The depression comes at night like a damp rag placed on the back of my neck. At first I don’t notice its cool touch, but it slowly warms and I am stuck with the tepid reminder—I’m crippled.
Albeit, temporarily and shorter than most who’ve had their hips reconstructed, but I still have a seemingly insurmountable timeframe in which I am trapped in my own body, held together with four titanium screws and some glue.
I can feel the panic slithering up my throat trying to choke me and I am amazed at the strength of those for whom this is not but a short trial.
And then I’m reminded of other things in life besides bodily ailments which have left me crippled. If I were Japanese pottery, I would be mostly gold by now, but in between catalyst and correction there is still that dark period of brokenness, waiting for the shards of my life to be put back together.
Letting go of my plans and dreams, I drive my car loaded with all of my belongings back home to my parents because it’s the only place I am safe.
A job is lost and and I’m left wondering how I will pay my bills.
Knocking on a hundred doors over a period of two years, I discover God has locked every one of them. I’m left wondering where He wanted me to go in the first place.
My bones will heal eventually, just as my life has been reassembled time after time. My brokenness will be made into a beautiful, golden testament to God’s unfailing love, and—believe it or not— the sun will rise in the morning.
And, boy, do I shine.