This morning I was on my way to a physical therapy appointment to get an Eppley manuevaer done (for positional vertigo) and I had just let my husband know that if all went well, I’d be going to the UpperRoom after it was done. But I left it open that it could make me feel worse, as it has sometimes. As I walked out the car, I could feel resistance to my leaving the door open for an unpleasant session and started to try and call it back. Then I realized that my commitment to accepting what life brings as a gift, and some work I had done with Byron Katie’s Work yesterday (I welcome this situation, I look forward to this situation) that I could relax and just let the Holy Spirit handle it. Even if the session wasn’t the best, it was the best. My ego started to argue a bit and then I got this great flash of an analogy.

I love to write. Love to write stories. When a writer is telling the story, she/he doesn’t get worried about the characters in the story. “Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have Harry jump off that cliff, Sally will feel so bad. I’d better have him stub his toe.” No, how will a character ever develop? The stories aren’t real. Harry isn’t really going over the cliff, the reader just thinks he is. Sally isn’t really devastated, the reader just thinks she is. Isn’t this a perfect replica of what we do in these lives? Of course words never really can convey what that flash of insight brought but it gave me a feeling of freedom.