Sidewalks, Stitches, and Fanny Packs

I went out for a jog yesterday. With me, I brought the fanny pack that still carries my front tooth.

One week and one tooth later

Ok… let’s back up a minute for context.

Last Monday, I packed my suitcase for Barnabas Foundation’s annual planned giving conference where I was scheduled to lead six – yes six – 90-minute marketing workshops. This three-day conference, one of my favorite responsibilities of the year, was the culmination of 12 months of planning, including nine months since I began the sloooooooow transition away from my role as director of marketing.

When I first told my boss that I felt called to launch out on my own, I offered (and he agreed) for me to take the lead on planning and executing this beast of an event. It seemed like a lot to dump on my replacement who, at that point, was yet to be identified.

Plus, truthfully told, I wanted to go out on a high.  I love, love, love working with our member ministries, and I also consider event planning and public speaking to be a ton of fun. It was the perfect scenario to end my 9 ½ years with Barnabas Foundation having the chance to say “goodbye” to all my coworkers and friends from afar.

But it was not to be.

Once my suitcase was packed, I went out to conquer my tri-weekly jogging routine. From there, I planned to shower and then hit the road. 

Hit the road…er, sidewalk…I did.

In an adrenaline-fueled poor decision, I decided to go an extra mile, which turned out to be my downfall. Literally.  I turned the corner to a less familiar route, stumbled on a raised portion of the sidewalk, and went straight down—directly on my face.

I was stunned, but fully aware of my surroundings and situation. I was in too much shock to feel any pain, but I knew almost immediately that part of my front grill was missing. In a sudden and bizarre flashback, I remembered my nurse friend, Sue Toepper, once saying in Caravans (which I last co-taught with her in the early 2000s), “If you ever lose a tooth, put it in your cheek or a glass of milk to preserve it.”

I didn’t have milk, and blood was pouring from my mouth, so I put it in my fanny pack instead.

Then I called my husband to come pick me up.

Then I started wailing on the sidewalk, somehow unnoticed by everyone in the vicinity. I would have gnashed my teeth, but I wasn’t sure how many remained.

Robert, who had been sound asleep when I called him, arrived in record-breaking time. Since then, he’s admitted to losing sleep from the trauma of whatever sad state he found me in, but he didn’t show that in the moment. Instead, he tenderly picked me up, gave me cold compresses to stop the bleeding, and rushed me over to urgent care. There, I received a stitch for my busted lip and a prescription for a healing ointment and mouthwash.

As the doctor tied off the stitch and pulled the paper surgical covering off my face, I declared with utmost sincerity: “I think I can still go to the conference.”

“Are you CRAZY?!” Robert asked, knowing, in fact, that I was.

“I’ll just wear a mask or something,” I replied with a lisp.

In an extremely rare spousal power play, Robert said he was putting his foot down. I would be staying home.

Thank you, God, for pairing me with someone with reason.

The Bigger Loss

Talking about my lost tooth is easy; talking about the week’s other much-bigger loss is not.

Had I gone to the conference as planned, I would have missed the opportunity to be there with my husband when his brother called him from his father’s bedside.

At approximately 3:45 a.m. on Tuesday, Danny Allen Day entered into eternity.

The pain of that loss for our family is substantial, and in a “He works all things for good” (Romans 8:28) kind of way, I’m sincerely grateful for the circumstances that kept me home. 

God works in mysterious ways. In my case, He sometimes has to take extreme measures to get me to slow down and pay attention to where He wants to lead me.

One Week Later

So yesterday, I went out for a jog.

I actually wanted to go out last Wednesday, but this week-long delay for healing was a negotiated compromise with my much more reasonable husband. (FYI, I declined the bicycle helmet he wanted me to wear.)

I’m not a natural-born runner, and I can’t foresee ever loving or thriving in it as a sport. However, I was determined to get back out there because:

a) I don’t want to be afraid.

b) I want to prove to myself that I can do hard things.

c) I want to keep moving as long as I can to prolong my health and wellness.

Following my successfully upright jog, I drove myself over to urgent care to have my stitch removed. The doc was pleasantly surprised by how my healing has progressed.

“Yeah, I wasn’t really sure what it’d all look like after the swelling went down,” he admitted with candor. Thanks…I think.

It’s amazing the difference a week can make.

A week to heal.

A week to pause.

A week to be present.

A week to mourn.

A week to realize that work can and will go on without you. 

A week to learn that if life is a highway, you should probably run on it because that’s safer than the sidewalk. 

This has been a doozy of a week, but somehow there’s been good. Not easy good. More like slow-down, pay-attention, God-is-still-working good. It’s like the gift you never asked for, but oddly, you wouldn’t trade.

This week is the broken tooth in a fanny pack.

I’ll forever carry it with me for the bumpy path ahead.