"It's Just Bruised"

Sometimes, in the back of your head, you just know something is going to happen, and no matter how careful you are, it happens anyway.

Today was cold and icy. On our way out to the van and into church I kept a good watch on Mom and, though she resists, held her arm as she walked. Even Mom herself had said on the way out that she wanted her gloves on so that her hands wouldn't be cold if she fell in the snow. Coming home was the same. Both James and I felt it, so we were relieved to get home and have Mom safe on the back porch. She started up the steps with her friendly oxygen tank...

Fast forward a few hours. She insists her hand doesn't hurt even though it is swollen and purple. "It's just bruised," she says, "I'll be fine." But though her hand "doesn't hurt," she treats it like it does. She climbs onto her bed to rest for the first time in 16 months. James thinks the hand looks terrible. He thinks she should see a doctor. Ben has been going with the local volunteer ambulance corp for the past couple weeks. "Old people always insist they're fine," he says. I talk to Rachel who has just returned from her Florida vacation. "Martha says you hurt your hand," she says to Mom. "I'm coming tomorrow morning to take you to the doctor." Mom is compliant. I decide to take her to Urgent Care instead.

"I feel decrepit," says Mom when we return home. I help her undress and get into her pajamas. I cook her some scrambled eggs and toast, even though she says she can't eat. Finally Mom is tucked into her bed, her hand and arm gently wrapped in a soft cast to keep her fractured wrist stable. I worry that God is preparing to stretch me a little further, to break through some of those walls I don't wish to scale. I worry, but I know He is my strength. And just to prove it, my lunch date for tomorrow had to cancel, leaving me free to take Mom to the orthopedist for a hard cast tomorrow. (How did He know?)