Yesterday was my third session with Dr. O. So far what she's given me is hope--again.
I tend to high drama in my life. I'm as melodramatic as they come, back of my trembling hand pressed to my pale forehead, dewy with moisture, as I swan around the room declaiming, "O, woe is me!" before I theatrically fling myself onto the red velvet chaise lounge in a fit of the vapors. (It's no surprise my dream job would be that of a public speaker. I'm an incurable ham: An exhibititionist and craver of public notice.)
In the face of some overwhelming personal situations, hope is back. For a day, a week, or five minutes, I don't know. I know I can't leash him and I can't promise myself he'll always be there. (Or her. Hmmmm. Not sure if hope should be masculine or feminine.) I can't make another one and I can't get another one at the store. I've got one and only one.
Sometimes I'm afraid he'll be gone again when I look for him. I can't pretend he's in another room, just out of sight. I don't have the strength to pretend I can live without him. There's nothing for me to do when he's gone but cry out to God, praying, crying, begging for Him to restore hope to me.
The worst part is even when God answers prayer, He takes his own damn time about it. He's never answered my prayers instantly and as best I can recall, only done so quickly two or three times.
God is like maple syrup: Richly colored, golden with inner light, sweet, and slow as hell.
Okay, my time's up, I have to go. I'll continue later today or tomorrow.