In Which my Ankle Resigns Without Notice

I love to hike.

I loved the idea ever since I discovered the famous novel, "The Lord of the Rings". After reading about Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee journeying across Middle Earth--well, it's something I have to do!

(And the movie--how I long for New Zealand!)

So I naturally dream of backpacking (that's where you carry all your gear on your back and venture far from roads). Something about being far from traffic, the conversation of neighbors in the "primitive camping" area, and children screaming hysterically because they can't eat the marshmallows first, attracts me.

But it's not only that. It's the silence of the woods. The wind sighing through 100 trees at the same time. And the ever-so-slightly scary feeling of being miles from any road or access to an ambulance.

I love it.

A preacher friend and I are planning a 24 mile hike along the Knobstone Trail in Southern Indiana.

And because I'll hiking with all my gear, far from a road, I want to be in the best physical shape possible. That means I have been working out--hard. Because the more agony now, the less agony on the trail, if you know what I mean.

So last week I was working out feverishly. My heart was pumping like a car engine when you floor it. My lungs were screaming, "Kill us! Just kill us now!" It was all good, proper and right.

Then the tendons in my right ankle resigned. That's right. They just quit. No notice. No severance pay. No referrals to better tendons that can replace them.

[Insert howl of raging frustration]

Because without those tendons in great shape, I can't carry gear on my back. I can't even walk, really, except to and from a sissy automobile.

Panicking, in great internal distress, I rushed to the doctor.

"My ankle will be all right before the hike, won't it?" I pleaded. "After all, I have three weeks [this in a hopeful, whiny tone]."

My doctor said, "Rest your ankle for two weeks. Keep it elevated, take ibuprofin and put it on ice."

Uh, doctor--that's not a promise that my ankle will be all right in three weeks...

And not only that, the now-mandatory rest to heal my ankle almost guarantees I will be in hyper-pathetic shape by the time the hike occurs.

(Remember the children's story about the little locomotive that puffs, "I think I can I think I can..." all the way up the hill? Now multiply that by each of the 10,000 hills on the Knobstone Trail).

I'll be wishing I was dead! Longing for death. Dreaming of it!

I can just hear myself, lying in a heap by the side of the trail--hungry wolves lurking, telling my hiking partner, "Leave me! Just leave me here! Save yourself!"

So this, I guess, is a good time to remember that God is in control. That he can heal, and it's time to trust him. So that's what I'm going to do. I know that I can make this hike with his help.

Pray for me!