Three years ago today, I was in hospital, recovering from surgery for four abdominal abcesses, and expecting to go home by the weekend.
Little did I know that I was just beginning a two-month marathon stay in hospital.
And another surgery.
And kidney failure from a bad reaction to the contrast dye.
And a diagnosis of congestive heart failure, with a heart four times normal, and a projected demise within 10 months, if nothing changed, or I didn't get a heart transplant.
And losing about a pound a day, because I couldn't eat much, and couldn't keep down what little I ate.
And four months of physical therapy.
And having to take disability retirement, or being in a wheelchair and then a walker and now a cane.
But I also didn't anticipate the outpouring of prayers and love from family, friends, friends of friends, and churches and people I had never met.
Or the constant comfort of Bible verses memorized in childhood and teen-age years, speaking of the love and care of God the Father.
Or the way our marriage relationship knit ever closer.
Or the tremendous sacrificial care I would receive from our children and grandchildren.
Or the strong unwavering sense that God kept me here for a purpose, even though I am still not sure what that purpose is.
God is good, all the time.