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| Scopes from my first surgery, bone fragment the doctors removed. |
I sat down at the kitchen table with Reagan and her Dad and explained again as optimistically as I could what the doctors had told me. I was visiting the McDonald house that evening just wanting to pray over Reagan and Ryan, who were packing for their ten-day mission trip to India, although they seemed just a little bit distracted. I guess I was looking for a distraction too, from all the x-rays and MRIs and bad news.
But, the McDonalds are my family, and I couldn't keep up my tough guy face. That, and my big honky knee brace I was wearing and old-guy limp I failed to cover up might have given me away. As Reagan stuffed clothes and fruit snacks into her suitcase, I told her about my arthritis, my impending surgery, not to mention my uncertainty about my dreams of becoming an Olympic gold medalist. She must have seen how much pain I was in because she went and got her Dad, asking him to pray with us over my knee.
I'm kidding about the Olympics dream thing (I'm fine with just a silver medal), but I'm not too proud to admit how scared I was. All the professionals and orthopedic doctors were so negative, even doubting if the exploratory surgery would find a problem they could fix.
"Bone is grinding on bone," they said. "There's no cartilage left." The image that diagnosis brings to mind is just as unpleasant as the feeling I got whenever I walked, that stabbing pain, so I believed them.
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| The MRI that showed that my knee was still broken. |
We sat there around the table, Mr. McDonald with a hand on my shoulder, Reagan with a hand on my knee and Ryan with a hand on my back, in prayer. I will never forget the faith in my best friend's voice as she asked God not just to let my second surgery go well, not just that it wouldn't hurt anymore, but that my knee would be completely healed.
Completely healed. That broken knee. That worldly wound, that sentence to a life without the things I love like biking or rock climbing, that injury that made it unlikely I would ever get to go back to Nicaragua or lead an international ministry like I wanted so badly. Only through His Holy, Beautiful, Perfect name could something so worn down and broken ever be fixed. And it was in His name we prayed.
~
A week after my surgery, my mom drove me out to Dr. Wilkinson's office for the post-op check up. My head had finally cleared up from all the pain killers which I hated just about as much as the pain.
There was something different than my surgery two years ago, in which a different surgeon removed the big piece of cartilage that had broken off in a car accident I was in my sophomore year of high school.
"There's no cartilage left."
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| My leg, or what was left of it, after the second surgery. |
For some reason, I had healed so much faster than last time. Only six days after they opened me up, I was able to walk almost normally. The pain seemed like it was just from swelling. Despite all the praying I had done, I didn't let myself get optimistic. Doctors. Bad news. The two are synonymous.
Dr. Wilkinson came into my exam room smiling. At first I thought it was because I didn't get blood all over his clean tile floor when I took my bandages off. Or maybe he wanted to talk me into getting another cortisone shot even though the last one didn't do a thing. Maybe something funny was taped to his clipboard.
Then he spoke. He told me they didn't know what they would find, but they were still surprised. He told me my cartilage repaired itself and they just needed to smooth out the sharp parts that were stabbing at the joint. He told me, "Your knee is completely healed."
Completely healed.
Two years ago on my 18th birthday, a doctor told me I would be in pain for the rest of my life. A month before writing this post, a doctor told me I had arthritis, and "the knee of a sixty-five year old." This doctor just told me, "You have the knee of a high school athlete."
I can't describe the feeling I experienced at that moment. My mind flashed to all the prayers my friends and family and I had poured out, how Reagan had boldly asked God to show everyone that nothing is impossible through Him and that I would surprise all the doctors with a perfectly healthy knee.
God was there with us at the kitchen table when we prayed. God was there with me in the operating room for my surgery. God was there with me in the exam room for my post-op.
Even though I'm a sinner, even though I'm weak, even though I'm nothing without Him, even though I don't deserve it, God gave me a miracle. God did what doctors could not. God completely healed my knee.
~
Without the need for physical therapy, I've started running again just a week after my surgery and there's not a trace of joint pain. Instead of pain, I'm flowing with gratefulness, struck in awe of Mercy and Grace. Instead of a knee brace, I'm walking with the sweet embrace of Christ. I am so excited for the plan that God must have in store for me.
One thing I do know is that I will tell this story for the rest of my life, giving glory to my Father in Heaven, spreading the Word and the Gospel that can free you from any kind of pain.
Never underestimate a prayer offered in faith.
-sam
