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?

'chunky chalice' photo (c) 2009, Danny Ayers - license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

My thanks to everyone who’s praying for Lisa. It’s a frustrating, odd place for her to be as a wife and a mom–where she has to rely on others to get quotidian activities accomplished. And as much as this alone frustrates her, I’m certain that the pain all but pushes it from her mind.

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One Hand On Her Shoulder

randomlychad  —  September 19, 2011 — 6 Comments
'Prayer' photo (c) 2010, Chris Yarzab - license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

In my room, one hand on her shoulder, trying to keep the spasming pain at bay. She is on the phone, trying to get an appointment with an orthopedist.

Like a lot of ladies, she’s toughed through the pain–until now. Something “clicked” during the night, and that was that.

I’ve seen her in pain–but not like this. In addition, I’m fighting a sinus infection. It’s a war of attrition, and I’m being worn down.

So, if you are you the praying kind, please lift Lisa up to the Father today.

Thanks so much, and God bless you!

How can I pray for you?

What? you’re thinking. It’s Friday, Friday. Gotta get…

Oh, never mind. Rebecca Black was so last month. 😉

Anyway, it’s Friday–why is he running a Wednesday Haterade piece today? I tell you why:

I’ve reserved a special spot in my shriveled little grinchy heart of choice vitriol for a special lady:

My wife.

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'watching clifford, the big red dog' photo (c) 2005, evan p. cordes - license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

The media-savvy among you will notice that the subtitle of today’s post is taken from Jerry Maguire’s job-ending manifesto in that eponymous film.

But don’t worry: I’m not free-fallin’. 😉

What I am interested in are the catchphrases that have entered our cultural lexicon; such as:

“Show me the money!” I think Cuba Gooding, jr. won his Academy Award based solely upon his delivery of this line. (Plus there some talk of air-drying and shoplifting as well).

And:

“You had me at hello.” Who can forget Renee Zellweger (as Dorothy Boyd-Maguire) delivering this line. Aww! (Shoot me now).

Anyway, this post isn’t about Jerry Maguire, but about those things that have–because I’m a parent–entered my cultural lexicon.

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