The past month has been a challenge as I have struggled to recover from surgery. Pain has a way of blurring the lines between day and night, with time losing its importance. I peeked over the fence into the other side, which frightened me in ways that were unsettling. At such moments, it feels like you are freefalling, tumbling, tumbling, tumbling as you hope to soon reach solid ground. But it is there that the healing begins. I have done a lot of praying as I lay in my sickbed. I admit that I am selfish in my petitions to God, asking for a calm spirit along with a reprieve, a respite from the discomfort. But in the quiet moments, I have also learned that The Lord makes our misery matter bec
I tried to be as cheerful as possible as I was led through the pre-op procedures. My stomach protested mightily. I chalked it up to nerves and the fact that I had been on a liquid diet for the three previous days. I mentally calculated how long it would be before I would actually get to eat real food again, and then tried not to laugh at the absurdity that under the circumstances, that’s what occupied my mind. The nurse started the IV on the first try, in spite of my challenging veins. I think she was secretly pleased. She ceremoniously presented me with the “feel good” shot, and told me that surgery might be delayed a bit. I snuggled under the warm blanket, and watched the clock. The anest
