One or two things going wrong in my week aren’t the end of the world. I can handle a few bad things. I know that every week has its allotment of issues, and I’m used to dealing with that. I can generally stay quite cheerful and look on the bright side.
But last week was an exception. It seemed like something went wrong every day. I’m not talking about little nuisances, but some pretty big things. Every day held a surprise, and they weren’t happy ones.
“If we can climb this mountain, there’s nothing we can’t overcome together!”
I remember my dad struggling to smile and look hopeful as he pointed toward a rocky mountain about 100 feet from the highway. I was 13, and my dad, my older brother, and I were driving through the scorching rocky deserts of Mexico back to the United States to take care of some business.
I had walked to the health store, ten blocks from home, to pick up some vitamins. Though I loved walking and made this trip often, something felt different that day. I had fumbled with my change and forgotten my list.
On my walk home I stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. After some minutes, I noticed people looking at me strangely. I realized I had been waiting at the crosswalk through several light changes. Then it seemed like a very long walk home.
My worst fears came upon me the day I landed in the hospital. I dreaded entering the huge, ominous health factory, where impersonal doctors would study my symptoms with a distant professional look, and nurses would appear at my bedside at the strangest hours to stick me with a thermometer, an injection, or a cup of weak coffee.
God, get me out of here!
Nine years ago, I underwent a surgery that changed my life. When I was rushed to the hospital with terrible pain in my lower right abdomen, tests revealed that a large gangrenous cyst had ruptured, requiring emergency surgery. My surgeon assured me that I would be back on my feet within two months, and I held on to his promise.
A missionary’s husband passed away at the age of 37, leaving her with seven children aged seven months to 14 years old. Her husband was in the process of emigrating from Argentina to Brazil, so she received no widow pension from either country. She lived in Foz do Iguaçu, a city in the border zone between Argentina, Paraguay, and Brazil. Her sisters offered to help raise some of her children, but she decided to keep the family together.
When I look back at the crossroads in my life—times when things seemed to have taken a wrong turn or my plans and goals were dealt a severe blow—I realize that my faith played a major role and helped me to weather the adverse circumstances and challenges.
I recently became the mother of two. There are so many new emotions, joys, and lessons that come along with welcoming an additional child into the family. The newest challenge I face is getting ready to go back to work and preparing our three-month-old baby girl for this transition. My first daughter (now almost four years old) never took to feeding from a bottle, and my second seems to be no different. Time after time, I face the same disappointment and feel terribly wasteful as I dump out the unfinished milk.