“It makes no practical sense for me to be here,” I shared with my grad school cohort, “I should be home, resting, taking care of my husband and kids.”  I gave voice to the guilt which, like a rash, crawled on the skin of my psyche.

“He’s doing so well,” I went on, rationalizing away the guilt…for the moment,”and the kids are troopers.”

12 hours later fever set in and we again made a frenetic dash to Hopkins.  He was fighting an infection.  And sometimes, I knew, infections win.

On my way, I had an appointment with a surly orthopedic surgeon.  He was prickly, abrupt and announced I probably wouldn’t need surgery and certainly didn’t need the scooter.  I told him to navigate the miles of Hopkins’ halls I would keep it.

No ankle surgery?  A surprise and a beginning of the mending.

Something happened in the kids.  The first trip was scary, overwhelming and they made me crazy.  This time, as we all piled into the king sized bed like a litter of puppies, their presence was comforting.   There were far less whines and far more, “Can I help you?”

Waiting rooms weren’t buzzing with nervous energy as before.  In fact, with the right book and atop a pile of coats they could be quite cozy.

With enough tech and Starbucks, anywhere could be home.

“The pancreas is a mean organ,” the surgeon told us, “This infection is common.  He will make a full recovery.”

Common.  Full recovery.  It seems ankles and abdomens are designed to mend.

That was the prayer of my sardonic grad school professor after I told him our story.  He thanked God He designed us to mend.

I’ve been in the battle so long I forgot there is an end.  I’ve been limping so long I forgot what it was to walk.  It’s been a long, long season.

Yet, from the very beginning, my husband, my kids and I were designed to mend.  We were created to uncover beauty from ashes.  Wisdom from mistakes.  Life in the midst of death.  It’s the scripture promise that we are given life abundantly even if it takes place on surgical wards, atop scooters or sporting an ankle cast.

Mend.  Even the word is soft, as the promise it whispers. There are miles to go before we sleep, but sleep we will and mend we shall.

Share with me where you are mending.  Where are you walking where once you stumbled?