There was given me a thorn in my flesh.

Sunday August 30 2009

So two posts in one day. Both incredibly tardy. But both incredibly major.

Okay, so I admit, I don't know if I can even begin to compare what God permitted to happen to me with the thorn (whatever it was) that was stuck in Paul's side. But I have a pretty good idea, after making companions with crutches and a couch for the last 7 weeks and most likely being stuck with them for the next four, what Paul meant when he called his thorn "a messenger of Satan." There are just some days when you want to throw up your hands and scream at the heavens, "I GIVE UP!"

But you don't. Because you've got God speaking to your heart, uttering the only words you need to hear and the only words that help, "My grace is sufficient for you." 'Nuff Zed. Except for the story of my foot:

I was volunteering at a church sponsored soccer camp. Every evening someone provided food for the travelling coaches. There were 14 of us that night who went to this person's apartment. 12 people got onto the elevator at the apartment complex. I was the thirteenth. (No I am not superstitious.)

As I stepped (left-foot) onto the elevator, I remember thinking two things: 1) what is the weight capacity? 2) why is so-and-so getting shorter? The elevator was starting to sag under the weight. There was no sound – no cable snapping, no warning bell. It just kept going and picked up enough momentum to spin me around so that I was now facing the door, watching my right foot, which was still outside of the elevator, disappear above my head between the elevator door and the elevator shaft.

I saw my foot vanish first, then my leg up to my knee. I remember screaming. The pain was so excruciating that I believed my leg was going to snap. It very well might have if so-and-so had not instinctively been holding me up, keeping me from hanging upside down by my ankle.

Shortly after, the elevator stopped – I don’t know how far it had dropped. I think one floor. When it did stop so-and-so yanked me down, freeing my foot from the elevator shaft. I was assisted to the floor. Someone gave me a t-shirt to wrap around my ankle. I was in shock. I felt no pain. Couldn’t figure out why they wanted me to hold the shirt so tightly around my ankle. So I looked down and saw the blood. Then I loosened the shirt and saw the wound. Shortly after I had been freed, the elevator dropped again, another floor, before shooting wildly up to the 10th floor.

... Nightmare Hollywood-style.

Miracle God-style ...

I still have my foot. No broken bones. No torn tendons. Just an 11 centimeter (from one side of my ankle to the other) laceration so deep I could see my achilles before they stitched me up. A work-weeks stay in the hospital hooked up to IV antibiotics. Six weeks on couch arrest, with who knows how many to go. Only when it's completely closed up and healed over can I put any pressure on my foot. Then its two months of physical therapy, learning how to walk again. Two months before they'll think about letting me get behind the wheel of a car.