I woke up at 5:15 or 5:30 on Tuesday morning. It is another symptom of whatever I have (which I hate to think of as chronic fatigue) that I often wake up after five hours of sleep as though my terribly hard-working, Dickensian inner self has decided it is time to make the gruel. Meanwhile, my body is non-functioning. On this particular night, I got about four hours of sleep. I lay in bed for a while, feeling like I desperately needed food (it is amazing how many calories one needs when one is not sleeping much) and decided that Gatorade would make me feel better. So I made a bunch—probably 20 ounces—drank most of it, and promptly threw up.
I skipped devotions to try to eat something, and when Paul walked through the breakfast room he found me perched nautiously on the edge of a chair, taking tiny bites of meusli that I had put hot water on, because they said it was oatmeal. I didn’t think I could find anything that tasted better, so I got down as much as I could, with some orange juice and tea.
My prayers are often very simple. My prayer this morning went something like, “Oh, God, I can’t be like this today. Please make me better. Please, please, make me better.”