I stared at my right foot. The angle was all wrong. For the first time when my brain told my ankle to move it remained in place as if it hadn’t “heard” the internal command. I realized the connection was  broken and so was the ankle.

I slid myself out of the way of incoming human traffic and realized I was sitting in a large puddle of water and grit. The beautiful restaurant floor was not only shiny…the standing water made it an accident waiting to happen.

It happened to me.

Instinct told me to hold still until medical help arrived. Moving me without doing more damage wasn’t an option.  An ambulance was dispatched.

A young paramedic asked, “How attached are you to your boots?”

“Very,” I whispered, “but please get it off me.”

I closed my eyes as he deftly cut off half of my favorite footwear. I remembered trying this pair of Durango’s on and feeling both comfort and surprise. My feet were “at home.” I’d sort of been kidding when I mentioned I wanted a pair of boots as a souvenir from this trip. It was no joke when I took them to the cashier at Shepler’s in Austin, Texas. I loved my boots.

I wore them when we rode our motorcycle, when I went to church, out to lunch with family & friends, on dates with my husband, and at many of my speaking engagements.

(Me in my boots on a much better day!)

For the past year they’ve stood in a corner of our storeroom while I recovered physically. I hadn’t forgotten them I just couldn’t bring myself to look too closely at them.  Leaning together in the shadows they appeared undamaged even though I knew the one bore a permanent “incision.”

The other night, I intentionally went and got those boots. I carried them and a box of tissues to my favorite chair. I had not released anger or grief over the accident. It was time. My heart beat fast and I broke out in a sweat as I clutched the boots to my chest. I let go of the left one and took a long look at the right one.

It was worse than I’d thought.

They’d had to cut it from top to bottom on the inside of the boot to release my swollen ankle. I remembered the pain and the sight of my injury. Bulges in all the wrong places revealed the ankle bones weren’t where they were supposed to be. The color was all wrong. The relentless pain surged hot and violent.

 

(My boots now)

I hadn’t allowed those memories in. Now, as I held that boot, they demanded my attention and I let them have their way.

After I’d fallen, the pain hit fast and hard. I thought I might vomit and my bowels threatened to let loose. I begged God to hold both back. He did.

One memory has continued to bother me but I pushed it aside not wanting to deal with it. Another customer bent over me and explained he’d complained to the management of the danger and had asked them to get a mop…a sign…or a rug. The manager chose not to. To him, the beautiful floor was more important than safety.

His lack of concern endangered me and others.

My body stiffened and my jaw clenched as I allowed the vivid memories of the fall come forward. Anger rose, pain flared in my tummy, and I held my breath. I really did not want to continue on this walk down memory lane. I looked at my ankle; scared and swollen over a year later. I ached that night because a weather change was on its way.

A gentle shift took place in my soul as grief nudged the anger out of the way. Big hot tears cascaded over my lower lids then hung off my chin. I meant to wipe them right up but both hands were otherwise engaged…hugging the broken boot close – one arm encased inside where my foot once felt so at home.  Sobs continued their relentless march to freedom and I let the tears fall onto the leather. I felt my body shaking as it released pent up emotion. I sweat, my nose ran, and I gasped for air inbetween crying jags. (definitely not a Kodak moment!)

I admitted I was very ticked off and asked God to protect me from sinning as I expressed it. I told Him I was sad that I would never be the same - 13 pieces of metal change the way a joint works. I cried and prayed and ever faithful God listened.

In that messy hour, holding my Durangos close, my wounded heart took a tiny step toward healing.