Calcific Bursitis, how do I hate you? Let me count the ways:
You, who have no place being there, have taken up residence in my wife’s shoulder. You were not invited in, and yet unlike the vampires of lore, you pushed your way in. What gives? If I could rebuke you like those TV preachers say, I so would.
You have made her shout, cry, scream, plead, beg, cajole, for some kind, for any kind, of relief.
You have made her long for the pangs of childbirth! Because at least childbirth has an end. It’s a known commodity. You, Calcific Bursitis, are a parasite–hijacking nerve fibers, forestalling the use of an arm, singing a song of woe…
One that goes to 11! And not in a good way.
But your day is coming. It may not be soon enough–as soon as we’d like it–but it’s coming!
For someday, as with all suffering, you will have to give way:
“And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away” (Rev. 21:3-4, ESV).
In the meantime, I hate you, Calcific Bursitis, and all that you do.
While you make us hurt now, these sufferings are not worthy to be compared to the glory that shall be.
Calcific bursitis, thou shalt die! But we, ultimately, shall not!
How has God met you in your place of suffering?