If I Hadn't Seen It for Myself...

I don't believe my seventh grade Creative Writing teacher ever gave such an assignment, but it will stretch every literary muscle I have to describe to you the scene that unfolded the other night. So, let 'r rip, Tater Chip:

I heard the crash. Well, it wasn't really a CRASH! like I would have expected. It definitely wasn't a THUD. Maybe, more like a clatter. We had just finished dinner. Scott was taking out some trash. I was carrying Mom's water into the other room for her. "C'mon in here, Helen," I had instructed her, just as I do all throughout the day. We have taken to calling her "Helen," because her memories of being "Nana" faded a long while ago, and she only occasionally remembers she is "Mom." I figure, she has always been Helen, best to go with that. Anyhoo, I'd just set her cup down and figured I'd check the front porch for my package while waiting for Mom to be seated. As I said, I heard the clatter and assumed she'd knocked over some of my books or one of my tchotchkes. "What now?" I sighed, and casually finished locking up the front door before I headed back to the kitchen. The thought of her falling had never crossed my mind. The sound didn't even come close to being that nauseating. But there she was, collapsed on the floor behind her chair which was askew and wedged -- and I do mean wedged-- between the corner of the table and ?thin air? Seriously, I have know idea how it had become wedged or, even, why. It was a physical anomaly. Then there was Mom. She was resting on her right hip. Are you with me yet? Are you thinking, "This is the beginning of the end"? 'cause I sure was. Anyone knows a broken hip for a ninety-one year old person is a harbinger of-- well, the worst. My stomach churned. She had fallen against a buffet that runs along our kitchen wall, and was pinned in front by her chair which, as I said, was pinned by the table and nothing. Lifting her so as not do further damage to her or injure the torn labrum I've been nursing for lo these many years, appeared impossible. Assessing her injuries without getting her from that location seemed equally impossible. Just at the end of the buffet is a sort of table top with a sharp corner begging to inflict some sort of bump or laceration. I checked Mom's head. All good. She was moving her legs. Even better. I squeezed as much of my body as I could between Mom and the buffet, and placing the bend of my arm under her shoulders, I began to gently take weight from her hip. No cries or yelps --from either of us-- so it was time to get her to find some traction. She was able to get her knees in front of her and her feet planted, and slowly, carefully she rose in some demented dance as I "spotted" her to ensure she remained steady. Together we walked to the sofa, and there, my story ends.

The rest is all up to you. You see, I understand how bad this could have been. I understand the mercy we received in avoiding any injury. I understand the grace shown to us by being able to get Mom up safely and having Scott nearby if I couldn't. I get it. I was there. But if you're anything like I was for a very long time, (and, on occasion, still revert to being) you have to see it, smell it, touch it --perhaps, not exactly taste it, but you have to experience it for yourself to know just who God is and what He will do. Don't feel bad, one of Jesus' disciples, Thomas, had the same issue. But Jesus didn't chastise him; He doesn't chastise us. He isn't threatened by our unbelief, He just wants our belief. He wants our eyes to be opened and our hearts to be soft. He wants us to come to Him and be saved. And when we have those moments of doubt, those moments when we're not quite sure He is with us, He wants us to cry out, "I believe, but help my unbelief!" (Mark 9:24). 

And He'll show you things you might never believe otherwise!