Broken

I broke a bone in my shoulder. Specifically, I broke something called the greater tuberosity, which makes me think of large potatoes, but in fact, this bone looks nothing like a potato. Perhaps the peel on one side of an orange, pried up and away from the juicy stuff inside, when, in fact, that peel should have stayed right where it belonged.

Here's what happened.

I went for a run. I tripped. My feet stopped, but my body didn't, and I landed on my right shoulder.

It was instantly obvious that there was a fracure or dislocation or both ... or something so egregiously wrong, I might have to lie in the dirt and wait for the second coming or at least a Good Samaritan.

Ouch.

Several hours and morphine injections and muscular men with bed sheets wrapped around their fists later, my shoulder was back in the position God intended it to be, and I headed home with instructions, Do not move and Stay on top of the drugs.

I couldn't sleep that night. Or the night after surgery, when another muscular man, who seemed nice enough at the time he suggested an orange peel correction, mauled me with carpentry tools. He called himself a surgeon. Right.

When something awful happens, I forget the truth that the pain will not last forever. 

But, in the dark of night, the awful thing feels like wrath or -- even worse -- indifference. 

In the sleepless nights after I fell, I thought a lot about the horror of my situation and, actually all horrible situations from the beginning of time.  I mentally reviewed the reasons Why Bad Things Happen. I think rotten circumstances are natural consequences, sometimes, like with addiction or infidelity. Other times, they break over us because, really, much of the world is a mess, and messes beget messes. And, too, I believe (yes, I do) that God often uses pain to gently and lovingly guide our feet back to The Better Way.

But in this case, my feet stopped. And with them, my whole life. Or so it seemed. No cooking, cleaning, writing, or driving. No pulling up my pants. 

No trip to Malawi. 

Not even a sweet hug.

And I wondered, how can any of those be okay. Well, really, I wondered WHY ON EARTH IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME?! because I am the center of my little universe, all day every day, and so surely there must be some purpose to this stink.

I don't have any answers, other than this. On one of those long, lonely nights, I was thinking and praying and asking and whining, when  a series of words floated slowly into my thoughts.

Perfectionism
Gluttony
Busyness
Striving
Escape

And then I saw, scattered around the room in various shapes and sizes, baskets. One by the closet, another under the nightstand, a third by the door. In each one, a generous helping of what I knew to be grace.

I looked at the top of the dresser. Another basket. Down at the spot on the floor where I keep my slippers. Sure enough. Everywhere I looked, baskets of liquid light.

And then the thought: There's more here than you'll ever need.

I don't know why I fell. It's unfathomable to me that I can't go hold kids in my beloved Malawi or pick up my new baby granddaughter until I get the all-clear from a physical therapist. Perhaps there is nothing more at work here than a crack in the sidewalk.

Or something else entirely.

In those baskets of grace, there is more love and forgiveness and time and patience and peace and joy than my heart can ever hold.

---

Let me hear you say, "Your sins are forgiven."
  That will bring me joy and gladness.
  Let the body you have broken be glad. 
                                                            Psalm 51:8