Celebrating Easter with a Resurrected Foot

I won't swallow even an ounce of coffee in the morning. Instead, I'll wake before dawn, brush my teeth without swallowing water, and head to an outpatient surgery center where a surgeon will attempt to fix my right foot.

While I mostly have peace about the endeavor, I know from experience that the first two days post-surgery are rarely fun. So I fight a certain apprehension. Four to six weeks of no-weight-bearing almost take the fun out of using a knee-scooter.

Underneath the angst, however, a well of acceptance buoys the fear. It's not that I don't fight sadness. It's simply that as the medical journey's continued an internal muscle has grown strong, allowing me see my suffering in light of the atrocities around the globe.

My worldview has less of me in it.

And that's a good thing.

I haven't always been this way. I used to feel consumed by my illness, unsettled by decline.

But now I wonder how many people really have good access to drive-by surgery. Like the refugees in Europe. Or young girls lost in the sex trade. Or those who simply lack the funds to pay the upfront cost demanded by the medical center.

I live in a county filled with mcmansions. My home is small by comparison. But I've walked through the Guatemala city dump and passed by elderly Chinese people in a shanty town, cooking in an outdoor kettle.

The challenge isn't my illness. It's keeping that illness in perspective.

My story pulls hearts strings. Yes, even mine. I was widowed young. Lost the father of my children to a brain tumor. Then spent years wondering why I was so tired, only to be diagnosed with a rare genetic disorder that my youngest son inherited.

In our culture, my narrative is not the norm. But I'm just beginning to grasp that my suffering isn't nearly as big of a deal as I once thought.

Yes, a lot of personal dreams haven't come true. Finances still stress me out some times. And I wish we could spend more on vacations than medical deductibles - especially when I peruse Facebook too long.

But this is not our home. Not mine. Not yours.

I want to say something more, but I'm bone tired and need to wake in just a few hours.

So can I end by asking you to pray for me in the morning? The surgery is scheduled to start at 9:15 am. Dr. Tucker will be realigning my foot, attempting to make it face forward again to allow for normal strides.

I hope to be up for some semblance of an Easter celebration. But regardless, Christ is Risen. Our hope is secure. Our suffering is a passing thing in light of the glory that awaits.

So hold on. Believe. Celebrate... even if propped up on pillows, drugged up on pain meds, unable to walk.

Happy Easter.

(I spend Thursday mornings with a members of a local choir. So I'm posting this video in honor of the numerous times we've rehearsed this song for their Easter celebration. You've most likely heard The Hallelujah Chorus by Handel. But what about Hallelujah by Beethoven??)

photo credit: My Coffee Mug via photopin (license)