miraculous recovery

Well, my recovery comes right along. I get frustrated when I can't do things like put on a long-sleeved T-shirt or put my hair in a ponytail, or, you know, lift things. But when I consider that last month at this time I was bandaged, medicated, and stuck in a recliner 20 hours a day, I can't complain.

We originally thought I'd be in that state even today, and then facing months of painful physical therapy to get my shoulder moving again. Instead, I'm living most of my normal life. Saturday I drove myself to brunch. Yesterday I went to Costco. Today I'm cooking up freezer meals (and snickerdoodles!).

We thought I would miss out on my favorite season, but I've been able to drink deep the gold, copper, and scarlet of these beautiful days. It feels like a miracle. I think it is.

Two more:

A little over a year ago I could barely hold a pen from all the pain in my hands; if I even brushed them against something soft pain shot through me. I thought for sure I had arthritis and this was the beginning of a painful 40 years. Last week I hauled out my books on chords and scales and started to practice the piano, pain-free. I open jars and bags and boxes without much trouble. And I can hold hands with MM without pain.

After a few lonely, lost years wandering in the Post-Evangelical Wilderness, MM and I returned home from coffee hour at church this past Sunday with dinner plans, lunch plans, game night plans, an upcoming pot-luck assignment, an advent wreath-making signup, and an invite to join the choir for the Christmas season.* And this was after our second Rousing Bible Study and a sermon that made us Amen (quietly) several times and feel like clapping at the end. We didn't, but still. Who knew!

I want to capture these miracle moments so I don't forget them. Sometimes in life, there are Typhoons. Devastation happens, and we can't do anything about it. But sometimes your hands heal and you find new friends and you get to enjoy a beautiful autumn outside instead of through the window of a recovery room.

As our new buddies say at the end of the service each week: Thanks be to God. Allelujah! Allelujah!

* We also learned the difference between a vicar and a rector. (Vicars are in charge of "missions" aka church plants that aren't self-sustaining yet. Rectors are in charge of an actual parish church that is self-sustaining.) And I confirmed the purpose of the Tiny Golden Door (holds extra plates/bottles of consecrated communion elements.) But I have yet to discover the actual name of what I secretly refer to as The Birdhouse of the Lord. Oh, if only these Episcopalians knew!


  1. I love you. Did I tell you we have our OWN MONKS AND NUNS? Our tiny, 40 person church started its own order. They come on Sunday in their franciscan habits just to delight me, I'm sure.

    Can I confess to being just a tiny bit pissed off that the evangelicals lied to me all these years and told me the episcopalians weren't even christians? argh.

    So glad for all the good in your life right now.

    1. I LOVE it! :D Enjoy your Monks and Nuns, friend. (My fun monk story was when Chris Webb wore his habbit for a Renovare conference and Richard Foster kept referring to him as Obi Wan Kenobe and cracking up. Webb responded perfectly with a deep, Darth-Vadery, "Your powers are weak, old man." That made even Dalas Willard laugh. Awesome.)

      And yes. Even now MM and I find ourselves reacting with assumptions and reservations based on being told they weren't Christians. I am always having to confess my arrogance and pray for grace, humility, and an open mind/heart. This has been a good experience for us.


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