Sketch Ninteen

I am tremendously behind in my sketches; life is not slow for me; the hospital and my work (composition instructor) consumes me; I see the same walls too often as I sit in my office, stand in the rooms where instruction takes place, sleep in my son’s hospital room—instead of the hall now, look out the same windows daily, drive the time from hospital to home, home to hospital, hospital to work, work to hospital, make those errands between those drives, forget much of what work has to be done other than attending to my son’s emotional needs, being his support; I forget me often and others that need me as well; my hats are stretched thin; I see papers mostly, my son’s bed with him in it mostly; I know this isn’t a sketch per se, but it is the sketch of me currently; currently as I am; currently as I am and not wanting to be, attempting to fight all that eats me: My Lord Jesus Christ I pray every night falling asleep in the pray to wake in the prayer, letting that prayer take my dreams where need to be, an attempting to pray between every task that I do to allow me to find time for all others that are in need, and still find time for me. Once I was a prayer warrior, had forgotten, but this cancer—a cancer that attacks my son—has found a way to bring me back to those nightly long prayers. The me I had forgotten is returning; the me I once loved is returning; the me who knows how to fight is coming through; the demons shrug as I see more clearly, as I pray more daily; the demons know I will not run this time, I will not close myself off from God as I did before. Every night is a battle for me and a friend, for me and a family member, for me and some other I may just happen to meet. Pray; I say pray. I have found part of me again.