I broke my hand last Sunday. How? I was jumping and dancing to We Stand during children’s ministry, getting an older kid who’s too old for CM involved in worship, when I came down and hit my hand on a foosball table. I knew right away that something had happened. My hand went numb, as did my wrist, and the bottom part of my arm right up to the bottom of the tattoo on my left forearm. I played it cool, of course, and kept jumping with the student, trying not to grimace from the pain. I didn’t do anything with my hand until that afternoon, when I started applying mass quantities of Icy Hot to it. That did nothing. It was very swollen when I went to sleep, but I thought it would probably feel better by morning.
After I got up, I found that my hand was worse off. The injured spot was swollen to twice its normal size. I tried being cool with it still, but after changing Jakob, I realized I was not as cool as I was pretending to be. I debated going to the doctor, but I already knew it was broken, where it was broken, and what they would do for it. So, I had to wake Sarah up. I had her tape and wrap my hand up really well. When she finished, I went to pull my hand away, but she stopped it gently, pulled it toward her face, and kissed me softly on the back of the hand. She told me she was sad, because she was praying it would be better by morning. For the last week, she has put up with my being a wimp, never complaining about my inability to do some things around our place one handed, including changing Jakob, and she has wrapped my hand up for me at least twice a day.
We’ve been married for nine years today, and she still cares enough about me to kiss my hand, to be sad about my pain, and to take care of me when I am in or out of need. I love her.
I love you, Sarah. Happy anniversary. Thank you for being my wife.
Also, happy birthday, Grandpa, and happy spiritual birthday to me.