Psalm 51:8

Let me hear joy and gladness;
let the bones you have crushed rejoice.

I’ve worked in many medical settings, and have seen lots of illnesses and injuries over 30+ years of doctoring.  Despite all that experience, I really don’t do well with badly broken bones.  Basic wrists and fingers and ankles are no problem but open compound and comminuted fractures (i.e. “crushed bones”) are downright terrifying.  It appears to me they can never be pieced back together.   Even looking at the xrays makes me cringe.  I avoided doing a surgical orthopedic rotation during my training because I knew I’d have issues with the saws and the smells involved in fixing bad fractures.  And witnessing the pain is unforgettable.

Crush injuries hurt– there are few things that hurt more. It is very difficult to imagine those injured bones (or their owner) rejoicing about anything.   This psalm makes explicit the extreme pain David was experiencing in his guilt and separation from God.    To realize such profound relief from that pain must have been miraculous, and well worth rejoicing.

Two years ago on April 1,  my 87 year old mother shattered her lower femur trying to stand up after getting down on her hands and knees to retrieve a pill that had dropped to the floor and rolled under her desk.  The pain was overwhelming until the paramedics managed to immobilize her leg in an air cast for transport to the ER.  As long as her leg wasn’t moved, she was quite comfortable– in fact overjoyed to see me in the middle of a workday when I arrived at the hospital.  She was so chatty that when she was asked by the ER doctor “how did this happen?” she launched into a long description of just how she had dropped the pill, where it had rolled, and what pill it was, what color it was, why she was taking it, etc etc.  I started to get antsy, knowing how busy he was and said, with just a *wee bit* of irritation, “Mom, he doesn’t need to know all that.  Just tell him what happened when you tried to stand up.”   That did it.  Now it wasn’t just her leg that hurt, it was her feelings too, including her own sense of responsibility for what had happened, and the tears started to flow.  The ER doc shot me a sideways glance that clearly said “now look what you’ve done” and then took my Mom’s hand tenderly,  looking her straight in the eye and said, “That’s all right, these things happen despite our best intentions—you go right ahead and tell me the whole story, right from the beginning…”

So she did, completely reaffirmed and feeling absolved of her guilt that she had somehow done this to herself.   Having been shown compassion and a healing grace from a total stranger, she never really complained about the pain in her leg again.  Then it was my turn to feel guilty.

Although her leg was fixed and she did eventually take a few steps with assistance, she never again lived independently, and as happens so often with older people with fractures, she died only eight months later.  The bones heal but the spirit doesn’t.   That day really was the beginning of the end for her, and in my heart, I knew that was likely to be the case.  My irritation was for what I suspected was coming, and for what I knew it meant for her, but mostly for me.

What I had forgotten in that moment of selfishness and what I will not forget again:

Even the most horrendous pain can be relieved by grace.  And the crushed will stand, and walk, and smile again.