Those closest to me know I complain that I virtually never just casually “run into” people I know.

Now Kelly, our firefighter friend—he cannot show his mug in public for ten minutes without someone recognizing it. It happens when we eat with him at restaurants, attend sporting events, spend a day at Six Flags, or even go on vacation with him and his kids. People yell, “Hey, Kelly!” And I shake my head. Again.

Same with my sister’s family. They had lived in Dallas for one week when, during a Starbucks run with me, my sis ran into someone she’d already met. One week!

Amazing.

This never happens to me. And I have told them so. Repeatedly.

That’s the back story you have to have to appreciate what happened to me today.

And there’s something else you have to know. Three weeks ago today I dove head-first down the stairs in my house and broke my clavicle (med-speak for collar bone). No, not on purpose. (You can read the gory details at an earlier entry titled “Falling into the Arms of Love.”)

Two days after the ER run, the surgeon took a look at the x-ray and said the break looked bad. More than two-and-a-half centimeters separated the two halves of the bone I broke down the middle. He hoped it would heal, but he confessed to having some doubts. In the end we opted to wait until today to re-look with a new x-ray.

My husband, Gary, drove me to the follow-up visit. (He has been the lead chauffeur of late.) And I have to say today marked the first time I have ever considered calling the fire marshal while waiting to see a doctor. At last count, thirty-six people, three of them in wheelchairs and one in a walker, crammed themselves into a waiting area like too many high schoolers in a phone booth.

And here’s the thing: One look around told me that if I needed surgery, I could expect the doc to have an opening sometime around, say, December of 2007.

The tech took my set of x-rays and then sent me back to the waiting room.

When Gary grew weary of standing, having yielded his seat like the gentleman he is, he told me to ring him on his cell when they called my name. Then he headed off to a nearby café in search of a less claustrophobic atmosphere.

Eventually he returned, surprised no one had called for me yet. But shortly after that my summons came.

Once we got in a room, we had only a short wait. First, the nurse came in. He asked me all about my pain. I told him I had little discomfort in the area of the clavicle itself. But my left shoulder blade aches any time I stand or walk or lean forward or sit straight. Pretty much any time I try to have a life.

Yesterday while a class I was teaching watched a movie for the first hour, I found a spot on the floor in the back of the room where the students couldn’t see me, and I stretched out to get some relief. It feels great when I lean back in a comfy chair or rest flat on my back. But the whole vertical thing doesn’t work; and it’s tough to go through life horizontal.

The doc came in and immediately noticed no one had brought in my x-ray. He asked someone to find it and then turned his attention back to me. He cut to the chase: zero evidence of any healing. Apparently the two broken pieces are too far part to figure out that they belong to each other. He said that with nothing to hold up that displaced shoulder blade, it’ll keep sitting off kilter until I get a plate put in the clavicle and get some support to it.

The x-ray arrived. The doctor popped it up on the screen and flicked on the backlight. He didn’t even have to point out the break for us to see it. (I’ll say this for myself—I do few things halfway.) He said I needed a plate in there to join the two bone parts. Only one problem: I have a tiny little clavicle that’s much smaller than most. (Who measures this stuff?) He even sounded kind of unsure about his ability to get a small enough plate. We never did resolve the plate-size thing. But I figure that’s his problem. I mean, what can I do? Can I decrease a cubit from the plate by worrying about it?

Okay, now for the especially icky, distasteful stuff: He also said that means I will have to keep my arm extra still during the six-week healing process. No moving it other than to wash and use deodorant, which is way more immobile than I am now.

We got right down to the "when" of surgery. Apparently "never" isn’t really a workable option; nor can I wait around if I want to live pain-free. I’ve spent three weeks favoring my arm and all for naught. So let’s get this plate on the table, I say.

I told him I need to teach Thursday afternoon, but Friday morning would be nice. I was serious in that I named my ideal time. But I was joking in that I had seen those thirty-six people out there ….

I really wanted Friday morning because Dallas Seminary, where I teach, has Reading Week all next week, and the following week is Thanksgiving break. That means Friday-morning surgery would give me the longest possible recovery time before I need to be back in the classroom the week after Thanksgiving.

The doc whipped out his blackberry, consulted it, and asked his assistant if it was up-to-date.

She nodded and told him she had just synched it.

Then he said, "That's interesting, because a trip I was going to take just got canceled. Can you be here at 6 a.m. Friday morning?"

I will never leave you, nor will I ever forsake you.

So they sent me down to pre-op to feed the vampires and get the phone-book-sized stack of forms signed, none of which say happy words. And whom should we meet in the hall on the way to the lab but Dr. Reg Grant.

Reg Grant is a friend. But he’s not just some casual acquaintance. Reg is pretty much my mentor at Dallas Seminary, and it is largely due to his influence that I’ve had many opportunities available to me there. He knows us well and has loved and prayed us through some heartbreak (that whole infertility thing) in a past decade.

Well, Reg is on sabbatical this year, and I thought he was in China!

Reg took one look at my face and the crockie tears waiting to spill out, and he gave me that look kind people give when someone has cloudy eyes.

I hugged him, and then the three of us put our arms around each other and he started boldly praying over us right there in the Baylor hall in front of God and everybody.

Lo, I am with you always.

After that we asked if he knew where Suite 502 was, because that’s where I needed to give up some blood. He pointed to the door and said that’s where he was going, too. What are the chances?

Only later (after I remembered, to my complete astonishment, that there are actually other people on the planet) did we learn Reg is scheduled to have hip replacement on Monday.

We joked that he and I should have coordinated our schedules better so the seminary chaplain only has to visit Mother Baylor once to cover the Pastoral Ministries department.

Those closest to me know I used to complain that I never just “run into” people I know. And now I think I know why that’s true: so today when a beloved face showed up at the precise moment and precise place of need, I would see it for what it was…

Hesed. Sovereignty. Grace.