Roller Skating

A Memory from 2016

There are blood and other bodily fluids mentioned here, just in case that’s not your thing.

Here I am in an orange shirt that fits uncomfortably close to my skin, skinny jeans and roller blades. And covered in vomit.

A small crowd has gathered around me and my friend’s mom is pouring water over my hand, trying to flush the vomit from my wound.

“Here, we need to keep this as clean as possible.”

I look down at the metal rhinestone studded cross sticking out of my hand and vomit a little bit more.

Standing in front of the SBC van ready to take us to church camp in Alabama. This the exact shirt I was wearing at skating rink just a few months before.

I had been roller skating alongside my friend when my knees began to wobble. I fell for probably the fifteenth time that day, flat onto my palms. Kids had been falling all morning. It was the annual Homeschool Group get-together at the skating rink in Brookhaven. With a year between each skating session, no one was very good at it.

I got up, smiling, looking at my curly-haired friend. My palms stung.

Her mouth dropped open.

I look down at my right hand, an ache burying itself deep in my bones. There, like a miniature crucifixion scene, was the cross charm from my bracelet.

I pulled at it weakly, but its scalloped edge was caught in my flesh.

“I’m going to get your mom!” she raced away, suddenly steady on her wheels.

I walked toward the benches with my skates still strapped on. I held my palm out. There was no blood. Just a silver cross sticking out of my hand.

If I was a vampire, it would have killed me.

Soon there was a crowd of homeschool moms and curious children.

“Have I ever told you I have a fear of getting stabbed?” I asked my friend. It was true. I did. I had thought about it nearly every second of the day since July 25^th. The image, the possibility that it could happen was burned into my brain on a loop.

Before she could answer, a mom cut in:

“Well, you’re redeemed from that honey!”

“You’ll have a sign of Jesus’s love with you forever,” added another.

I looked down at my palm, at the cross looking up at me like the nails in Jesus’ hands. Was I being crucified?

I vomited into my hand.

A month later my hand is still weak. Even though the bandages have come off and the bleeding stopped, the muscles in my hand have atrophied. I can’t lift myself into the saddle or carry chicken feed or even button my pants.

Yet, for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel the weight of anxiety lift from my shoulders. Maybe it is the terror of my vision going black or my body going into shock or maybe it is the fear that I might be having my last moments on earth at a skating rink.

Or maybe it’s what everyone keeps saying – Jesus did this to stop my anxiety. Being stabbed by a cross is my own personal miracle.