So I got a little dizzy Saturday. That isn't to say I am a dizzy-headed person by any means. And I'm not going to cast aspersions on people with certain hued hair. I know plenty of blondes who are so smart they could think circles around you and me and the rest of the world. We use stereotypes too often, I think. I use them myself, I admit.
Nevertheless, I got so dizzy, in the actual room-spinning way, that I had to lie down for an hour or three, close my eyes and hope everything settled back to where it was supposed to be when I opened them again.
And what do you know, by the time I opened my green/gray/blue/who-knows-what color-they'll-be-today eyes, the closet, the window, the dresser and bed had all taken up residence in their sedentary locations, exactly I expected them to be. Phew. So I got up, walked a little, still felt okay, if not quite perfect, and thought I'd go get our mail.
How I wish I could take back that thought. I wished it about ten seconds after I opened our back door, actually. That's when one leg (my bad left one) mis-judged, and the other skipped a step completely and I ended up in a heap on the floor of our carport, with a badly sprained right right ankle. I sat there a moment, trying to gauge whether I could possibly pot any weight on it, decided against it, and called out to our friend who was (thankfully) sitting in the room just inside the back door. He helped me up and half carried me to the couch where I sat until further notice.
In fact, I might still be sitting there if not for two things: Beve's strong arms (for ablutions, etc) and his determination that he get the crutches from the basement (always handy to have a spare pair of crutches around, don't you think?) and, secondly, my sudden memory that I still had the boot from when I broke this same foot a couple of years ago. So yesterday I crawled around on my hands and knees through my closet until I found that boot, and now am mobile again. Tada!
Who needs to go to a doctor when you have every bit of equipment necessary in your own home?
Just kidding, sort of! Seriously, though, because Beve is an athlete, he has seen more than his fair share of sprains, so he could tell it WAS a sprain and NOT a break, and knew exactly what to do for it (ice, meds, elevation, repeat). It's a lovely color, if you like dark purple, lovely size, if you like puffiness,and I only wish I had a better story.
But here's the thing I've been thinking about:
Once again, my body betrays me. This won't be the last time. Wasn't the first. Some folks I know (and love, even in my own family) shake their heads when they hear the latest calamity to befall me. "It's always something with you," they say with a chuckle. And I suppose to them it is rather amusing. But to me it isn't a laughing matter. To me, my broken-ness is where God meets me. It isn't easy and sometimes it's a deep, hard struggle. However, I am convinced that I wouldn't be who I am...no, that's not the way to put it: HE wouldn't be who HE is in me, if my body wasn't weak, if there wasn't a certain clutziness and definite brokenness to this shell in which He has to dwell. I have hope in Him, lean on Him in direct proportion perhaps to my on inability to lean on my own self. And that's a grace I am grateful for. I've said it before, By faith I say, I wouldn't have it any other way. Honestly, sometimes it's a struggle to say these words but I do say them and mean them with all the hope that is in me. All the hope that is IN HIM.