Provision, Puzzle Piece & Pretzel Buns

A couple of Wednesday’s ago I had an appointment with my endocrinologist and had two items on my radar:

1) A pretzel bun from a certain fast-food restaurant with a spunky red-headed girl as its mascot. 
2) My inability to lose weight no matter what kind of diet I was on…at one point I was consuming only 800 calories and still, no weight loss.
     In the waiting room, quite some awhile after my appointment time, the receptionist called me over: the doctor was running late so she offered me a parking pass or meal credit. I hadn’t eaten for six hours–I was holding out for a pretzel bun–and with a growling stomach I grabbed the meal pass and headed to the cafeteria where the daily special was…..Pretzel Bun with Roasted Turkey and Cheese! (God provides!) I went to the counter just as the last pretzel bun was whisked away; I was crestfallen and when it’s proud recipient said, “Sorry lady, you snooze, you lose” I nearly burst into tears. Go figure, me being emotional about a pretzel bun with internal dialogue that went something like this, “I did NOT snooze! I’ve been here for hours and was just now allowed the leave the waiting room. I realize that you have tubes hanging out of you and I don’t, but I do not believe you are more deserved of the pretzel bun than I.”
…and I paused and realized it was just a pretzel bun and God was still a faithful provider, after all I was holding a free meal card.
     My appointment with Dr. S was beyond what I had anticipated. Within moments he ascertained that I had Syndrome X (it sounds so much more exotic than Insulin Resistance) and wrote me a prescription. He said there was nothing that I could have done to lose weight, but if I took this pill, watched my Ps (potatoes, pizza, pasta, protein and portions), I’d begin losing weight immediately. Having gone gluten and sugar-free for months at a time, this was not going to be a huge adjustment…God had already set me up for success and provided me with an answer that nearly made me giddy with surprise. This diagnosis was another piece of the puzzle and three symptoms were crossed off the master list.
     Two days later, on a road trip, my parent’s asked if it was okay to stop at a certain fast-food restaurant with a spunky red-headed girl as its mascot. I readily agreed and ordered a pretzel bun–even though it was a ‘P’- with internal dialogue that went something like this, “God, you are good, and you are a good provider and I love it when you surprise me.”

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