Messenger

I lifted weights while my boyfriend looked on from the comfort of an overstuffed chair. While I counted reps, and he said, “14, 52, 37, 25, 103!” to confuse my count. I started laughing and the weights crashed down, pinning one of my hands between them. I yelped in surprise and pain.

Something was wrong. My boyfriend took me to the hospital. The crashing iron weights had smashed a bone in my hand. They fixed me up and put my hand in a cast.

Going to the bathroom was difficult, especially refastening my pants. Cooking was difficult. Writing was difficult. Everything seemed difficult. I felt sorry for myself.

I walked from work to the nearby glassed-in mall to have lunch at the food court since I could not prepare my own lunch. While I stood in line grousing to myself about my misfortune, a woman came to stand directly behind me in line.  She was smiling.  She had no hand.

She was cheerful.

I felt terrible.

I knew immediately she was an angel, a messenger from the universe. My hand would heal. Hers never would. If she could be cheerful, surely I could.  I smiled and felt better.  My hand healed.  But my heart healed first.

(If I posted this before, I apologize.  I couldn't find it, so here it is.)