I got invited to one, and to my forever regret, I accepted.
My husband rushed me to the emergency room one night last week because I was looking and feeling like a disaster victim in the throes of death. Immediately, tubes were strapped on to me and all sorts of needle pricks came at me to find out what had gone haywire in my system.
They found out soon enough—potassium and sodium had dropped to precarious levels—and I had to be confined: the perfect setting for a pity party, with a hospital gown to boot.
In that three-day party, you ask yourself questions: Why me? What did I do to deserve this? Can I take all this suffering? Is this the end? You become so self-absorbed you fail to see and grab the grace that hover about for the taking.
I was jolted out of my self-indulgence when I read the messages in my mobile phone:
The first one came from a friend, asking for prayers. She was due for her first chemo session but didn’t have the money. So she asked her friends to pray that her application for a loan be approved.
The second message came from another friend whose husband had a kidney transplant years ago. He’s ailing again due to organ rejection, and needed immediate cash for hospitalization.
The third was from our pastor, reminding me of God’s love and power.
While I was wallowing in self-pity, people all around me were likewise fighting their own worse battles. I was not alone, but I chose to be, nursing my fears as though the world conspired to rip me apart.
Pity parties make you forget, “It is the Lord who goes before you. He will be with you; he will not leave you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed.” (Deuteronomy 31:8 ESV)
By the power of His Spirit, I will not attend a pity party again.