A few days ago it was three years since I injured my brain in a freak accident.
It’s hard to know what to say on this anniversary. Each day since then I’ve lived in the shadow-grief of that two seconds and the massive destruction it caused in my life, to my very self as constructed by a lifetime of brain growth, education, connection-building.
I was feeling a bit more eloquent on Instagram on the actual day that marked three years.
One of the most painful fallouts of the accident was the damage to my short-term memory.
For months it made it difficult to pray. For the first few months, I couldn’t even hold the thought I wanted to pray long enough to get it out. It was a real struggle, and the damage to my perception of my own spirituality was quite devastating. I didn’t feel like I could really rely on God in the time I needed Him most, needed any assurance that all would be well, that God still had a plan for me.
But day after day, I talked myself into it. I exercised every bit of faith I could muster. I kept returning to God and Christ. I prayed in the shower. I clung to whatever shred of hope I could while my life slowly reassembled itself.
I trust that in that time of deepest trial, and even to this day, that God listened to my broken prayers. I had some miraculous answers, and usually on a day after I managed to humble myself to dust and beg for assistance.
I still need that kind of strong prayer. But even though I don’t often get there, God is still listening to me, and maybe one day this will all make sense.