long awaited pot of gold

I'm a wimp. I tweaked my back the other day and have been completely laid out since. And though it hurts, even I know it's not real pain. But because this body is so unaccustomed to any sort of trauma, big or small, it goes into 'duck and cover' mode over the smallest of things. So much so that I really did nothing yesterday... no blog writing, no dishes, not even a shower. I was flat out-of-commission.

Honestly (and I'm knocking on faux wood while saying this) I've had minimal exposure to true physical pain and I believe this is primarily the reason I'm so wimpy. The biggest injury I've ever had happened when I was nine. At the time I was in gymnastics. It was the day before our Meet and I was practicing my routine in my girlfriend's front yard. My younger brother was there too. Though, reflecting back, I can't for the life of me figure out why he was there. We despised one another until we were well into our early twenties so the fact that we were engaged in voluntary contact is even now a bit baffling to me. The only thing I can surmise is he had a crush on my friend and there was some sort of parasitic loitering going on.

In typical punk-younger-brother fashion though he couldn't resist any opportunity to bring me misery, and so while I was innocently practicing my routine, he dared me to do a one-handed cartwheel.

I imagine our banter went something like this.

Cue mocking snickering.

My brother: "You suck. That routine is really stupid."

Me: "Shut up. Obviously you're just jealous because I'm good at my routine." This here also would have been a good time to ask "Why are you EVEN HERE?"

Him: "You're not good. I'll bet you can't even do a one-hand cartwheel."

Now, here's where it would have been wise for me to take better stock of my situation.

I was a smart girl. I had a quick wit and large arsenal of barbed insults and likely could have claimed victory in any verbal showdown. But what I could not do was a one-handed cartwheel. And truth be told, because I'm all grown up now and can admit this, my two-handed cartwheel really did suck.

But oh how those words burrrnnned me. In all honestly, the fact that this twerpy creature lived and breathed and walked the same earth as me burned me even more but short of doing something that would require the judicial system to deliberate the question "Do we try her as a child or an adult" there was nothing I could do about that.

So because I was sweet and innocent and not at all the murderous type my only recourse to get him to shut his piehole was to prove him wrong.

When you really suck at doing things, like hurling your body through the air for instance, you really should pause first. Catch your breath, evaluate your surroundings, and proceed with caution. In my case, lots of caution. But propelled by years of fraternal injustices, with all the 9-year-old indignation I could muster, I launched my body into furious motion.

And really, I think things would have turned out fine if I had just bothered to look down first. Where I would have seen the GIANT TREE ROOT right in front of me. I have no doubt, looking back, that my brother patiently waited, biding his time like a calculating venomous viper, until I was standing just there over that root. And then he pounced.

I never even got vertical. I landed in a crumpled heap just beneath the tree. Pain shot through my arm like fire and I knew instantly something was terribly wrong. But my brother, gloating like the king of eight-year-old miscreants, was rolling on the ground, legs flying about in malicious satisfaction, laughing, "You suuuuuck!" Really the only thing that could have given him greater enjoyment was the knowledge that I had also broken a bone in my hand. And there was no way he was ever going to know that.

I got up. Called him something that would probably still get me grounded today. And went home.

At home that night my hand swelled to the size of a hot air balloon but I wasn't making a peep. (And while I'm on this subject, I want to say I think there was some clear parental neglect going on here. I mean, seriously, aren't parents supposed to intuitively know when you've cracked something on the inside? I walked around for 24 hours with something broken that God created whole, and after my brother, I fully blame my parents for not noticing, for not stepping in and saving me while I battled to preserve whatever 9-year old dignity I had left. This, coincidentally, also reminds me of that Christmas where all I got was one ugly pink and cream Victorian sweater. That too was neglect and to my mom who might be reading this YES THERE WAS TOO A CHRISTMAS WHERE WE ONLY GOT ONE GIFT. And mine was ugly.)

Anyway the school nurse came to my aid the next day and promptly sent me back home to be transported by my parents to the doctors for casting.

And that right there, until I tweaked my back the other day, ended my experience with injury. It did not unfortunately end my experience with twerpy brothers. But God is gracious and I think even he knew my affliction, the burden I carried through childhood, was too much to bear. So just like God gave Noah the rainbow, promising to never be quite that mean again, God too has given me my very own rainbow of sorts. Because from that twerpy little demon has sprung three of the most beautiful things I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.

It's like God is saying,

I'm sorry

No, I'm really sorry

And, again, I'm sorry. Really.

And you know what God? As mean as it was, you have more than made up for it. If I had known way-back-then that enduring this:

would get me this:

I would have said, bring it on.

But just so we're clear, if an apparition of my little brother appeared to me today, heckling me with that same "you suuuuck" jeer; sadly,the most I could hope for is that this time I would at least remember to look down.

And if not, well, there we would have my second real injury.