It was a sunny, springlike, 55+ degree afternoon—balmy, really—Washingtonians were gleeful. We played outside with friends and neighbors, talking about cruises and summertime adventures. Fresh off the Super Bowl victory, my 10-year-old son leapt high for a Percy Harvin-inspired catch—from a long Russell Wilson-inspired pass from his dad.
And landed on his wrist.
I sprinted to him. It was obviously broken; his left wrist (not his pitching hand, but his writing one) looked like a child’s bendy straw, reminiscent of the break my sister had when we were kids. And that’s when the wheels seemed to be set in motion—in those amplified moments of overdrive—when you start to marvel at and feel grateful for how life unfolds.
My friend starts picking up toys, cups, Cheez-Its. I holler to my 5-year-old inside that brother’s arm is broken. My friend retrieves his booster seat and offers to take him to her house, stepping in and whisking him away for some fun. My husband Mo picks up our 96-pound heap of son and carries him to the car. My sister sends a text that she’s just said a prayer, which thankfully reminds me, so I grab Rassy’s hand and pray out loud as we drive to Urgent Care. Which is where the doctor who happens to see him is the amazing woman who helped him years ago through a nasty, ugly cough episode one cold Sunday morning. It’s where Mo, who’s ever the calm, cool, collected one, can read the X-ray and sees that the radius and ulna are broken, and speaks intelligently and coherently to the doctor about seeing an Orthopedic Surgeon the next day. It’s where the nurse talks to my son about various seasons of Survivor, turning his mind to upbeat things instead of broken bones.
After he was wrapped up in a splint, we made our way to pick up little brother, who got to eat at McDonald’s and enjoy play land—on a school night!—with his friend. My friend then took me to pick up the prescription for pain medicine, while the neighbor boy who was part of the earlier Seahawks game, delivered two bags of Skittles and a homemade card to Rassy.
When we were all home and settled, I headed upstairs to gather pillows and prepare a comfortable sleeping spot.
“I can’t believe I made that catch,” my 10-year-old with the broken arm said from the couch, a touch of wonder and awe in his voice.
I admired his spirit.
And that’s when I was reminded: it’s when those amplified moments of overdrive unfold—when you’re surrounded by just the people you need, just when you need them—that God reminds us that He really is there, lending a hand through the hands of others.
And that despite broken bones, Rassy’s spirit remains intact.
Kira Hagenbuch Monica 