Falling on Ice
Well. Here it goes. One finger typing for an entire post? We’ll see. The iPhone is an amazing device. Smart—as they say.
I fell. On ice. It will take some courage to tell this story. It was my prayer request pre-surgery. That I’d be brave. Maybe you laughed. My mom didn’t. Did you see her post there on Facebook? Oh no, Mom didn’t laugh because she KNEW. Like it was yesterday she remembers. Scared little girl, full of fear, clinging still.
They came to see me yesterday. Mom and Dad. Took one look and hugged me gentle. Called me their girl. Because when do you ever stop being that? Later Dad asked for details. Where did it happen and what did you feel? I told him like I’d already been telling others. It makes me nauseous talking about it still.
My Dad. The man who’s lived every day of my entire life missing four fingers on his dominant hand. A factory accident when I was a baby. He’d have been young. The age (I now realize) of my own married sons. Younger than Grant, who FaceTimes this week showing us progress on his remodeled basement. His young wife, off to the side, bursting with baby. And that would have been them—my Mom and Dad.
I fell on ice. Just around the corner where the sidewalk meets the driveway. I fell hard and fast. No time to think or prepare. Just down harder than hard and I knew it was bad. I cried for God and I cried for my husband who was loading the truck. We’d been rushing to get out to the lake. Rushing.
“So much like you.” I’m telling my mom at the kitchen island. How as a teen I’d watched her run her errands. Literal sense. Always running. Quick sprint from car to grocery. Garage sale shopping at a spunky jog. She does it still. Back then I’d been embarrassed—but not now. Now I know, I’m just like her. My mother’s daughter.
So yes I’d been running. And it’s probably this fear that haunts me most. Dark days post-surgery, mind groggy from too many meds. I’m afraid. Afraid of what happened and afraid when I think it could happen again.
I’d gone down so fast. No time for thinking. But in an instant, sitting on ice my thoughts racing. God help me. My left wrist. Earlier that week I’d told Dr. Haley it might have been a fall last winter causing my right arm pain. A fall on ice, way back then. All these weeks doing PT for an aching arm and now. THIS? God. Really?
I’d cried his name over and over. Oh God. Oh God. And not in vain. Kyle sitting on the ice beside me. Praying for healing. His faith rising when I’d needed it most. And I’d believed.
Dark days after surgery. Back home post-op. In my head knowing I’d be just fine. Arm wrapped in a cast and already healing. A minor thing in a world of hurting. I know. So many awful possibilities and all I’ve got is a busted wrist.
And yet. It’s there. This FEAR. Fear of what? I’m not even sure but it lingers still. I say good-bye to my parents and it’s the first time since it happened I’m alone in this townhouse and I know I should pray. I take ice from the freezer and prop my arm on a pillow on the living room chair. God help me...
Hours later this same recliner is now my bed. My sleep restless. I’m awake in the dark. Feeling the darkness. Trying again. To pray. God...
And then it’s morning. First rays of sun come with birdsong, hints of spring. And I notice. Strange sensation upon awaking. Something is different. I move my fingers, strength returning. Not just my hand. Body and soul, feeling this. Strength.
Nighttime prayer shrouded in darkness. Week effort now rewarded. Oh God... the sum of all I’d uttered. Enough.
Not my strength at all. But His. My Father's. There in His arms and He's making me brave.