.
My son turned to me, and in all innocence said, “Daddy, God is going to heal you so you can play drums fast again someday, right?” I said, “Yes, son, that’s the idea.” However, as the song went on, my frustration level increased. My hand was sluggish and awkward. It wouldn’t do what I wanted and I couldn’t even keep time with the music. Growing increasingly disgusted with myself, I finally had to leave the room. Fuming with shame, anger, and self-hatred, I found myself in the kitchen. I noticed a pot of beef curry on the stove that I left simmering. When I went to check on it, I found that it had burned! That was the final straw. I lost it, screaming down curses on the the Le Creuset pot and its contents of coconut milk stew.
No doubt my children heard me as I lost my temper. I need help. I’m trying to remain optimistic, but as the one year anniversary of my stroke comes around, I struggle with accepting my disability and aligning myself with God’s greater agenda of character building. I must confess it is a wrestling match not to descend into a self-loathing, pity party. I know I need to be a good example to my children, but sometimes, I just don’t feel like it. I ask for your prayers, but please don’t give me any advice. I’m really not in the mood.
I know I’m very fortunate. I no longer need a wheelchair. For the most part, I can walk without a cane and people say my speech seems normal (though I still feel that I sound like Bill Clinton when I get tired). My left hand is coming back ever so slowly. The fingers are starting to move and I’m able to force my left hand to take a feeble part in my daily activities. This is when a dark and foreboding panic creeps in and I wonder, “What if this is it? What if I never get better?” You see, every time I try to use my left hand, it’s like a slap in the face. After getting slapped in the face 25 times by noon, it gets old. I get angry… but I know I can’t give up. If I do, my forward progress may grind to a halt. And yet, every morning, I have to pull myself out of bed only to throw myself face first into a brick wall of resistance, now for the 339th time this year. I’m tired.
So what can I do? As the grip of Covid-19 forces us to spend more time at home, I can either wallow in my toxic little pool of self-pity, or I can get up off my rear end and do something positive. So that’s what we did. We finally assembled Micah’s electronic drum set that he got for his birthday from his grandparents. We loaded the kids in the car and took them shopping for shut-ins. We had the children pick out their favorite cereals to donate to the local food bank. We wrote a check and let my son hand it to the nice administrator of the charity. We came home and ate spicy Sichuan boiled pork and fish with chilies. We listened to the “Micah and Jojo Show” as they played and sang along to “What a Mighty God We Serve.” I helped Mrs. Leung (my wife) clean the toilet.
I may not be able to sing and play the piano right now, but that doesn’t mean I can’t worship God in other ways. We do what we can with what God gives us. “Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God’s grace in its various forms.” – 1 Peter 4:10. Could you pray for me? Thank you.