It's Almost Time

I love the ocean. It's where I feel closest to God. So when I arrive on heaven's shores, I think it will look something like this... but the sand won't stick, the sun won't burn, and the breeze will always blow soft and cool.

I think about heaven most after I trudge through the sand with ankle braces on and open my chair at the waters edge. I used to sit there all day long. Two hours is about it now. But while there last week, I gazed at bubbling waves till pain forced me inside. Light reflected through moving water, offering endless beauty.

We made some family memories, especially the night Dad called an evening photo shoot on the beach. The cousins built the infamous pyramid, mimicking a photo taken when they were all shorter than me.

Then they fell.

We got a foursome photo - a rare commodity these days - especially now that my oldest is gone for the rest of the summer. 

But before he left, we sang. And they sang. And the older generation watched the younger group perform the four part harmony song only we had known for years. Serendipitous and Surreal. The music lives on.

But it's almost time now. Almost time for Dr. Morrison to open my back and fuse a joint, forcing me to maneuver pain and rest. Sharp pain today assured me it's time. Time to face the surgery. Time to let God be God and use a doctor's hands as His own. The creator of the endless seas is able, so I'll remember the ocean and God's big love and rest on the operating table tomorrow morning as I did at the ocean's edge.

"The whole earth is filled with awe at your wonders; where morning dawns; where evening fades, you call forth songs of joy." (Ps. 65: 8)

And the Fusion Is On

When I get up in the morning, I stand on two partially numb feet. Heavy steps carry me to the kitchen counter where I pour water and four scoops into my coffee maker. Then I wait. The ankles waken as the morning fog lifts after a dose of caffeine.

But yesterday, when I left the neurosurgeon's office, I wondered if some of that might change. Two weeks from today I'll be lying on a hospital bed in more pain than I want to imagine. In fact Dr. Morrison said I won't like him two weeks from now. But I can't help but wonder if some of the oddness in my feet will subside after they stabilize the wretched joint.

I fell three and half years ago after telling an orthopedic surgeon (for over six months) that my right ankle was loose. It was never unstable enough for him in the office. But an encounter with a pine cone at the bottom of my front brick stoop proved him wrong. By the time he opened me up, he had to search for the detached ligament.

When I couldn't stand due to sciatic pain about five weeks later, I was admitted to the hospital after my second trip to the ER. Don drove me home after my first attempt to get help but the pain stopped me cold on our icy walk way as I tried to get to the house. I crawled up our front steps but then couldn't stand up. As I wailed in pain on our front porch in 22 degree weather, I finally told my husband he had to call an ambulance.

The ER took me seriously when I arrived the second time and I was admitted.

The doc who did the ankle surgery read the MRI the next day and told me I had one of the ten herniated disks he'd ever seen—which is probably why my right leg hasn't been normal since. Days after surgery I couldn't roll over in bed without lifting my knee with my hands. And even months later, if I lay on my left side, I couldn't lift my right leg. Steroids shots helped some. But the leg has been weak ever since.

So I can't help but wonder if the right surgeon, fusing the unstable joint, will offer some relief. He made it clear there's no guarantee. So if you think of me, will you pray that the great physician will guide Dr. Morrison's hands in two weeks and that if there is a nerve to be let loose, that God will divinely guide Him to the right place.

I'll close with a song I wrote years ago. Mac Powell composed the radio, popular version of these words. But ironically, I wrote this about the same time he wrote his. And a group of kids performed my take on an Easter Sunday, not long before he shared his song in the same service.

His song still plays over the airwaves, and I'm not sure who listens to mine. But no matter who sings or speaks the words, or what form God's healing touch takes, the eternal truth remains, by His stripes, we are healed. (Is. 53)