A Sandwich

What if, when being carried, you are taken places you do not wish to go? What then?
He makes it plain, that He will carry. That He does. Carry.
I am reminded of days when I had to lug a wailing child. More than once I would heft recalcitrant limbs into arms firmly wrapped, sweeping them off their feet. Physically moving them in the direction I needed them to go. Wanted them to go.
I was not intending to be spiteful or unkind. Just the opposite. It was because of my love for that child, my desire for their best, that I would convey them. Ask any mother of a two year old. There is truth in these words.
Yet, when I am swept off my feet with illness unexpected, when I am conveyed to the hospital from a virus gone bad, I find myself angry. It is my legs kicking. I become child, wailing, assuming. God, He is being unkind, spiteful. As I lay in bed, day after day, I am challenged, to still believe, that God, He knows best.
I have been hefted, unwillingly, to places I did not want to go. I have been hauled to a place of accomplishing, nothing.
I have things to do! Places to go! People to see! Doesn't God get it? Doesn't He understand? Yet, here I lay, with His hand firmly placed upon my chest, making it clear, that I am to rest.
Rest!?!
Tears streaming, I cry out.
And He tells me about a sandwich.
There are two words, encasing another.
"I am He who will sustain you...I will carry you; I will sustain you..." Is. 46:4
The meat, the heart of the sandwich, is God carrying. Me.
But the bread, that which protects the heart, holds the meat firmly in place, is God sustaining. His upholding. His enabling. Me. To endure.
Like two arms wrapped firmly about me, is this commitment, to support me. His willingness to bear me, deliver me, keep me from falling.
A sandwich of grace, swallowed down to produce, willingness. To produce, rest.
This is how I stop the pout and believe. He knows best.
I recognize a sandwich. And know. Of His care. For me.
For. Me.
Not, against.
And I find, the sandwich, it satisfies.