Burning Legs and a Prison Cell

As you start your day be blessed

A couple of weeks ago I was weed eating outside the house. I had on a pair of jeans that weren’t dirty, but by the time I was done they were covered in debris. I shook them off in the sunroom and didn’t think another thing about it.

A few days later I was running late for work. The jeans I wanted were still in the washing machine, so I grabbed those same ones I’d worn weed eating never washed threw them on and jumped in the truck. Drove a couple of days before I finally thought, these jeans are dirty, I need to get them off. So I did. Didn’t think anything of it.

Two days later, from my ankles all the way up to my kneecaps completely blistered. Poison sumac. Somehow those unwashed jeans had trapped the oil against my skin for days and my legs paid the price. I’m talking miserable. I loaded up on every anti-itch medication I could find just to function.

Then I got down to Texas. A hundred and one degrees. And of course my AC decides that’s the perfect time to act up. Every once in a while the cold air vent just stops cooperating and you have to fiddle with it sometimes half a day before it comes back around. So there I am. Legs on fire. Truck cab like an oven. Windows down with 101° air pouring in on me like I opened a furnace door.

I could feel it creeping in, “that why me spirit”. That slow slide into self-pity.

And then something shifted.

I started thinking about Paul. Not in some grand theological exercise, just a real, honest thought: what were his legs feeling like in that inner cell?

Because that’s what it was. An inner cell. No windows. Stone walls. Human excrement on the floor probably at least knee deep. Shackled to the wall, legs spread apart, unable to even sit down. Standing in filth. In the dark. After being beaten.

And Paul sang.

I want to be clear I am in no way comparing myself to Paul as an equal, not in any way, shape, or form. But I found myself thinking, if his legs were burning in that filth and he could worship, maybe I can ask God for just a fraction of whatever Paul had in that moment.

So I did. I prayed and asked the Lord to give me some of that joy. Not to take away the misery just to let me worship through it the way Paul did. To encourage someone, even if it was just myself, by refusing to let the circumstances write the story.

And I thought about Philippians 4:13 I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.

Paul didn’t write that from a comfortable chair. He wrote it from a place of knowing what it meant to have nothing and still be content. If he overcame that, I can overcome burning legs and a broke AC in Texas heat.

I started drinking more water. Figured if I’m sweating this much, I might as well lean into it. I’m overweight, and I thought, Lord, maybe this is just your creative way of helping me cut some weight. So I doubled down grabbed an extra case of water and kept driving.

It was miserable. But it was manageable. And there’s a difference.

I kept going back to that image of Paul standing, shackled, in the dark, in the filth and thinking, whatever I’m feeling right now cannot be even a fraction of what he was going through. And somehow, that brought me genuine comfort. Not in a guilt trip kind of way. In a perspective kind of way. Like a reset button on my attitude.

Eventually I started getting closer to the shipper I was heading to, and I managed to fiddle with the dash switches enough to coax some air through the fresh air vents. It wasn’t cold the AC was only knocking the outside air down about ten degrees, so instead of 100° air blasting me it was 90° air trickling through but it was something. It was better than nothing.

And I heard myself say out loud, Lord, you gave me comfort. It’s not exactly how I want it, but it’s better than completely burning up.

Then I noticed the recirculate button.

I knew if I pressed it, and if the system was working at all, it would pull from inside the cab instead of outside and the air would get colder. But I’d finally gotten something going and I was scared to mess with it. So I sat on that idea for a couple of hours. Wrestled with it. The sun was starting to go down and I thought, it’ll be dark soon anyway, it’ll cool off, just wait.

But before dark came I felt something nudge me. So I prayed the most honest, unimpressive prayer I think I’ve ever prayed:

Lord, I know you can move mountains. I know you do great things. But right now I’m asking you to do this one small thing move this AC unit by faith to a place that gives me some comfort. Because I’m miserable and I cannot imagine how Paul survived what he survived.

And I pressed the button.

Cold air. Real cold air. So cold that I’m sitting here right now in a sweatshirt, freezing, telling you this story.

From burning up and miserable to freezing and slightly irritated.

I’ll take it.

Here’s what stuck with me through all of it: we tend to wait for the big blessings. The move-the-mountain moments. The dramatic turnaround. And those are real and God does them. But if you kept a running count of the small things the little adjustments, the tiny mercies, the moments where something just shifted right when you needed it to that collection would be enormous.

The cold air was a small thing. But it was my thing, in my moment, and God showed up in it.

Don’t overlook the small blessings while you’re waiting on the big ones. Sometimes the most personal thing God does for you is fix your AC on a 101° day in Texas when your legs are on fire and you’re out of options.

Praise God for the big things. But praise Him for the small things too. Those details add up.

Reference: https://peopleandsongs.com