It's been a month since my fall on the ice. I've sat in this chair for the majority of the last four weeks. 

Minutes before my fall, I was sitting in this very chair talking to Scott. 

"I really just want to stay home and sit in my chair all day," I told him. Ha! Boy, did I ever get my wish! 

In the four weeks that have passed, I've spent a lot of time reflecting and ruminating. There have been hours of introspection. Hours of reading God's word, hours of sitting and listening to His voice. In the early days of recovery, there were hours of frustration and tears. For the first two weeks, I cried every morning. Some days I cried every afternoon too. And a few days, I cried all day long. But the Lord truly has turned my mourning into dancing. Well, maybe not quite dancing yet, but definitely into peace and contentment.

My former life, the one in which I ran at full speed doing too much, thinking too much, planning too much, spending too much, obsessing too much, worrying too much, eating too much has faded away. I almost can't remember what it was like to be so busy, so consumed with doing. And when I do recall those days, I cringe. I want to cry, thinking about myself careening into busy-ness at break-neck speed as if doing one more thing each day would somehow make me a better person. I think of how I would smile when someone would say, "Wow, you're a regular Wonder Woman." I don't want to be Wonder Woman anymore. I get nauseous at the very thought of it. 

Over the last four weeks, I've lost a lot.  Abilities like standing, walking, driving, bathing or dressing myself do not belong to me right now. That means I can't get things for myself, I can't do things for myself, much less for anyone else. I can't make soap, give massage or teach hula which means I can't bring in extra money for our family budget. Really, I've lost all control of my world and doing things my way, in my time.

But, I don't feel sorry for myself because in this loss of control, I've found blessings I didn't imagine. My daily quiet time with God has gone from ritual to rich, abiding communication. Worry and anxiety over everything have been replaced with a deep sense of peace. The worries still rear their ugly head, but instead of giving into them, I've found myself comforted by God's spirit. I finally have experienced the rest that my weary soul, mind and body have needed. And yes, even more than before, I know that mind-body-soul are deeply connected.

Then there's the palpable blessings like the time to just be with my husband and kids without the disruption of busy-ness and rushing from one thing to the next.  They have blossomed under the stress, blooming into more responsible children and a strong, leading husband.  My independent, "do-it-myself", control freak personality had been holding them back. I see that now. 


Then there's the friends and family all over the world who have rallied by my side, praying for me, sending me notes of encouragement and care packages. Friends and cousins who I've known my whole life but had lost touch are now a daily part of my life. There is so much joy in my heart when I see a Facebook message or a text from them, or get a card in the mail. 


These are all things and people I didn't have time for before my fall. It's all so humbling.


I've learned that sometimes you really do just need your mom. And without question, a husband that will literally do everything for you "in sickness" is a priceless gift.


But there's one thing that I just can't fully make anyone understand unless they've been broken, been stripped bare the way I have these last four weeks. Here it is: grace hurts. It doesn't make everything okay. It doesn't make everything comfortable. It doesn't make you feel good. It hurts. It humbles. It heals. 


It redeems you for God's glory. 


Grace isn't getting a blessing you didn't deserve. It's not that pretty. Grace is being spared a punishment you most certainly deserved.


God does not call us to walk on the water when the water is calm. Even walking on calm water is impossible. But if the water is calm, would we actually need Him? Would we even glimpse His grace? 

As much as I want to walk and drive again, I'm in no hurry to return to my old life. I don't want to plan, over-think or obsess over every little thing anymore. I don't want days so filled with busy-ness that I miss out on contentment. I don't want to worry or fear. I don't want to strive for earthly gain. 

I don't want to walk again if it means not experiencing His strength, His mercy, His sovereign control and His grace by walking on the rough waters of life. 

In some ways, this injury didn't just change my life, it saved it. This injury and temporary disability is a clear picture of grace and redemption. Not because God is healing my ankle. Not because He has blessed me with time to rest, time to be with family and rich relationships.

It's grace because He allowed me to get hurt, to be stripped bare, to be forced to let go of all I was clutching, grab my full attention and continue His good work in me. And that  is God's riches. 

Yesterday, all my trouble seemed so far away....

My "yesterday" was six weeks ago. I was sitting on the beach watching my kids dig in the sand. I started a pile of shells. Then Adam and I braved the cold, cold waters of the gulf. I waded in chest-deep, jumping when the waves came, seaspray splashing my face. Each wave was a gift. 

Just a few days before, I'd been diagnosed with sluggish thyroid and the diagnosis, though it made sense of all my seemingly unrelated symptoms, felt like a knife in my gut.  The doctor said to me, "Are you ready for this? You're going to have to change. You will need to learn to relax and let go." Those words were tough to swallow. They were actually tougher than "your thyroid is just not working." 

As the waves pushed and pulled me, God reminded me that I can stand against the waves by His power. That I would bend but not break. That the waves would never stop, but I could learn to surf. 

Later that afternoon, I walked the beach and collected shells. I was drawn to the broken ones. They were beautiful with their multi-color ridges and smooth insides. They were part of something bigger. They were broken but they were beautiful and reminded me that one day I will shed this broken body just like a mussel sheds its shell. 

The beach, for me, is a deeply spiritual place. Nothing soothes my soul the way waves crashing on the sand does. The power of the waves, the grit of the sand, the cry of the gulls and the salty air caress my weary spirit and give me inspiration to connect deeply with our Creator. 

Now it looks as though they're here to stay

That was January. February was quite a different story. Two weeks ago, I slipped on icy steps by our garage. With a loud crack and pop, I dislocated my foot, popped the synovial sac and broke my ankle in three places. (go big or go home) I had to have surgery to put things back together. 

This injury was a blow. You can read all about that here. But after several days, I found a new groove. I'm not one to stay down, in fact I often sing, "I get knocked down, but I get up again. You ain't never gonna keep me down." And I found ways to be productive even while sitting in this stupid arm chair with my foot in a ugly, ill-fitting cast. 

Then Saturday, March 1st came. Hopping on crutches on my way to bed, I somehow bumped into a wall and knocked myself off balance. Falling to the right, I couldn't put my foot down since it's broken and hit my head on the door jamb and fell the floor. I saw stars, I hurt all over, I panicked. Scott cleaned up my bleeding head, put my sore but in-tact screwed-together foot back in its boot and settled me into bed. He assured me I was fine, but my imagination and my anxiety would not let me sleep. I was sure I would not wake up if I went to sleep. I was certain I'd blown out the screws in my ankle. 

After three hours of panic and pain, I woke my dear, tired husband and asked him if I could move to my chair. There I finally slept about two hours. When I woke, I was in pain and I was scared.  Everything hurt and I couldn't stop crying. 

Much of Sunday I cried. When I wasn't crying, I was sleeping. 

When bed time came, I looked at Scott and said, "It's a darn shame I had to fall again to realize that I'm just supposed to rest right now." 

How I long for yesterday

I know that diagnosis six weeks ago was meant to tell me to rest, to slow down, to stop pushing so hard. And for one brief week, I did. I rested. I slowed down. I danced in the surf. I even took my Epcot spreadsheet and threw it in the garbage. For a week, I just went with the flow. 

Then I came home and slipped into gear again. Maybe not as high-powered as before but still, I wasn't coasting in neutral. And for the three weeks between our return and my first fall, I didn't feel right. Things had lost their luster and I felt like I was going through the motions. I was tired, deeply tired. I yearned to be back on that beach. But I couldn't figure out how to get there. I kept telling myself that there'd be a break in my schedule soon and I could rest. 

Then the break came. But it wasn't in my schedule. It was in my ankle. And life didn't just glide into neutral, it didn't coast to a stop. It hit a cement wall. (actually my butt hit the cement stairs) I laid there in the ER that morning, thinking of all the things I'd have to cancel. Schedules and to-do lists that no longer mattered. And I thought, "I can't do this." 

So, I modified my schedule and my to-do lists to include a walker, a boot and an armchair. And then I hit the wall. Literally. And I wound up on the floor, flat on back, looking up, wondering what the heck just happened. 

The story that kept coming to mind during my waking periods yesterday was the story of Peter denying Christ three times. While I didn't deny knowing my Savior three times, I did fail to heed His call on my heart to rest. First in January. Again when we got home. And a third time after I slipped on those stairs. Maybe my crashing into a wall was a clumsy accident. Or maybe it was my rooster crowing.