Last weekend we broke a leg, figuratively. This weekend, we broke a wrist, literally. Meghan, my daredevil, very unglamorously broke her arm, skating. She would rather it had been sky-diving. She’s been quite the trouper, doing all she can by herself, seeking help with a button or especially difficult manuever only when necessary. She’s like that, very independent.
But, injury is going to slow her down, set some boundaries on her, at least the first half of this summer and that more than anything has her sort of bummed. There are beach trips and daily jaunts to the pool and volleyball camp which will most likely not be the same for her as she expected. I get her pain, frustration. I feel it in my life all the time, injury hurts, but acknowledging injury and giving it opportunity for true healing is sort of a pain of its own. Sitting out, resting when restlessness takes hold and being still is hard. But, so very necessary. If I don’t make this child do less, give the injury time to heal, she will re-injure it. That re-injury might not be as clean of a break as this. A twisted, bent and forever impaired wrist could be the outcome.
So I will fight the cliff diver and ground her. I will steady the wanderlust of the adventurer and pen her in a while.
And maybe, just maybe, I will have sense enough to let God do the same to me.