I have been thinking about what to share with you next, and this time, instead of trying to force clarity before writing, I decided to simply begin with what has been sitting in my heart. Sometimes the most honest place to start is not with a polished idea, but with reflection — with the thoughts that surface when life slows you down just enough to notice them.
Recently, I experienced a fall at home. It wasn’t dramatic,
and it wasn’t caused by anything external. I was simply carrying too much at
once. I lost my balance, and I couldn’t recover it in time. The result was pain
in my left hip and pelvic area, and the strong suspicion that I had irritated
or possibly torn something — perhaps a labral tear. What followed was not only
physical discomfort, but an emotional response that surprised me with its
weight.
When the Setback Feels Self-Inflicted
One of the hardest parts of this experience was not the pain
itself, but the realization that I felt responsible for it. I wasn’t pushed. I
didn’t trip over something unexpected. I made a decision to carry more than I
should have, and I paid the price for it.
That made this setback feel different.
There is something uniquely discouraging about suffering
that feels self-inflicted. It carries an added layer of frustration — the
quiet accusation of “You should have known better.” I found myself replaying
the moment in my mind, wishing I had slowed down, taken two trips instead of
one, or asked for help.
And so, in addition to physical healing, I had to work
through the emotional weight of blame.
The Bible tells us,
Psalm 37:23 “The steps of a good man are ordered
by the LORD: and he delighteth in his way.”
But in moments like this, it can be hard to reconcile that
truth with what feels like our own misstep.
Learning to Pause and Listen Again
Because of the pain, I stopped doing certain exercises. I
didn’t stop moving altogether, but I became more careful, more intentional, and
more aware of my body. Over time, the pain did begin to ease. I am not 100%
healed yet, but I am a lot better than I was (and fully resumed my activities).
That season of slowing down forced me to listen — not just
to my body, but to what God might be teaching me in the pause. Awareness is
not always comfortable, but it is often necessary. I had to admit that
pushing through everything is not always wisdom, and that rest, restraint, and
adaptation are sometimes acts of obedience rather than weakness.
Discovering What I Didn’t Know I Needed
During this time, being more conscious of my physical
limitations and my need for stability, I became aware of a class at my local
gym that I hadn’t known about before. I visited one day, observed it, and after
some thought, decided to join.
The class includes movements and exercises I would not
normally choose for myself — balance work, stability training, and intentional
strengthening of muscles that support confidence in movement. In many ways, it
felt less like a typical workout and more like therapy to me.
It challenged me in ways that were unfamiliar but
necessary.
Looking back, I can see that had I not fallen, had I not
been forced to reassess my physical condition, I might never have noticed this
class at all.
A Face From the Past
One of the most unexpected moments came when I realized who
the instructor of the class was.
When I was in high school, I was part of the archery team.
We practiced for competitions, and one of the instructors was this same woman.
She knew me then — when I was about eighteen years old — long before life,
injury, and time had reshaped my body and my story.
Now, here we were again, twenty-five years later, crossing
paths in a completely different season of life.
It was humbling. A little amusing. And quietly meaningful.
God has a way of reconnecting us with people from our past,
not to return us to who we were, but to show us how far we have come — and how
He has been present in every chapter.
Wrestling With Responsibility
Despite all of this, I still wrestled with the fact that the
fall had been my fault. That internal dialogue didn’t disappear overnight. I
felt upset that I had created another obstacle for myself, another hurdle in a
life already marked by recovery and limitation.
Then, during a sermon, the preacher said something that
stopped me in my tracks.
He spoke about moments when we ask God, “Why did this
happen? Why am I dealing with this?” And then he shared a simple but profound
truth:
God said, “I don’t have accidents. I have plans.”
That sentence settled into my spirit.
Seeing Through a Different Lens
What I saw as a self-inflicted setback, God saw through a
different lens entirely. I may not know all that His plan includes, but I am
learning that even when our choices contribute to difficulty, God is not
limited by our mistakes.
Scripture reminds us,
Romans 8:28 “And we know that all things work
together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according
to his purpose.”
“All things” does not exclude our misjudgments. It does not
exclude our missteps. It does not exclude moments when we wish we had done
things differently.
Faithfulness Without Immediate Results
I have only been attending this class for a couple of
months. I cannot point to dramatic changes or grand results. But the instructor
has mentioned noticing improvement in my balance, and that encouragement
matters more than I might have expected.
I plan to continue attending — not because I can already see
the full benefit, but because I trust the process. I believe it cannot hurt. It
can only help.
Faith often looks like continuing to show up before we see
the outcome.
Trusting the Plan I Cannot Yet See
I didn’t plan the fall.
I didn’t plan the pain.
I didn’t plan the class.
I didn’t plan the reunion.
But God did not waste any of it.
Jeremiah 29:11 “For I know the thoughts that I
think toward you, saith the LORD, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give
you an expected end.”
When “Little” Still Produces Fruit
As I have been attending this class and paying closer
attention to my body, I have been reminded of something the apostle Paul wrote
— a passage I have read many times before, but one that feels newly personal in
this season.
1 Timothy 4:8 “For
bodily exercise profiteth little: but godliness is profitable unto all things,
having promise of the life that now is, and of that which is to come.”
Paul does not say that bodily exercise profits nothing.
He says it profits little. And that distinction matters.
Anyone who has ever exercised consistently knows that
movement produces results. Muscles respond. Balance improves. Strength
increases. Confidence grows. Even when progress feels slow, persistence
always leaves evidence behind. You can feel it. You can measure it. You can
tell when something is changing.
And yet, Paul tells us that even those tangible, visible
gains — the kind we can see and feel — are small when compared to the profit of
godliness.
That stopped me.
Because if something as “little” as physical exercise still
produces noticeable progress when done faithfully, how much more would
consistent, diligent time in God’s Word produce lasting fruit?
If showing up regularly to strengthen muscles yields
improvement, what might happen if we applied that same discipline to Scripture?
If we approached the Bible not casually or sporadically, but with intention,
patience, and persistence?
Paul reminds us that godliness carries promise not only for
this life, but for eternity. The gains may not always be immediately visible,
but they are far greater. They shape the heart. They steady the mind. They
strengthen faith in ways no physical exercise ever could.
This realization convicted and encouraged me at the same
time. It reminded me that growth — whether physical or spiritual — does not
come from intensity alone, but from consistency. And while my body may show
improvement over time through exercise, it is my soul that requires even
greater care, attention, and discipline.
If I am willing to trust the process with my body, I must
also be willing to trust the process with my faith.
What felt like an interruption may have been an
invitation. What felt like a setback may have been direction. And what I
once labeled an accident, I am learning to trust as part of a plan — one
still unfolding, still healing, and still held in His hands.
