Her French accent danced over her gentle admonition, “Sara, I’d feel more comfortable if you used the railing.”
“I’m just trying to impress you.”
“I’ll be more impressed if you don’t fall down the stairs.”
How I’d missed this banter. How I’d missed this back and forth tennis match of her wit and my humor. How I’d missed her.
She’d scratch a few notes.
She’d answer with an, “Oh, Sara.”
She’d respond with, “Your feet are just getting in the way, girl.”
“Maybe we should just remove them?”
“No, no, no. I think that would not be helpful.”
Then we sat.
“Your score says you should be using a cane or a walker but I think for you…”
I knew exactly what she wanted to say. It went something like, “The last time I told you this, you guffawed in my face and blurted out that you didn’t need a walker because you had a stroller.” I could see it all in the half-smile as she finished her thought.
“…for you, I think we will just not do that.”
I mouthed a “thank you” with a small sigh of relief.
The familiarity of her voice, her understanding, her manner brought a certain dignity to the diagnosis. It somehow made the reason for my return less intimidating. It somehow gifted me with a “let’s kick this puppy in the tail” kind of resolve.
And it finally made me realize that this is the way this little blog would have to begin.
With feet that fail.
And I mean, quite literally, FAIL.
All the blessed time.
Now you might not expect anything less from a pair of dogs who have had to overcome chronic illness of the autoimmune variety, a couple of mild strokes and the subsequently gargantuan task of running after small children.
This is kind of how it goes…
FAIL. FAIL. FAIL.
TRIP. TRIP. TRIP.
SLIP. SLIP. SLIP.
ER. UG. OUCH.
But then again, this is only how it begins.
I can guarantee you this journey will be about more than the stumbling and the fumbling and the failing.
It will not stay stuck in the illness or motherhood or miscarriage or strokes. It will not get bogged down in ICU’s or dirty kitchens or PT rooms or empty stairways. It will not all be hilarious or devastating or brilliant or beautiful.
Life isn’t, so why should this be?
My story, my life, my heart, as you will discover, is more symphony than solo.
One that fully takes me into deep, dark places but calls me back into the height and warmth of the sun. One that ebbs and flows. One that sings and cries.
Just like the waves of the ocean.
Where I am carried into the embrace of a Savior.
Who holds me in the hilarious, the devastating, the brilliant and the beautiful.
Who shows up in ICU’s, in dirty kitchens, in PT rooms and in empty stairways.
Who comes in illness, in motherhood, in miscarriage and in stroke rehabilitation.
Jesus holds. Jesus shows ups. Jesus comes.
It is why I crave each wave.
Because He is so powerfully in them all.
Even those where feet may fail.
So literally or figuratively, this story, this journey, this chapter must begin no other way.
Because Jesus knew that I would have to put pen to paper the moment she said it so perfectly,
“Sara, your feet are just getting in the way, girl.”