Our daughter had broken her arm. It happens. It’s an ordinary, everyday thing for us to ride to the emergency room (where we spent enough hours to learn the little-known fact that ER is actually now ED because it’s a whole department, not just a room). With all the color gone from her little 9-year-old face, I was pretty sure my own natural color was draining away, too. And really, does her arm have to hang in that lopsided position? It’s not natural. I didn’t realize a broken arm bled just a little at the point of impact. Was that a bad thing?
All of these thoughts and a thousand more raced through my brain as we hurried to the Emergency Department twenty-five minutes away. Interspersed between the ping-ping sound of text messages going to and from my phone. “She’s broken her arm. Please pray.” Also my own ongoing prayers– sometimes words specific to our current situation, but mostly a lot of Our Fathers and the Jesus Prayer. I’ve never been more thankful for rote prayers in my life.
Yeah, we were a little shaken up. I know kids break their arms all the time, but this was my kid and the situation that evening grew quickly out of my control.
So, two days later, when she was markedly improved, I determined to do something I could control...
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