The lady with the gnarled fingers

It was a day where I was down on my luck. Three in a row, indeed! Now, even if I do have some very lamentable lows, one or two days a month, to have three in a row I know is endemic of something more sinister. So, there I was, at the doctors.

Arriving at 11.55am for my 12pm appointment, I got the laptop out, spotted up to my WI-FI and got on with some work while I waited. The waiting room was packed. Not a good sign. Little did I know nearly 90 minutes later that there were at least two patients who’d been waiting there for the same doctor for three hours! On school pick-up, I decided to shut up shop and let Reception know to cancel the booking and get me in tomorrow.

Depression works differently in us all. For me, my mental capacity is compromised severely, and I can become intimidated by the things that I would normally get done with aplomb. For me, intimidation manifests in a mix of despondency and irritation. It’s like God gets my attention through overload and if I don’t take heed and rest, I begin to run very ragged.

As I stood at the counter nurturing a heart of complaint, something within me (I know this to be God) quieted my voice, and I felt especially weak. Humbled. Which I was glad of, even if when depression grips I ordinarily fight to retain even a semblance of my own pitiful strength.

I leant against the counter as I spoke quieter than normal with the receptionist.

As I leant there in an uncharacteristic slump, I looked at the lady’s fingers as she scrolled through names in looking for me and my booking. Those gnarled fingers spoke their story of a faithfulness beyond skeletal capacity.

God knew that I needed a sign, and those beautifully misshapen fingers caused my heart to turn back in deference for the way God shines through abject lack of complaint in physical incapacity.

There was something remarkable about those fingers; those deformed hands. They spoke of a person who got on with her life despite her incapacity. This sign softened my heart not for her, more truly, but this sign highlighted a better place for my focus to rest.

This is not to say that a discipled mind fixes depression, but I have found as my mind is compelled to focus on such things as gnarled fingers and hands, I pity myself and my struggles less, and my mind comes back online, even if briefly. It’s an object lesson in the power of gratitude, which is not a fix-all for mental health, but it does help.

There is still so much to be said for a disciplined mind. We would say “yes” less often in order to care for ourselves better. We would design and implement wise boundaries earlier. And we would not avoid the structure we need in favour of the freedom of apathy, which only makes things worse.

God got through to me through an older lady with gnarled fingers. I was genuinely humbled. It did me good. It’s not enough to sustain me as I recover, but it’s important cue in a sea of many that may be seen.