Black Boot Update

When I found out I would spend six weeks in a big black boot, I had plans for a fabulous boot burning party.  OK.  I can do this.  I have to do this.  I will do this.  But I am going to seriously celebrate when the torture of wearing this blasted contraption 24/7 comes to a close.  I had glamorous visions of unstrapping the boot, stepping onto the plush green grass and then running, leaping and pirouetting to freedom.  A new beginning.  The end of my pain.  I saw it unfold before me in great detail.  I know, I know.  The unrealistic expectations created in the wrinkles of my mind are laughable.  

I went to see the orthopedic surgeon every two weeks.  He was pleased with the progress I was making. I was optimistic and excited that my quirky rule-following nature had made me an excellent patient.  I showed up for my 6 week visit and was told my healing had surpassed his expectations.  Internal fist bump and congratulatory self-talk instantly commenced, “Sweet! You freaking rock, Maria!  Way to go, girl!”  The doctor gave me instructions for easing into life without the boot.  At that point the likelihood of breaking or injuring my foot again was pretty slim.  “Nice!  Okay, let’s move on then.”  But transitioning from wearing a boot 24/7 to walking in a shoe was not smooth and seamless.  Apparently I’d grown more attached than I realized to the protection and security the boot provided. 

The moment of stepping away forever from the captivity of the black boot was disappointing and anti-climactic.  Whatever super mom, save-your-precious-daughter kung fu moves I performed on the stairs that resulted in broken bones and joints in my foot apparently also displaced a couple bones in my ankle.  I had no range of motion whatsoever.  I walked sideways with stiff, Frankenstein-like steps.  Oh boy!  This is going to take some work.  After a chiropractic visit, I am less awkward walking on my foot and have a list of exercises that should improve my range of motion over time.  My foot aches and swells easily.  But there is visible progress.  I finally recognize my right foot as the other half of a missing pair, although at this point it resembles a distant cousin rather than a twin.  

My life continues to mirror that of my foot in more ways than I wish.  My moments of despair are accompanied by hope and healing.  But…like my foot, my progress is slower than I would have hoped or expected.  I love stories of miraculous healing and tender mercies.  They inspire me to carry on when life gets tough.  But “…by small and simple things are great things brought to pass” (Alma 37:6).  I was awaiting my defining moment of foot healing glory…but it never came.  Upon reflection, I realized that healing is almost always a process, not an occasion.  I’m learning patience.  I’m learning to trust the Lord.  Keep moving.  One step at a time.  Listen.  Obey.  Don’t stop.  There are angels round about me, both on earth and in heaven.  I have seen and felt that reality.  But I get distracted.  I catch a glimpse of the storm that surrounds me and I lose sight of the Savior.  My faith wavers and I start to fear.  I forget grace.  Grace, the strengthening power that comes from the atonement of Jesus Christ.  The ability Christ has to make up the difference when we have given all we have to give and still fall short.  I lose sight of it often.  Sigh.  

This update is not about the moment I stepped out of my black book.  It’s an explanation of my process, a process that is much more difficult than I imagined.  I'm cautious, even fearful.  I limp.  I wobble.  I hop.  I instinctively pause on my left leg with flamingo-like balance.  I gently flex my foot as I drive.  I take a deep breath and smile as I see the road up ahead.  There is hope and joy and freedom.  And then, like a tortoise in its shell, I retreat to the comfort and protection of my trusty old black boot.  Two steps forward and one step back.  The momentous event of my dreams was less than glamorous, but my slow and steady process to happiness and healing continues.