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January 14, 2002 Dear Gabby,
I’ve been reading this website for a few months now and
decided to write to you. You see, I
was raised in a great church and always did what I was supposed to until three
years ago. For a bunch of reasons I
won’t go into, I left the church and haven’t been living right ever since. Well, recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about what I’m
missing by not serving God, and I think I’d like to try to come back to Him.
The problem is, I’m not sure I can.
I know both sides now and know what it takes to live right.
And it sounds harder than I remember.
The world is hard, too, but that’s what I’m used to now. I’m just not sure I’ll be able to make it if I try again. Can you help me? Dear Returning,
I broke my leg when I was 41 years old.
When I think back on the experience, I realize I could’ve planned the
whole scenario better. For instance, I could have fallen in the parking lot of our
town’s hospital and help would’ve been right there. Or, I could’ve at least done the painful deed at home or in
town or anywhere but where I was: in the mountains, four miles from the nearest
road. My dear Harry loved hiking in the great outdoors.
I was less enthusiastic about the whole idea, but joined him every year
on his trip to the Colorado mountains. Always
hoping that I’d have plenty of time to curl up in a shady meadow to read a
good book while my dear Harry caught our supper in a nearby stream, I’d
invariably end up sweating, hiking and hauling until I collapsed into the
sleeping bag at the end of each day. That’s
not to say we didn’t have some great moments together or that we didn’t see
some beautiful vistas; it’s just that I wasn’t following my own dreams of
the great outdoors. That’s what I was discussing (rather heatedly, I might
add) when the mishap occurred. Harry
had heard from a guide we’d met the day before, that there was a
not-to-be-missed view on the other side of that hill.
(He said “hill”¾but
those people in Colorado tend to call anything that’s not at least 14,000 feet
above sea level a “hill.”) I
promise you, it was a mountain!
My dear Harry was immediately intrigued.
I wasn’t. After four days
of intense physical exertion, I desperately wanted a day of rest, staying close
to our tent, with a chance to read and relax. Harry cajoled me. He
made all kinds of promises. I
finally, reluctantly agreed. Not
with a good attitude, I might add. And,
in my snit, I was determined to be miserable throughout the whole jaunt.
By early afternoon we were hiking along, carrying our daypacks (after
leaving our big packs at the base camp), and I was still querulously complaining
about how this was not how I’d wanted to spend my day and how I was only going
along because I was being a “loving,” obedient wife, and on and on.
My dear Harry was trying his best to kindly ignore my bad humor when he
heard my shriek, the unmistakable pop of a bone snapping, and me falling to the
ground. I’d stopped watching the trail in lieu of examining the
back of Harry’s head for the softest spot to aim my water bottle, when the toe
of my hiking boot got caught in a tree root growing along the trail.
My whole body (with the exception of my foot and leg) flew forward,
breaking my leg in the process. I lay there in the path, miles from medical help, in
excruciating pain, knowing without a doubt, there was no way I was going to ever
get off the mountain alive. (This
was before the days of cell phones and helicopter rescues.)
It was just going to be Harry and me. “I’ll understand if you just want to leave me up here
to die alone,” I sobbed as he helped me to sit up. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he answered, digging through
his pack for the first aid kit. “But I’ve been so mean to you.” “Yes, you have.” A big tear dropped off my chin. “I was complaining and thinking bad things about you.” “Yep.” He
examined my leg, looking quite concerned when he saw the break. “I wanted to throw my water bottle at you.” Harry winced, rubbing the back of his head.
A smile tried to sneak its way past his mouth, but he stopped it before
any damage was done. “Gabby, my darling, you and I are going to get you safely
off this mountain, so just shut up and let me figure out the best way to help
you.” My dear Harry was as good as his word.
I had my nice rest right there on the mountain path while he fashioned a
splint and a crutch out of a tree fallen nearby.
He wrapped my leg with the splint as best as he could and helped me to
stand. Goodness gracious, was it hard to stand.
I was dizzy, a bit nauseous and very
unsteady. But with a little help from me and the crutch, and a lot
of help from my dear Harry, we were able to inch our way back down the path to
our base camp. He even carried me
when I couldn’t go any farther. Those
four miles were the longest in my life. Although I had the best of care once we returned to our
town, and my leg healed well, occasionally, on a cold winter night or after
working too hard, my leg still pains me and reminds me of what happened that
day. Now, Mr. Riverside, you wrote to tell me not of a broken
leg, but of a broken soul. As
wonderful as my dear Harry was (and we were married for 52 ½ years!), even he
couldn’t help heal a broken soul. But
God can. Like my Harry, God is
right there with you on the path, bearing your anger and distress and loving you
through it all. If you’ll let
Him, He’ll be happy to bind up your soul and give you a shoulder to lean on as
you begin to walk again in the way you should go.
Yes, you’ll feel a bit unsteady as you stand.
Yes, you’ll wonder if you can make it all the way.
But, God won’t let you fall. He’ll
even carry you when you can’t go any farther.
Lean into Him. It’s supposed to be all about Him, anyway, right? Sincerely sincere, ã2002, ninetyandnine.com -------- Gabrigail VanBurden has been offering advice for longer than most of you have been alive. Email your practical Apostolic life questions to Gabby@ninetyandnine.com and be prepared for some straight answers!
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