Sunday night I came home from church and started playing basketball with the boys. Justin had taken the two older boys to Kingsport with him the day before to drop off some furniture and pick up the goal, and I had kept the two smaller boys home (one was sick) and cleaned up the office stuff in the hallway. And the craft/homeschool/extra snacks/toys closet. And the boys’ dresser drawers.
Sunday afternoon was the earliest the goal was ready to use. They played out for a couple of hours and went back to it as soon as they piled out of the van after church. I grabbed a ball and joined in. I went in for a layup, watching the shot to see if I made it (I did, by the way), and landed with my foot mostly off the concrete pad. I went down fast and sat down on the base of the goal.
My ankle was screaming in the exact place I had broken it playing volleyball in 2016. Remember? About three days after I found out I was pregnant with our fourth baby. It started swelling and I braced myself for bad news and decided to just have it x-rayed in the morning. Why bother to go the ER?
Of course, it’s actually broken in the same place. It was 17 months to the day between breaks. The PA pulled up my previous x-ray and said it hadn’t laid any bone down when it healed; it was just a fibrous connection. When she said they still called it “healed,” I suggested that maybe they shouldn’t.
I’m back in my boot, hobbling around on these crutches that I’m hoping to lose sometime next week. It’s a very weird feeling of deja vu. Deja vu that I didn’t want.
But somehow I’m very at peace. It’s not simple: there are four people at our house under the age of eight. But right here in this mess, I can’t help but know that God is right here with me. And that somehow, some way, He will get glory even from this.
I’ve been compiling an Instagram Story Highlight with all the ways we are managing life when mama has a broken ankle (best yet? I’ve been letting the boys push Luke through the house in a stroller because I can’t carry him). Between the last ankle break and having a baby and having surgery and then this ankle break, we’ve picked up some skills. Maybe someone else can use some ideas?
God is not limited by my broken ankle. Am I? Sure. But here’s not what I’m living for anyway. I’m a foreigner. As TobyMac would say, “it’s a rental.” This isn’t home and if I’m uncomfortable, that’s ok. My hope isn’t in everything being ok or comfortable here. It’s in everything being made right in eternity.
Usually by mid-afternoon, I’m feeling my constraints. The boys are energetic and we’re finishing school and thinking about dinner and I’d like to go sit down and stare at the wall. There’s no checking-out when there’s no backup though. I’ve been practicing using the right tone of voice. Our house is loud and a tad rowdy (ok, a lot rowdy). I don’t mind raising my voice to be heard but I don’t want my volume to stay there or to be harsh. I’m also working on being consistent. There’s nothing like having to crutch over to take care of a problem to make you want to ignore it.
But I can make the effort. The effort being annoying doesn’t mean it’s not worth it. Soften the voice. Deal with the behavior. Keep my eyes on the long-view. And find some humor in this situation that occasionally makes me want to throw something. (Seriously, the thought of throwing a glass at the wall feels so satisfying. Probably wouldn’t be, especially if I had to clean it up.)
This will be a great story in a year.