A Fishy Story

For the past few years, our daughter and family have invited us to join them for a couple of days of their vacation at a condo on a lake. It's always fun, and we usually do something special while we are there, such as going to the wildlife sanctuary or visiting the diosaur tracks in the river nearby.

This year, because I am still not as strong as I hope to be eventually, we just hung out at the condo. The condo has two decks; one is at the level of the sliding glass door, and is lovely for sitting outside and watching the moon come up.

The lower deck, down a flight of steps, has a boat slip, and plenty of space for chairs. The kids spend a lot of time there, swimming and fishing.

Jeana's husband told the kids to keep the small fish they were catching, and later they would use them for bait.

Lolly was excited about catching fish, even tiny ones, but when it came time to cut them up for bait, she got a little teary.

Since I still have trouble with stairs, Scott brought one of the little fish up to show me. As he stood over me (he was standing, I was sitting), the little fish, which we thought was dead, suddenly leaped out of his hand and went right down my cleavage.

Predictably, I squealed and started digging for the little fish, which was squirming his way right down my shirt.

Scott, Jeana, and Wick were laughing so hard they had tears in their eyes.

I finally had to go take a shower and change clothes, because I was so certain I smelled like fish.

I'm telling you, I couldn't make this stuff up!

Coincidence?

Several weeks ago, I wrote a post about memorizing scripture, and how meaningful it was to me to "hear" those words in my head during my long illness. I set it to auto-post on Monday, 17 August.

At the time, I did not know that on that day I would be back in the hospital, having a defibrillator/pacemaker implanted.

I may have mentioned here that anxiety has plagued me since the long hospitalization last winter. Just thinking about having an i.v. put in pushes me into a full-blown anxiety attack, crying, shaking, wailing...it's not pretty.

Because of this, the surgeon gave me something to take the night before, and again that morning, to "take the edge off" my anxiety.

It did not work.

When the anesthesiologist came in with the i.v. equipment, I went into full melt-down. I ended up in the fetal position, sobbing uncontrollably, with the sheet pulled up over my head. I was shaking so hard there was no way he could get a needle in a vein.

Wick finally asked everyone to leave the room, so he could talk to me. He rubbed my back and my arms, stroked my face and hair, whispered nonsense phrases, and as he talked, suddenly my voice of comfort emerged from the haze of fear, saying,

Peace. Be still. Be still and know that I am God.

He motioned the anesthesiologist back into the room, who gave me a shot of something, and in a few minutes, the i.v. was in place, and I was drifting into unconsciousness.

But that voice of comfort followed me into the darkness.


It's been more than two weeks now, and everything seems to be working fine with the pacemaker. My incision is healing. My shoulder is not so sore and painful. I am still sleeping a lot, but for me that is part of the healing process.

Was it coincidence that my post about scripture auto-posted on the very day I was having the implant? No. I think it was God's providence, a reminder that He is with us in all things.

I called upon the Lord in my distress, and He answered me.