A funny thing happened on my way to a funeral.
As I prepared to pull out of my driveway to make the four-hour round trip to Kentucky, I realized I had forgotten to pack a water. I put the car in park, kicked off my heels and raced through the garage toward the door.
My left foot suddenly connected with a two-by-four concealed under a tarp. I stumbled into the house before the pain hit, then dropped to my knees on the kitchen floor. My vison blurred and I thought I might vomit. As I whimpered over my surely broken toe, practicing excuses for why I would no longer attend a good friend’s father’s service, my older daughter walked in, assessed the situation and said, “Now you know how I feel every time I drop a rifle on my foot.” She’s in color guard and frequently sustains injuries to her extremities, but still, where’s the compassion? “Get up, mom. You’ll be fine.”
She prepared an ice bag, fed me two Aleve and then hustled me back out to the car. “Mom, you have to go. It’s important.” Despite the pain, I realized she was right. I had to go. The student had become the master. Proud parenting moment!.
I made it to Louisville, shoved my blissfully numb foot into a 3-inch heel and hobbled my way through a one-hour calling. True, when I stopped by my parents’ afterward and removed my now blood-filled shoe, my toe was a disturbing shade of purple and was no longer numb. But I was so thankful that my daughter had the wherewithal to understand that I needed to be there for my friend.
Life can be funny like that, right? Peace out.