Pain and Privilege

Yesterday, while Hubbs and I were taking Baby L for a stroll, I got so preoccupied with entertaining her that I failed to notice the uneven spot in the pavement.  I stumbled and landed on my right foot in a twisted position.

Later, after we got home, the top of my foot began to hurt.  A lot.  I was nursing Baby L and I could feel shooting pains on my foot each time I tried to move it.  Even though there wasn't any visible bruising or swelling, my foot was going numb and despite my putting ice on it, things were not improving.  By the time Baby L was asleep, I could barely bear weight on that side.

Ever the Dr. Google loyalist, I began to search the web to see if this was a strain or a sprain.  I was not pleased with what I read.  Apparently, a lot of times a top-of-the-foot sprain, called a Lisfranc injury, is far more serious than the run-of-the-mill ankle sprain.  We're talking many weeks of casts, no walking, possible surgery.  And it so happened that my pain was emanating from the exact spot that Lisfranc injuries are located.

Of course, I feared the worst.  In my mind, I began to imagine what would happen to my milk supply if I had to go under for surgery.  I worried about how I could get down on the floor to play with Baby L if I was stuck in a cast that didn't allow for weight-bearing.  How would I enjoy the lazy summer evenings and go for strolls with my family?! What about chores? Would we need to hire a nanny or fly my mom in again? Would Mom be able to take time off to come?  How would this affect my in-laws' visit in two days' time?!  And on and on and on.

I decided to go to the hospital.  Hubbs would drive me, then go for a grocery run with Baby L until she fell asleep.  We roused my poor sleeping child to pack her into the car seat, and off we went.  Even as I rode in the car and then hobbled up the ramp towards the Emergency entrance of the hospital, my heart was riddled with fear and anxiety.  What if, what if, what if.

I checked in, they helped me into a wheelchair, and the wait began.  Thankfully I had my phone and charger with me, so I was able to text family and ask for prayer whilst recharging my entertainment device for the next few hours.

I had a lot of time to think while I waited.  And as the prayers of my faithful family were offered up, the Spirit gave me peace.  The worries and the anxiety of just an hour previous had melted away, and was replaced by Truth.

What Truth was that? Not that I would be healed, necessarily.  Not that things would go my way and the diagnosis would be favourable.  Not that the future would be devoid of inconvenience and pain for Hubbs, for Baby L, for me.  These are not Truths.  These are wishes, sort of like what you'd ask Santa for at Christmastime.  These are all about me, not about God.  These are the lies of entitlement and privilege, the mentality that somehow God owed me or would never permit suffering in my life because I prayed a prayer and willed it to be His will.  Alas, His ways are not my ways.  He is not subject to my will, but I am subject to His.

And in all things, He is to be glorified.  The Truth in my heart was that I need not fear, because He had it handled, and though I might not understand His will and what was happening, He was going to work for His glory and I could trust Him to walk with me through it, no matter what.  Whether I needed surgery or a cast or just some ice, whether we'd need to cancel plans or hire help or stop breastfeeding, whatever happened - it would glorify my Maker and He would give me what I needed to deal with the situation. 

Once the Spirit revealed this to me, I was overcome with peace.  I could read a book (on the Kindle app) and not let my mind drift to fear.  I could joke around with the docs, who confirmed the possibility of a Lisfranc injury, and have a conversation with the X-ray technician who appeared to want someone to listen.  I could breathe and rest in my Father's arms.

And I did.  It turned out to be quite a refreshing time, even though most trips to the ER tend to be nerve-wrecking. When the x-rays came back, I was told that it appeared to be just micro-tears in the ligaments and not a Lisfranc injury.  No bones were broken.  No ligaments torn asunder.  The treatment? Rest, ice, compression and elevation.  Plus Tylenol.  No surgery, no cast.  Praise the Lord.

But you know what?  Even if I had the cast, the surgery, and all of the other horrible things that might accompany an injury of greater magnitude, I would still praise the Lord.  I deserve destruction.  Hubbs and Baby L deserve destruction.  Our little family is not somehow so privileged as to be immune to suffering and pain and trials.  It is only His grace, inexplicable and wonderful as it is, that prevents us from getting what we rightfully deserve.  It's all about Him.

And so, my hope is that even this humble little blog post, read by not-so-many, will bring glory to Him first and foremost, for He alone is worthy.  Try as I might, I am not.