An Altercation With A Ladder

I was catching the last warm days of the year washing windows. To reach the high ones, I pulled out my recently purchased 35 pounds, MegaLite+ ladder with an 18-foot reach. I set it up against the wall and noted it was set 10 inches too high. There’s these two knobs on the side that you pull out to shorten the extension. “Yeah, let’s try that…”

Something in the back of my head said what I was about to do was not wise, but I ignored that voice for a moment. In the next second, the full weight of the extended ladder was released and came crashing down on the arch of my foot. The slamming pain confirmed, “That was stupid,” followed by, “How bad was I hurt?”

I can be stupid, but also stubborn. I grimaced up the ladder to finish the windows, and then climbed on the garage roof to complete several more. When I hobbled inside, the shock had worn off and the pain had increased. Time to get help. I opened up Google.

Basic biology said I was dealing with the metatarsals — but were they broken or bruised? And if fractured, how long to heal? The answer on my screen stopped my world: 6–8 weeks! And 4–6 months to fully recover. Four months???

Now came the rush of thoughts: “I have work to do. Lots of work. Outside work. What if these projects aren’t done before winter sets in? Can Yvonne care for the house without me? And what if Yvonne has to care for me too?”

In that moment I became markedly more empathetic for all my friends who are experiencing ‘real’ limitations: stage 2 diabetes, knee replacements, kidney dialysis, heart surgery, cancer treatment. How are they coping? What plans and opportunities have they put on hold? How do they view tomorrow?

A metatarsal is just one body part — a pretty small one at that. And yet, it was about to halt or hamper most of my life plans. How many of my other 100+ functioning body parts, which, I assume, will be operating tomorrow, can fail overnight? The human body is so fragile.

And what about the world my flesh and bones live in? Loss of employment, market downturns, hurricanes, car accidents, infrastructure collapses, acts of violence, happen regularly, seemingly randomly — usually unexpectedly, and often unpreventable. And yet when things fail, in our bodies, or in the world around us, the sentiment frequently seems to be: “That shouldn’t have happened! We need an investigation, a solution, so this never happens again.”

I’m all for improving and learning from our mistakes. But shouldn’t the primary response be a humbling of our souls, an awareness of our limits, an affirmation that we are not God? Do we believe, even in a prosperous culture, that we can control nature, the activity of nations, the myriad of seemingly random forces and activities at all times and in all places? I wasn’t competent enough to avoid self-harm from a ladder.

We fight a futile battle when we believe we can govern the universe. Conversely, there is a rest that comes when we entrust our lives to God, who upholds all things.

And that’s what I focused on: “Lord, you have ordained the days of my life. You are not here to execute the life I desire, rather, I am here to live faithful to You in the life you have deemed right for me. If that is four months off my foot, I trust you will work that out for good too. Whether I see the good or not, help me turn to you for help, trust you moment by moment, and seek to continue to be faithful to your ways and your word.”

The following day, grateful for the access to and availability of many skilled medical practitioners, a scan showed no fractures, only a major contusion. The prognosis at that moment changed from several months of inactivity to two weeks of soreness with no concerns about putting weight on the foot.

I stopped to give thanks so many times that day. I would rather not take my feet, or any working part, for granted. And then I took time to visit someone in the hospital. It seemed the proper progression: Awareness > humility > thanksgiving > active compassion. Maybe next time I can get there without an altercation with a ladder.