For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways; they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone. Psalm 91:11-12
Or in my case, a space heater. Except my little toe and the heater in question met head on.
I’ve stubbed toes before. It might take me a minute to regain my composure, or my foot feels tender for a few seconds. I’ve never curled up in a ball and cried like a small child in serious pain over it until Saturday night. The pain eventually faded enough so I could sleep, and in the morning it looked perfectly normal.
Sunday after church, I took my shoe off and discovered ugly red and purple colors where they shouldn’t be. Not being able to walk quite right sent up a red flag, and I expected the worst: broken bones. Even the pictures of broken toes on Google looked like my foot did yesterday.
I have always wanted to learn ballet. I want to dance for my Daddy, to bring Him glory in some small way. I just figured that out a few days ago. A broken toe would all but end that little dream.
If that’s what he wants, then that’s what he wants. I wasn’t upset; my days of arguing with God are over, because he wins. If he’s got something else in mind, he’ll point me in another direction. After this weekend, I don’t even have it in me to cry over it. Call me a defeatist, but I had simply had enough. It’s done.
The x-rays showed it all this evening.
Not a bone is broken. Not a thing out of place.
It still hurts to walk. It probably will for weeks.
But there should have been a fracture.
Someone had my foot in His hands.