A simple walk down a store aisle became a turning point in how I understand movement, limitation, and grace.
Many years ago, after recovering from my Achilles tendon surgery, I stepped inside a Kmart without any aid, and a flood of emotion nearly overtook me. I could walk again, albeit with a limp. I could choose which aisle to go down, after having people shop for me for months. I could linger in an aisle if I wanted to, after doing more than lingering in my recliner for so long.
Nearly every time I walk into a store now, I remember that scene. We get one body, and the fact that I can still move in relative freedom will never be lost on me.
Last week, a doctor told me I have cubital tunnel syndrome, which means I have a pinched nerve in my right elbow (funny bone area). That diagnosis joins a growing list – a pinched nerve in my neck, unstable vertebrae that can numb my legs, plantar fasciitis, and lasting complications from a blood clot after Achilles tendon surgery.
Pain has become familiar enough that I’ve learned to negotiate with it. With some modifications, I’m still pretty mobile. And I’m grateful for that. When the weather is cool enough, I can even go for short hikes in the woods with my wife once in a while.
I move more deliberately now. I pay attention to small decisions that used to happen automatically, like how long I can stand, how far I should walk or whether something is worth the effort it will cost later. None of this feels tragic, though. My body has become something I negotiate with rather than ignore, and in that negotiation, ordinary moments have taken on a different kind of weight.
None of this was something I set out to learn. It arrived slowly, through limitation. When movement comes easily, you don’t think about it. You just go. But when every step comes with a cost, you start to notice the quiet mechanics of living. What once felt ordinary now feels intentional, and that intention has changed the way I move through the world.
Visiting old haunts isn’t just nostalgia anymore. It’s a quiet reminder that I’m still here, still moving, still walking in God’s grace. And sometimes, that simply means pushing a cart down an ordinary aisle, aware of each step in a way I never was before.
