Of pain and Joi

I sat with a purple leg, swelling painfully under an ice pack supplied by the local medic. It was my first trip to England, my first World Methodist Conference, and it was starting out badly for me.

While I waited for the ambulance ("It's likely broken, Dearie," the medic commented as he adjusted the ice on my knee), I was furious. Angry at myself, angry at that crack in the sidewalk, mad because I was stuck in a chair with so much work to be done. I visualized myself planted in a wheel chair for the duration of this wonderful, once-in-five-years event -- likely the only World Methodist Conference I would ever attend. There were photos to take, articles to write, people to meet. and so much to discover, if I could just get around to all the workshops, and â€¦

An arm slipped around my shoulders and a voice whispered close to my ear, "You're going to be fine."

The voice belonged to a woman whose name tag said "Joi"-- something, from someplace in Texas.

Thousands of people were already seated in the main assembly hall ready to listen to a speech by Bishop Mvume Dandala of South Africa. A few dozen more were milling about getting coffee and chatting before going into the hall.

I hadn't even had my morning cup of tea, which made me feel even more sorry for myself. Joi kept a gentle hold on me as the medic went to get me a cup of water. "You know, maybe this is God's way of telling you to slow down!'"

The irony of it made me laugh. "Good," she said. "Now you're getting things in perspective."

Just before being hauled away "to hospital," as the Brits say, Joi prayed quietly for me, her arm still around me. I don't remember the words of her prayer, only their effect.

We are each others' angels.

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Last updated on 01/14/2004

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