I wish I could
Friday, October 9, 2026
Beloveds,
I wish I could.
Four little words.
Sometimes they carry an awful lot of life.
There are things I used to do without thinking about them.
Ordinary things.
Private things.
Things that didn’t require planning, assistance, or a conversation with my body about whether we were going to cooperate today.
And then I had a stroke.
Suddenly, ordinary wasn’t so ordinary anymore.
I was in terrible pain.
My back hurt constantly.
I didn’t have a chair with a backrest, so there was nothing for me to lean against.
Imagine trying to learn how to balance when you’re already hurting.
Imagine needing to accomplish something simple while your body is making everything complicated.
That became part of my life.
I had to learn to balance while sitting on the side of my bed.
And Pain?
Oh, Pain was right there.
Uninvited.
Unwelcome.
And apparently planning to stay awhile.
Pain became my partner in something neither of us had signed up for.
Every movement seemed to require a negotiation.
Some days I didn’t feel like negotiating.
Some days everything took hours because of discomfort.
HOURS.
Not because I wasn’t trying.
Not because I didn’t want to finish.
Because sometimes getting through one ordinary activity requires more effort than people realize.
But something was happening while I was learning to balance.
My core was getting stronger.
My balance was improving.
Little by little, I was learning how to manage my body differently.
And eventually, that strength made it easier for me to learn to use the potty chair.
Yes, beloveds.
The potty chair.
We’re going there.
Because life doesn’t stop being life just because the subject makes folks uncomfortable.
And I’m not embarrassed to talk about it.
At first, I was humiliated.
I had to learn to accept help with things I had always done myself.
God humbled me during that time.
And I learned something about humility that I couldn’t have learned from simply reading about it.
Humility isn’t the absence of dignity.
Needing help didn’t make me less of a person.
And becoming stronger didn’t make me more worthy than I had been when I couldn’t manage.
My dignity was there all along.
But there’s something else.
Something we don’t discuss nearly enough.
Sometimes we’re grateful for the strength we’ve developed while mourning the circumstances that required it.
🥹
Read that again.
Because there is a particular kind of grief that accompanies learning to do something you never wanted to have to relearn.
People see progress.
They celebrate.
And there’s nothing wrong with celebrating.
I celebrate, too.
But sometimes, underneath the satisfaction, there’s a quiet sadness.
I remember when I didn’t have to work this hard.
I remember when ordinary things were simply ordinary.
I remember when I didn’t have to be strong just to get through them.
And I miss that.
Not because I’m ungrateful.
Not because I don’t appreciate how far I’ve come.
I’m grateful for what I’ve learned.
I grieve that learning it became necessary.
Both are true.
Sometimes people are so busy admiring our strength that they don’t notice we’re still mourning the circumstances that required it.
And sometimes we don’t know how to tell them.
Because how do you explain that you’re proud of something you wish you’d never needed to accomplish?
How do you explain that you’re celebrating an ability you once took for granted?
How do you say thank You, Father, for helping me learn, while also acknowledging how much you wish the lesson had never become necessary?
You tell the truth.
It was satisfying.
Hard.
Sad.
All three.
And none of those feelings needs to push the others out of the room.
Now, let me tell you something about my Father.
I picture God standing guard while I take care of my business.
Yes.
THAT business.
He’s around the corner, protecting my privacy.
And just when I need it, here comes the toilet paper.
🧻
Discreetly handed around the corner.
No announcement.
No audience.
Just my Father being there.
I smile thinking about that.
Because I know Him as my ABBA.
My Father.
My Friend.
And His presence isn’t limited to the moments when everything looks beautiful.
He’s with me in the painfully ordinary moments, too.
Even when I need toilet paper.
Especially when I need patience.
And sometimes I need a whole lot of both.
😅
Beloveds, I don’t know what you’ve had to learn because life changed.
Maybe you’re learning to live alone.
Maybe you’re learning how to begin again after a loss.
Maybe you’re learning how to manage an illness, a disability, an empty house, or circumstances you never imagined would become yours.
Perhaps you’re getting good at something you wish you’d never needed to learn.
I want you to know something.
You don’t have to celebrate what happened to appreciate what you’ve accomplished since it happened.
You don’t have to call your suffering a blessing.
You don’t have to pretend the lesson was worth the loss.
And you don’t have to stop missing what used to be.
You can appreciate today’s strength and still grieve yesterday’s ease.
There are days when I still wish I could.
And there are things I can do now that I couldn’t do before.
I’m grateful for those things.
But I won’t pretend they came without sadness.
I won’t pretend every victory feels like a celebration.
Sometimes a victory is accompanied by a sigh.
Sometimes it brings tears.
Sometimes it leaves you sitting quietly, thinking about how much life has changed.
And sometimes you smile because, against considerable difficulty, you managed something that once seemed impossible.
The strength is real.
The grief is real.
And so is the life we’re living between them.
I wish I could.
And sometimes, beloveds?
I discover that I can.
Not everything.
Not always.
Not without difficulty.
But something.
And today, I’m grateful for that something.
Even while I remember what it cost.
❤️
loving me some you
Cassandra
#YourLifeMattersToMe
Note 📝: Ah, God. I wish I could…
