She told me I’d been doing it wrong. All this time, the days folding into months, I’d been placing it in the wrong spot and at the wrong angle, therefore targeting the wrong muscles and stretching the wrong curves in my spine.

She continued telling me about the solution, how we could fix this, easily, with just a tweak here and a tweak there . . . but I couldn’t follow what she was saying. I wasn’t ready to talk about solutions. She was a hundred miles and a day ahead of me while I was still stuck at the problem.

I hesitated, mumbled a few incoherent syllables, and then let the words cascade out of my mouth like a confession.

“I feel so stupid,” I said. Tears gathered in my eyes.

“No,” she reassured me. “You’re not stupid. You’ve worked really hard.”

“But I’ve been doing it wrong. I’ve wasted all this time,” I insisted. Then, I sat there, crying in the chiropractor’s office.

I have pain that’s anchored in the lower left side of my back — a few car accidents, inflammation in the hips, and leg braces as a kid will do that to you. And so, I do everything I can think of to stop this pain and address the root strain from which it all stems.

I stretch, I rub arnica and peppermint oil, I research, I drink water, I drink teas, I pray, I supplement, and I shelve out money I do not have for the relentless rounds of chiropractic appointments, week after week after week after week.

I do everything in my power to not only heal the pain, but to prevent and alleviate the strain it will put on my body in years to come. I learn what I need to learn and do what I need to do. Strategically, I think and plan ahead, always cognizant of the possibilities that can and will come in the future of my tomorrows.

I have to heal now so that the pain doesn’t persist.
I have to stretch to be strong and keep up with my kids.
I have to fix what is broken so that it doesn’t break me.
I cannot make mistakes; I cannot waste time.

Crying in the chiropractor’s office was the first of many miraculous moments, like a seed taking root in the soil of my soul, crawling and climbing out of darkness and into the light. I began to see within myself an insecurity, not merely in regards to my abilities but more so everything to do with my capacity.

I know that I am brilliant and bright — I know that I have ideas that sparkle with innovation and ingenuity. I know that I’m a learner and a logical thinker. I know that I can solve problems, create systems, and dream up new solutions. But somewhere, somehow, a lie crept in. It’s not the first time I’ve said it aloud or whispered it under my breath. In the last year, or so, I’ve unconsciously repeated it like a mantra.

I feel so stupid, I once confessed to my friend as I told her about how I didn’t prepare for a crisis that I never even saw coming. I’m so stupid, I’ve whispered within myself as I thought through the many twists and turns of my life, pondering how I could have prevented them.

Only now am I beginning to see a trend in this train of thought: I want to fix broken things and, deeper still, I want to prevent things from breaking. And I crumble, altogether fall apart, anytime I realize I cannot fix everything . . . nor can I, in fact, prevent things from breaking, or failing, or persisting with pain.

Proclaiming, I am stupid, is a sign of faith coming out sideways, a sign that we’ve come to trust in our own limited capacity rather than God’s unlimited one. It’s a sign that we’ve lost sight of His sovereignty, the fact that He is and has always been in control.

I often ponder how Peter felt after he disowned Jesus and the rooster crowed three times. I often wonder if that moment of bitter weeping was filled with flashbacks, Peter flipping through memories in his mind like a Rolodex, thinking through the ways in which he wished he could go back in time. Would he do things differently? Would he have tried harder at preventing that whole scenario from playing out?

As I think of Peter’s guilt, I can’t help but think of God’s grace. I think of the love in Jesus’s eyes, always full of mercy for the moments — in both our sin and in our insufficiency — when we know not what we do.

I need that grace, I need it right now and I need it every day. Do you? I need the reminder to relinquish my control, to put my trust in God who holds all things — all hurt, healing, hardship, and hope — in His hands.

“Be nice to you,” said my chiropractor, handing me a tissue and then hugging me. “You’re not stupid.”

I breathed in the words until I believed them, taking hold of the truth that tells about God. I can almost hear Him say . . .

You’re not stupid. What you are is limited in your capacity to know and to solve everything. You cannot see into the future. You cannot shield yourself from every failing or fracture. You are not stupid, but you are fragile and finite. You are made from dust and to dust you will return. Trust Me, turn to Me. Look to Me, lean on Me. Focus on Me, follow Me. When life and health and love and dreams fall apart, fall on Me.

 

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