My brother fell ill, and I lay still,
four long days, unable to rise—
his hands the wings I lacked.
Then sickness claimed me too,
and for four more days
I lay captive to weakness,
my body a weight I could not lift.
Eight days of silence pressed upon me,
restless hours, shadows on the wall.
Yet when strength returned,
I rejoiced in the freedom
of my chair, my chosen flight.
Though the house became my prison,
its doors locked against the world,
I could still move through rooms,
sit upright to eat, to write,
to feel the dignity of motion.
Those days taught me this truth:
independence is a fragile gift.
Only when storms break upon us
do we see how blessed we are.
So before cursing the burden you carry,
remember the heavier loads of others.
Gratitude will soften your sorrow,
and you will lift your eyes
to thank God for His quiet mercies.
