a step to hope

July 14, 2016

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Biking home this afternoon, I listened to one of the podcasts I usually listen to while running: Chris Fabry Live! The program was about the times when others do something for you that you were unable to do yourself. One of the examples made me pause; ok, so maybe I did not pause altogether: these days my only method of biking is one in which I do everything possible to not have to stop, knowing that my old biking habit involves stopping myself with my right foot . . . an unwise move at the moment! Yes, I’m afraid my foot is still uncooperative. And yes, I’m afraid I still struggle with patience for the healing process. In fact, I am more than just “struggling,” more often than not. This is, in large part, due to the vague diagnosis given to me 2 and a half weeks ago–basically saying that he saw nothing on the x-ray and, since I was having a nearly pain-free afternoon at the time, I should be fine to start running on it again. More than two weeks later of no-running has seen no noticeable improvement and I am, quite frankly, starting to lose hope. It feels silly, though, in the face of all the great turmoil in the world . . . why should my mobility matter to me so much, when others are losing their homes, loved ones, and lives? Shouldn’t I be able to just let it go, and be grateful for what I have? I should . . .
But back to the podcast: what this caller said was that she was in a severely difficult period in her life and, when some friends from church told her she should have hope, she replied that, quite honestly, that idea made it worse for her. She had lost hope, and did not see any way to manufacture it. At that point, her minister said that it was ok; he asked her permission to simply let them have hope for her. It took some time but, eventually, she was able to find hope again. Now she looks back with the belief that it was knowing they were holding hope that allowed her to find it once again.
No doubt I am poorly paraphrasing the way she told the story, as my story-telling memory sometimes gets carried away in the telling; but no matter. In this case, I suspect that I am likely telling my own story more accurately than I am telling hers anyway. So there you have it.
I spent the day hearing updates on the racial tension issues in this country, and getting passionately hopeful when I heard people who seemed to be campaigning for justice in a wise and loving manner, rather than inciting hate in the process. But I could not seem to manufacture the same hope when it came to my own body’s failings. I fear that I shall never walk pain-free again . . . never mind run! My husband has gotten back into his running game this summer, and I watch with bittersweet pride as he increases his mileage and skill. “Run an extra mile for me!,” I say, smiling cheerfully as I kiss him goodbye. A bit too cheerfully.
Tonight we sit together in the living room, mostly quiet with periodic comments. My husband, living without his usual “toy” that is getting repaired, talks about his ideas for techie projects once reunited with his computer. My father-in-law closes his computer, after reading various news updates, and sighs, “Stop the world, Lord, I want to get off!” I sympathize, but in a different vein. Stop the world, Lord: I want to walk, and run . . . I don’t want to just be along for the ride!

*Photo is of the consistent joy I have while visiting my in-laws: the simple routine of greeting the chickens, closing up the coop for the night, and collecting the day’s eggs is, somehow, a hint of hope . . .


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