His salve of calm isn’t a once-daily ointment. I repeatedly have to ask Him for it. And re-apply it often throughout the day.
Sometimes, okay, often times, I fumble around in the medicine cabinet. Not sure what I am grasping for. Just something to take the sting outta the wound. I reach. I grope. Nope, can’t find any salve in here.
Then I realize my search would be faster and more efficient if I would just turn on the Light.
Flick. Ah, that is better. I can see now. Just barely though. The tin is well-worn. And its healing goop is glopped to the lid to the canister. I wipe yesterday’s yuck off. It stains my shirt tail. Now I sit on the cool tiles of the bathroom floor. With my tin in-hand.
Oh, what is that? I am easily distracted by the hidden dirt and grime lurking about in the bathroom. Before I know it, I drop the tin and pick up the toilet brush. And the soapy rag. I busy myself with the mundane. The stuff that just needs to be done.
Oh, my wound is stinging. Again. What have I done with that canister of healing salve? I re-trace my steps and find it just where I left it. In my pocket. Once again I plop down onto the cold, dank surface under my feet. Only this time I am in the barn. Amidst the mire and muck, I sit. Tears stream and mingle with the sludge.
Fitting place to be sitting. In the dirtiest possible place, I finally open the lid. My dingy finger swipes some of the salve. Ah. That is better. My wound is covered. For now. I hear dawn breaking and a new day beginning.
How many times will I take the lid off the canister today?
As I replace the gunked-up lid, I cannot see where my finger scooped out the salve. My healing comes from an ointment that never cracks. Nor dries up into dust. And does not show any sign of repeated applications. Nope. The calm He offers me is always full. Filled to the very tip-top of the canister. Always ready. Always there.
His salve of calm isn’t a once-daily ointment. I repeatedly have to ask Him for it. And re-apply it often throughout the day. And often times, the night.