As Paul says every week at the end of his sermon and before the blessing, “We never know what the next seven days will bring.”

Today marks a hundred days since my first surgery for what should have been a routine hip replacement. In the grand scheme of things, not really all that long. Never-the-less, I have counted them down and looked forward to today since March 16 with both anticipation and anxiety. “It looks good,” my surgeon said at today’s appointment.” And so today I can move forwards (or backwards depending on your perspective) to my normal life. But so I don’t forget,  I wanted to record the story and my take-away.

The first surgery went well, the physical therapist and everyone else marveled at how well I was doing, how I was ahead of schedule in the rehab, and I was on way back to my old life – minus the hip pain that had plagued me for years. All was well. Until it wasn’t. A few days before my six weeks check up with the surgeon where I fully expected her to discharge me, I noticed a pain in my thigh. I mentioned it to her during my appointment, almost as an afterthought. Her brow furrowed, her smile faded and she asked me dozens of questions and then, “We need to xray.” That xray revealed what she feared – the bone was not growing in around the stem that went down into my femur and the stem had shifted. In all of her years of surgery and out of the hundreds of patients she had treated, she had had only  two cases where this had happened. I was the third. That appointment was on May 6th. By the 7th I was in serious pain and by the 11th I was back in surgery to replace the stem. We had to start over, only this time I would have to stay off the leg for six weeks, using either a walker or a wheelchair.

We never know what the next seven (or one hundred) days will bring. For me it has brought countless acts of kindness.

Visits, cards, care packages, texts, emails, FaceTime  and phone calls from my family, always reminding me that I was loved, thought of, and cared for.

Offerings of well wishes left on our doorstep: a basket of muffins, a meal, balloons, flowers, home-made gingersnaps.

Old friends who brought quiche and fresh fruit on a Wednesday morning and stayed to visit.

A 20 year old girl and former student who came to sit me with me one afternoon so that Paul could go to work.

Work colleagues who stepped in at a moment’s notice to cover for me.

Chocolate covered strawberries.

People who sent gift cards to restaurants or showed up with Chinese food for lunch.

A friend who made me a necklace and sent it with a card which read– “Nothing says ‘Happy New Hip’ like jewelry.”

The anonymous Amazon shopper who sent me books through the mail.

Two sisters who showed up with a chocolate chess pie.

The flowers which showed up on just the right day.

A daughter who used some of her precious days off work to come and stay with me after both surgeries.

The texts and cards and messages  that made me feel connected and cared for.

Nurses who cared for me so well both in the hospital and at home.

A physical therapist who came to my house three times a week and prayed for me more often than that.

And of course, always, always, always there was Paul: my companion, my chauffer, my meal provider (no, he didn’t cook –  though under supervision he learned to make a mean egg salad sandwich ), my courier, my house cleaner, my gardener, my launderer, my encourager, my wheelchair pusher, my “whatever you need, I am here for you.” These 100 days have been a reminder that vows matter. “For better or worse, “ he promised. “ In sickness and in health.” But to do it with such grace and kindness and generosity. . .

But perhaps most unexpected and because of that the most lovely were the kindnesses of strangers. The old man who insists I take his place on the bench as we wait to get seated in a restaurant. The teenage boy with baggy shorts looking up from his phone to see me inching  my way toward a door and turns back to open it for me or the seven year old girl who lets go of her mother’s hand to do the same. Everywhere I went, whether with the walker or the wheelchair, it seemed to me that people were quick to notice that I was struggling and offered their assistance cheerfully, eagerly, and with compassion not pity. Some people credit Philo of Alexandria, others say it was someone else, but whoever said it, we all need to tattoo it on our forehead: “Be kind. Everyone you meet is fighting a great battle.” My battle in the last three months has not been great – it has been an inconvenience and I want to make this point clearly and loudly. I cannot begin to understand the battle that the physically disabled face in their battle to live, work, and function in an environment where everything is a challenge. Nor can I begin to understand the life of those living with terminal, chronic or debilitating illness or pain.  I  certainly don’t understand what it is like to fear for my health or safety or dignity because of the color of my skin.  These are truly “great battles”.  And the truth is, like most of us, I don’t know how to help or what to say to those who live on these battle fronts. But this is my point – my “battle” was visible to those around me and, without exception, their response was kindness. And it makes me want to treat everyone I meet like that (even if it’s just giving up a seat or opening a door or bringing muffins) because I don’t know what battle they’re fighting that is not so visible. But I can be sure that just because they’re not using a walker doesn’t mean they don’t need help – or kindness.