When I was 10 years old, I was sent to a Shriners Hospital for Children in Greenville, S.C. for a surgery that was supposed to extend my heel cord in my right foot. This would allow me to walk flat-footed like normal folks. Having been born with Cerebral Palsy, I had a few complications to deal with, most notably a shortened heel cord with the flexibility of a steel cable or a politician. The potential success of this surgery would bring me great relief, while failure would provide great grief.
This entire process would prove to be quite an adventure for a small-town kid with an inferiority complex that would make the Grand Canyon appear small. The fact that I spent the three weeks before Christmas in a strange hospital that felt like a million miles from home was enough of an adventure to last me a life time.
I felt like Superman for a while, after realizing that I was the strongest kid in my ward. Given the poor condition of many of the kids in there, it didn't take much to appear strong. Some were burn victims, while others had ended up on the wrong end of a lawnmower. My favorite was a kid from Australia who had a brittle bone disease. I witnessed him breaking a rib or two while just trying to get out of bed. He never complained and he had a great sense of humor, so I shared my super hero cape with him. He deserved it.
I lost plenty of weight while awaiting surgery. The food in that hospital made school cafeterias seem like fine dining. Out of desperation, I survived off of jelly toast twice a day. The staff would have let me eat twinkies all day, as long as I promised to eat.
Most of the people who ran the hospital were great. There was one lady who must have been eating the same food we were, because she became irritable and hard to deal with. I considered it my patriotic duty to report her to the authorities. To her credit, she went back to treating us well and bringing bag lunches, rather than enduring the meals ready to vomit we were enjoying.
My greatest Christmas gift that year was getting to go home on Christmas Eve. Plus, I had a cool cast on my right leg that came with handle bars sticking out of both ends of my knee. I had a pin through my leg that kept my heel cord in place when they snipped it and the pin had to stay in until the cast came off a few months later.
I enjoyed those months at home, consuming large amounts of my mother's good cooking and getting my cast signed by just about everyone except President Nixon. He was about to tap into some problems at the Watergate Hotel, so I gave him a pass.
Then came the day for the cast and pin to be removed. Before the procedure, there was talk of giving me an epidural, but I assured them that I wasn't even pregnant. They agreed, sawed off my cast and brought in three nurses that were approximately the size of a Greyhound bus. They clearly had never eaten food from the hospital, but they knew their way around the dinner table.
I was uncertain as to why they had been called to this meeting, but I quickly discovered why my mother was sent to an undisclosed location for the next step of my procedure. The "Greyhound buses" held me down while the pin was slowly pulled through my bone and muscles, all without the much needed aid of painkillers, which would have been useless in this situation. I found screaming at the top of my lungs to be my next best option. Should you ever meet three portly old nurses wearing hearing aids, you will know where they worked. That was all me.
Thinking the worst was behind me, we made our way to the parking lot for our long trip home. As I got somewhat comfortable, my world faded briefly to black as I almost passed out due to a sudden burst of indescribable pain in my leg. Regaining my senses, I looked up to see my terrified mother trying to get off of my leg. She apparently got into the backseat without noticing where my legs were and discovered the hard way that she was sitting on my right leg.
I am proud to say, that 47 years later, I have forgiven her for that mistake. She meant well. Plus, she was a good cook and I was inexplicably given complete control of the menu for the next five years.
That year of my life gave me lots of opportunities to forgive others who were trying their best and failing. My recovery from surgery, especially physical therapy, was excruciating and at the end of the day, nothing improved for me except my pain tolerance, which had plenty of exercise.
I can't use the usual Christian cliches about God having a plan through this year of misery, but I can say that God continues to work in the face of failure. I developed a deep appreciation for the lack of pain I enjoyed once this ordeal was over. Even though it was a loss, I resumed my childhood with unbridled vigor. I did all the stupid and potentially dangerous things that many others did, except I skipped the whole drug thing. I figured if they were of no use to me when the pin was being removed from my leg, I didn't need them now.
What I also took from that experience was that pain is rarely permanent. It will stop and I need to keep moving towards whatever prize the tender mercies of the Lord have for me when it does. You need to do likewise. We can't afford to waste our energy around shrines to pain or heartache.
What if the Apostle Paul had shrieked in terror when bitten by a deadly viper and started hastily writing out his will? What if he whined like a child when the boat he was on was shredded like paper and he was left clinging to what remained? Instead, he held true to the purpose God had for him when everything appeared hopeless. The viper died and other ships made their way to Paul and he pressed on.
Maybe we all need a purpose and a God bigger than our pain. Then, whether your mother accidentally sits on your ever so tender leg or someone deliberately does you harm, you can stay the course and see your purpose to a fruitful conclusion.