It hasn’t been a relaxing day.  It never is when I get up before seven in the morning.  Even less, when I don’t sleep well through the night.

A couple of days ago, the nice lady on the phone told me when I needed to arrive at the medical facility today.  The scheduled procedure will hopefully help relieve my confusion about what to do next so I won’t have so much pain when I walk.  And, tie my shoes.  Or, pick up that piece of ice I dropped in the kitchen.

So, I got up early.  It’s not that I wanted to get up early.  I just want to get rid of the pain more than I wanted to sleep later today.

I had been warned that it would be noisy inside the MRI machine.  They say the sounds are often close to 120 decibels. That’s about as loud as a jet taking off.

Even with the earplugs, it was loud.  In the weirdest way.  Hums and buzzes and beeps—clanging and whirring and banging.  But, it’s not random.

The processes required to produce the images also make the noises.  High and low, long and short, they go on for the entire time one is in the tube (or tunnel, however you want to describe it).  And, there is rhythm.

I suspect a percussionist might find interest in the sounds.  But, I agree with my old friend,  who, being told he had an “essential” tremor, uttered the words, “I think I could do without it.”

I could have done without them.  The sounds, I mean.  And, being in the tiny tunnel.

Still, I survived mostly unscathed.  But, feeling overwhelmed, I drove home, opting to forego my stop at the coffee shop.

I eased down into my recliner. And, I just sat.  For over an hour.  I didn’t sleep.  I didn’t watch television.  I just sat staring at nothing.

I might still be sitting there if an angel hadn’t offered me some food.

No.  Wait.  I’m getting ahead of myself.  That wasn’t exactly what happened.

What happened was, I got a phone call.  From an old friend in my hometown.  He had no agenda but just called to talk for a while.

We talked.  About people.  About tasks still to be finished.  About the past (we go back nearly 60 years).  Tears.  Laughter.  Hardships.

Blessings, all.

When our call ended, many long minutes later, the funk in which I had found myself was gone.  All because a friend offered me bread to eat.

No.  Wait.  Where does that bread keep coming from?

Oh.  I know.

Elijah.  Elijah had a task he needed to accomplish.  When it was done, and he was successful, he ran for his life.  An angel made him some pita (or something like it) and sent him on to God.

It’s an oversimplification, I know.  Still.  The man of God defeated all the false prophets of Baal and brought an end to a long drought in the land.  Then, he ran for his life and hid.

The angel didn’t come with any intent to fix Elijah.  He simply ministered to him where he was.  Food and rest.

God would take care of everything else.  In a “narrow silence”, a quiet and small voice, He would speak.

But first, the man needed bread.

Isn’t that what we do for each other here?

In times of distress, we feed each other.  After sleepless nights, we offer places of rest.

I’m still waiting for the answer to my medical questions.

But, the road I’m following is lined with people—other humans—who care for me, and then send me on, strengthened and rested, to God.

As several of my friends keep reminding me, we’re just walking each other home.

And sometimes, the daily bread He gives us comes straight from the hands (and hearts) of our fellow travelers.

I’ll do my best to share some naan when my turn comes.

 

“Bread.  That this house may never know hunger.”
(from It’s a Wonderful Life)

“But he insisted so strongly that they did go with him and entered his house. He prepared a meal for them, baking bread without yeast, and they ate.”  (Genesis 19:3, NIV)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.