I am writing this in the middle of Lent, a 40-day period in the Christian calendar leading up to Easter, the celebration of the Resurrection. During this time, we are encouraged to remember who we are through prayer and reflection and to tend to our relationships with God and with each other.
The Bible uses the number 40 a lot in its stories – think about Noah’s flood lasting 40 days, Israelites wandering 40 years in the wilderness before they entered the Promised Land, and Jesus fasting for 40 days and nights before he was tempted by Satan. The examples are too numerous to list here, but in each case, it seems these 40 days, weeks, or years always indicate a period of hardship, after which God leads the people out of the wilderness, and life gets good again.
I have considered the number 40 during my own emergence from the wilderness. My wilderness has been my old body and all its new ailments, which seemed to arise just as I started my life in this new city. My days have been flooded with doctor appointments, treatments, medications, surgeries, and recoveries. I now have had treatments for my eyes, ears, breasts, colon, and knee. The only parts I have left are my brain and my heart (well, maybe a few other organs too), and I am not waiting around to see if those will fall apart.
I feel (mostly) good! I am thankful for all the good medical care and nursing (his name is John) I have received here in Sioux Falls.
A month ago, during my latest (and hopefully last!) period of recovery, I was feeling particularly low due to the fact that I could not lift my arms above my head, had to sleep on my back, and pretty much could not do anything. In between feeling sorry for myself, I forced myself to think about everything I would be able to do at the end of this recovery. I wrote (and wrote and wrote) them down. And, believe it or not, there were precisely 40 things! Little things, like bending over to pick up the dog’s dish and sleeping on my side. There were big things, like being pain-free, taking long walks, and picking up my grandchildren.
Now, at the end of my recovery, I have just looked at my list, and though I have not done all the things (such as swimming, dancing, and pickleball), I have done most of them – like going to church regularly, taking a shower without assistance, and exercising. More than anything, I feel free from my wilderness of mental anguish: the worrying, the fretting, the annoyance. And finally, I am free from what felt like a wilderness of doctor appointments, checking MyChart, and filling yet another med at the pharmacy.
So, I am out of my wilderness. I am thankful for the 40 things I can do now—things I will never again take for granted. Finally, I am thankful that I can get back to some kind of schedule, one that includes more writing, and I am thankful to you, my reader.
May you have a blessed period of Lent, during which you are led out of your own 40 days of wilderness.