Reblogging this one, as image was just added.
Several weeks ago, I wrote in my journal about the experience of breaking my right ankle. It was a deep and angsty piece ruminating on the inconvenient timing of the accident, why God would allow it to happen two days after I quit my job (didn’t He know it was supposed to be a happy time?) and why it happened before I had other health issues resolved. “Why?” I asked God as I typed. “Why?”
Surely God knew I needed to find another job, at least part-time.
Surely He knew we didn’t need any more medical bills.
Like so many other things, it seemed a random misfortune, especially considering the manner in which it happened. I didn’t injure it skydiving or bungee jumping, or even by participating in that fitness staple of the forty-plus-year-old woman, “Zumba”.
I broke it by stepping…
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