Save Me

It is your intelligence that has saved you, says my dear friend. I take this as a compliment, and it is true, a little, that having a natural ability to comprehend things like Ristocetin Cofactor and autosomal dominant genes has made this little journey a bit easier. Later that night I knock on her door, though, and she stands there in her slippers looking at me quizzically.

God has saved me, I tell her, knowing how sanctimonious it sounds, but it is true, and I must say it. God has saved me.

Laying on the floor begging for mercy, save me God, please, from despair and bitterness and self pity and self doubt. Give me the courage to let my little boy run and climb even though the slightest bump could send us to the emergency room. Help me not to hate my neighbor because her child can talk. Help me to say my heart is broken instead of insisting things are okay.
Help me not to hate you God.
Help me not to miss it, the wonder, the joy, because it isn't what I planned.

Help me to say thank you.

That is what has saved me, falling to pieces and landing in loving arms. Miracles that are better than water turned into wine, the miracle of my sons, and mourning turned into dancing before my very eyes. So, I guess I don't care how it sounds. God's love has saved me, not from my children's health problems and bad genetics. God has saved me from the poverty of my soul.
He has saved me from myself.