Monday, September 21, 2009

Of Faith and Feet

Christian comedian Anita Renfroe slipped in basement flooding at the bottom of their stairs last night.  This morning she discovered she has a cracked tibia and will need a cast.  No doubt this episode will be worked into a great sketch.

I fell three years ago. 

The smoke alarm blasted us out of bed in the middle of the night.  I, of course, was on my feet much sooner than hubby and raced down the stairs to save the family.  I heard the crack when I hit the carpeted floor and looked up to see Superman leap over me in his race to shut off the weather radio.  No – there was no fire.  Just a thunderstorm warning.

As I rolled and moaned, Abby flew out of her bedroom to stand over me and gag at the blue balloon inflating on my ankle.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” I whimpered.  I just knew I shattered it.

A consultation ensued above my head as to who would take me to the ER and who would stay home with a sick Gracee.  Abby woke up Jeremy, who was not into being snatched from his slumber.  Together they pulled me up. 

“I think I’m going to faint,” I gasped.

My very sensitive son, who was also taking a health education class at the time, rolled his eyes.  “She’s faking.”

While my husband got dressed – ever so slowly – Jeremy and Abby dragged and carried me down another short flight of steps, across the breezeway, through the garage, and threw me into the van. 

And left me – in the dark – while the thunder cracked and lightning flashed.

I felt the faint coming on again.  Hubby finally strolled out to the van.

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

He left me again.  And finally came back with a towel and a pail.  Thanks, honey.

After a tortuous exam and x-rays, the ER doctor pronounced only a sprain.  They twisted and manipulated my ankle into a splint, wrapped it, and sent me home with drugs.  And when we returned to the van and opened the door, the lights came on to reveal the pail my husband had grabbed.  The one he scoops dirty cat litter in to carry out to the field!  I'm so glad I didn’t need to use it.

Later that morning, I went to see my own doctor. 

“So how come it hurts right here?” I asked pointing to a spot on the side of my foot.

He hmmmm’d as only doctors can hmmmmm, and my sister-in-law wheeled me across the parking lot for another x-ray.

Doc’s response when he saw the x-ray?  “Ewwwwww!”

And thus began a round of visits to the orthopedic surgeon who decided he could treat the break without surgery and placed me in a hot pink cast, followed a week later by a big ugly boot because I couldn’t stand the cast.  This adventure lasted about 3 months.

I cleaned house for Jeremy’s birthday a few days later by crawling up and down stairs.  I learned how to pick up clothes from the floor with a crutch and toss them in the washing machine.  I actually lived in the basement, parked on the couch and continued to work on my laptop.  I only fell a couple of times in water Rose Dog drooled on the vinyl after slurping a drink.  I zipped through the Black Friday shopping crowds in a motorized wheelchair.

I didn’t have too many temper tantrums or too many pity parties.  I have a very busy family, and I learned to be very self-sufficient.  I depended mostly on myself.  Didn’t ask for much help.  But did feel a little sorry for myself sometimes when it didn’t come.

I didn’t believe the foot would heal without surgery.  But apparently, the way it broke and then healed made that bone even stronger.


So why do we feel sometimes like we have to go it alone?  When our feet don’t work, shouldn’t we allow someone the opportunity to put feet to their own faith?

Couldn’t have anything to do with pride, could it?  We crave help, but we won’t ask for it or we reject it and then we feel sorry for ourselves.  We get cranky because others can’t read our minds and take care of what we need before we know we need it.

We are such silly people.

Or maybe it’s just me. 

Anyway, I’m so glad there is ONE who knows what I need before I do and stands ready to take care of that need even when I don’t ask.  But sometimes He wants me to ask.  Sometimes Him.  Sometimes those around me.

Because it’s all about relationship and about giving up and about not trying to go it all alone.

I think He knew I needed to learn this lesson.  And my faith grew stronger.


Through brokenness. 

Through a broken foot. 

And He tempered it with laughter.  Because it is one of the funniest sketches in our family history. 

“First pride, then the crash—the bigger the ego, the harder the fall.” (Proverbs 16:19 – the Message)

Have you ever struggled with asking for help?

Copyright © 2009 by Sandra Heska King


2 comments:

Jenni / Jennifer Saake a.k.a. InfertilityMom said...

I've broken both feet (same bone, once on each foot, 11 years apart) and had surgery for one and no surgery (but a 3-month recovery for the other. Just reading this makes me queazy at the memory! Found you on Twitter tonight thanks to the flag of a friend and praying with you for Haiti.

Jenni Saake
author, Hannah's Hope: Seeking God's Heart in the Midst of Infertility, Miscarriage & Adoption Loss
www.InfertilityMom.blogspot.com

Sandra Heska King said...

Hi Jenni! My stomach still churns when I remember that night. I can't imagine what it would be like to do it again! Thanks for visiting!

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