With great joy, we celebrate the first anniversary of the birth of my son, Josiah, whose name means 'Jehova has healed.' He joins his older brothers in our crazy chaotic household, which will only be more so when starts walking, running, and being even louder than he already is.
Meanwhile, this pops up, or should I say out?
It was a few hours after the accident. I had finally been released from the confines of the backboard. One of the X-rays, from a few hours before, showed at least one small piece of glass in my wrist. As I sat, numbly processing loss, an ER doctor probed the wound with his tweezers, searching for the shard(s) so clearly evident on the X-ray.
After what seemed like forever, he gave up and told me any small piece of glass left in my wrist would eventually find its way to the surface. It took 6 years, 8 months, and 12 days, almost to the minute of the accident, for this piece of glass to finally make it's way out.
The original scar will heal, again. The path the glass traveled, both in and out, will be different than the surrounding tissue for the rest of my earthly time. It occurs to me that our lives are a little bit like scars. Easily, and often deeply, affected by other people. Never to be the same as before we let them in, or after they've gone.
