From the Old French desaise derives our term for illness or lack of ease.
Five years ago, I had a medical prognosis that had me involved towards surgery. I had an aggressive tumor in my lower jaw. Benign as it was, its nomenclature was hideous.
In one of my chats, a doctor friend confessed that medical jargon is nothing more but a handle on things that we all grope for ... it is just a name attached to all these mysterious malady.
Prior to my 12 hour surgery, I was given three honest scenarios. Since my lower jaw will be resected and replaced by my right fibula bone, I was to prepare for three unsettling possibilities:
I may not be able to speak as clearly.
I should practice smiling with my eyes.
I may have challenged difficulty to run.
Disease has a way to our inner sanctum. It pushes us right towards a hole. For a season, I believed its darkness instead of trusting the PHYSICIAN who names all things by fiat.
It is merely by grace that I was granted mercy to drop the tag and turn to Christ for help.
I now speak clearly.
I now smile wide.
I now run fast.
