My house is cute. It’s also old and in need of constant repair and upkeep. Hence, my friend offered to help me paint the scuffed front porch. Trust me when I say this is a good friend, for this is a substantial offer to make in the North Carolina’s June weather.
We were confident that the white rails and trim would be completed after two days of painting. My slight extra height delegated me as the upper trim painter, which was going swimmingly until the last corner.
Sighing, I saw that, even with my right foot on the ladder and the left on the porch’s outer edge, my reach was not going to make it. I scooted my left foot sideways and stretched out the brush as far as possible. Unfortunately, I failed to notice that the ledge I was scooting over on had partially rotted away.
It was more of a slide than a fall. You know, the kind that happens in slow-motion. I remember thinking I could grab the post, but I had just painted it and didn’t want to mess it up.
In hindsight, repainting that post would have been a lot easier.
My ribs, no doubt made easier by the sweat that coated me, slid, kerploofed, and poohmpht down the railing. I landed three feet below, standing flat on my feet with the wind knocked out of me.
“You okay over there?” my friend called out as she walked around to where I stood.
“I will be,” I gasped, a little dazed.
“You need me to help you?” she offered.
“No,” I answered as I examined my body and legs thoroughly, expecting to see some significant wound. There was a slight scratch with a tiny drop of blood on one knee. It sure felt like there was more.
“I can make it,” I assured my friend as I hobbled up the stairs to rest on the swing.
This is what porch swings are for and why I would venture to say very few Northerners have them.
Leaning gingerly forward, I slowly pulled off my left shoe to examine my now aching foot. It didn’t look too bad, but we figured some Tylenol and ice would be wise. After which, we continued to paint, this time with me sitting on the porch working on the balusters and stairs.
In time, I decided to get up and go in to get us some supper. Which we enjoyed together and then called it a day. It was so annoying that my fall had hindered our progress.
The following morning, I woke up at 4:30 AM, wondering what hit me. My ribs were screaming, and the pain in my left foot kept time with the blood pounding in my head. It occurred to me that maybe I shouldn’t don my “here to serve” shirt and greet people at church that day. Forcing myself up, I went for more Tylenol and my iPad. Then, with the utmost care, I slowly slid back into bed and commenced to find answers. Let’s be honest—
when we are hurting, the first thing we want is relief,
the second is answers…so, we can have relief.
The retired teacher and Dr. Google conferred over several foot charts and medical websites where we determined that I had probably broken a bone or torn some ligaments. After arriving at this sound medical conclusion, I went to my handy-dandy Amazon app to research walking boots. Finding the one with the highest number of top reviews (16,680, to be exact), I hit the ever treacherous “buy now” button.
While neither a broken bone nor torn ligament were welcome possibilities, they weren’t life-altering—except that I had planned to go to Germany in six weeks. There, with pronounced anticipation, some German teenagers were waiting for me to befriend them, help them with their English, and show them Jesus.
At least, that was my prayer. And, obviously, if this was a break, I needed to know. Because, after all, I had my plans.
And the Lord knows how much I like my plans. This is why I found myself in the ER that Sunday afternoon with a dear friend’s assistance.
After a few good-natured nurses came in to talk with me, the doctor arrived. He looked to be maybe 22, but that’s just my opinion. When he asked me why I was there, my calm and, no doubt, overly confident answer went something like this.
“I fell—well,” I paused smiling, “it was probably more of a slide—off my porch while painting. I think I may have bruised or cracked some of my ribs and maybe broken the fourth metatarsal on my left foot.”
For a few seconds, he just stared at me. I’m not sure if he wanted to roll his eyes or laugh. Then, graciously he looked at my foot and ribs, ordered x-rays, and left. Before I could say Jiminy Cricket, they rolled a fancy-schmancy x-ray machine in, took some pictures, and the young doctor was back to inform me that I had, indeed, broken the fourth metatarsal.
As well as the second one,
and the third.
The good news was that there were only a couple of cracked ribs.
Still, it was most inconvenient.
He didn’t seem surprised when I told him I had already ordered a walking boot. I’m thinking our first conversation prepared him for that. Then, pulling it up on my phone and showing him the link, he approved.
And almost smiled.
The bottom line was that, even with my best efforts to aid in the situation, I hurt, I had to heal, and it would take time.
Healing never involves just one thing, it’s always a process.
To quote one of my favorite writers—
“We never just suffer the thing that we’re suffering.
We always suffer the way that we’re suffering
the thing that we are suffering.” Paul David Tripp
My suffering has been compounded by the fact that I don’t want to slow down or have my schedule interrupted. Then, there are the unexpected expenses, and the unwelcome reminder that I am no longer a spring chicken.
Thank goodness for the friends and family who stepped in to make the life of someone who lives alone easier. Which, because I am used to being the helper, added pride to the load.
No, it wasn’t just the fall that complicated my suffering.
And, though we have been talking about bones, couldn’t we say the same about the heart? Yes—but with this caveat. That large and unwieldy boot is evident to all. Shouting pain and need has led me to receive many a kindness.
But my heart? Your heart? Those wounds that sit where no one but God can see?
Whether a matter of the body or the heart, healing for any human is a process.
Maybe you have been where I have been—trying so very hard to keep going, to move forward—to do the next right thing—but unaware of the stuff we carry that complicates our suffering. Things like expectations, disappointments, faulty theology, and more than a few of the enemy’s lies.
Fortunately, unlike my fall from the porch, I also had some absolute truths, such as
my God is faithful,
He will keep His Word,
and that, even if no one else ever understood, God did.
Think about it—God gets our pain. He sits with us in it, and, grace upon grace, with the utmost of patience, leads us to healing without and within.
We can be confident that we will be restored. Though there may be scars that testify to what happened, we carry the promise of Psalm 147:3.
Because while God cares for our broken bones, He cares most for our broken hearts.
Have a "fall" you are hoping to heal from?
You may find the post “Letting Go of What Hinders our Healing” helpful. You can find it in my blog’s Grace for Life: Learning for Today section.
This message by Paul David Tripp will also encourage you: Suffering: Gospel Hope When Life Doesn’t Make Sense
Great insight.🌸
Thank you, Loretta. Looking forward to what I learn in the next 64 years 🙂