In this world, there are obstacles that just seem to bring a person down. For my daughter and self, this nemesis comes in the form of stairs. Not just any staircase, but the steep, narrow building blocks to the upper floor in my father's house. Whether the fall is up, or down, the pain factor appears to be the same. Given learned this first hand last weekend while she "patiently" waited for me to finish my project of lessening the disaster that was my hair and skin.
Given spent a good majority of Saturday afternoon either playing in the backyard or climbing up and down the stairs. I didn't worry much about the stairs because of her incredible balance and strength (the balance cannot be accredited to me). Even if she did lose a step, I was ignorantly sure she would catch herself in time to avoid injury, as she does on everything else she climbs. Mother's instinct proved to be wrong, as I heard my baby thump-thump-the-thump-thump-clank-a-ti-thump down the stairs and land on the tile below. I only caught the last few rolls with my eyes and ran down to grab her in my arms and make sure there was no major damage. Her head and neck twisted as I watched and I thought she may have broken an arm, too. Thankfully she only had a bruised foot, but her fall triggered a memory about her life. Given's existence was the result of these stairs and I was reminded of that fact on the day she was born.
In 2003, I moved in with my father and step-mother, Larry and Patricia. My health was the main reason to move in. The manifestations of porphyria were ruling my life. I had no control over my body's movements, I was a menopausal 26 year old and my mind could never grasp hope because the disease cloaked my dreams with darkness. I knew I would never have children and if I did somehow become pregnant, there was a good chance I would not survive. I moved in with the expectation to die as an aspiration, not despair. I drank to excess, popped every pill I found and lost the desire to be on top in the world. I was done. There was nothing left that I could see was worth such energy.
Within a couple months of living with the family, I had the brilliant idea to carry multiple dishes from my room upstairs, down to the kitchen. Not having any waitress experience, nor should I ever even try, I barely took two steps before I lost my footing, threw the dishes over the banister and body surfed down to the tiled landing pad. Before I could yell for help, I needed to figure out that breathing thing that is supposed to be natural at all times. Luckily my fall was the equivalent to a small earthquake. Dad, Pat and my niece rushed over, scared I had suffered a seizure. Dad began to check for injuries, Pat immediately went in to prayer and Trinity, at 4 years old, placed her hands on her hips and scolded, "Auntie Carrie. You shouldn't carry so many things at once." If I could breathe, I probably would have laughed.
Patricia's prayer was not an ordinary plea for all to be well in my body, but a centralized prayer done in tongues. I could barely wrap my head around the pain I felt, but when her hands went from my head, directly down to my belly, I immediately thought, "Uh, hello! Let's concentrate on the parts that are mangled. Shall we?" God, however, had different plans and instructed her to pray over my womb. Pat had no idea why she was focusing on this area, but her obedience would prove not to be in vain. Within a week after my fall, I received a visitor I had not seen in years and she continued to visit once a month until I had her friends, Ovary 1, Ovary 2 and Uterryus, removed from the premises. At the time, this miracle was embraced as an exit out of menopause, but had no idea they were needed in order for my body to prepare for a child of my own in the future.
I rarely go up those stairs now when I visit, but when I do, I climb them with caution and respect. Given's life is more than just a miracle, or result of marital obligation (another story), but a reminder that following His direction will result in His blessings, at just the right time.
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