In two days, I move into my own apartment. It’s a three-bedroom unit, to accommodate two teenagers of different sexes when they’re staying with me, on the ground floor, in a complex with an 11-acre lake, two swimming pools, a hot tub, a sauna, a couple playgrounds, tennis courts, volleyball courts, and a bunch of other cool amenities. And it’s within walking distance of The Funnel Cake Factory. My daughter is thrilled.
This is big for me. I lived at home when I went to college, and when I moved out, it was into an apartment with my fiancé for six weeks until we married. I spent a brief six months in my own place between 1998 and 1999, but other than that, I’ve always lived with someone who was pledged to take care of me. So now… I’m moving, and I’m going to take care of myself. I know I can – I have no doubts on this score. I am strong (and stubborn) and smart and capable and independent.
But whenever something comes up that I have no doubts about, God always finds a way to throw a wrench into it. God’s funny that way, and sometimes I think God gets a great laugh out of it. This time, 24 days after I move into my own place to be strong and independent, I’m having shoulder surgery. I’ll spend two weeks in a sling, pretty much helpless, and will have to depend on the love and kindness of people I know, people I barely know, and people I’ve barely met to help me take care of myself. For those first couple weeks, I don’t know how I’ll dress myself, how I’ll shower, how I’ll feed myself. My left hand is almost useless, and I know it will be getting quite a workout! Even after that, once I’m allowed to start using my right arm again, I know there are a lot of things that will still be hard – changing the sheets on the bed, doing my laundry, lifting pans full of cooking food from the stove.
So in the midst of reveling in my newfound strength and independence, God will be teaching me how to let others take care of me. How ironic is that? You’re such a kidder, God. Thank you.