Today my son showed me some woodland crocuses beginning to force through mulch. Bold as they may be to arrive the first week of February, they let us know spring is imminent. Today I sat outside without a sweatshirt on, sun warming my skin, clouds dancing across the light to bring respite from the shocking warmth. Today my son lay in the grass, asking me to lay next to him. Initiating a search for birds flying by or shapes in the clouds. Today I had to say no, “I can’t buddy, Mommy still has owies.” 

Today I also watched someone ring the bell.

This bell is white, a cowbell. It has a sticker on it; a black Band-Aid with red hearts and the words, “‘…by his wounds we are healed’ Isaiah 53:5.” It sits on the reception desk at the Wound Care center I visit once a week. When healed, you ring the bell. When you ring the bell, your wounded season is ending. You’re reborn, rebranded: healed.

Evidence of a coming spring is all around me; in the budding flowers, the warm sunlight, the birds flocking northward, and in the clang of the bell down the hospital hallway. The early signs of spring.

I didn’t used to like spring. I found it anticlimactic growing up in the redwood forest, a place with little evidence of winter’s sleep. Watching seasons change, awaiting the freshness of another spring, was something I encountered only after moving to northwest Georgia. I admit I’d begun to understand the appeal of the season, but I didn’t truly fall in love with spring until my son was born. He came tumbling into the world in the eye of our era’s biggest storm; born days after the spring equinox in late March 2020. He gave me new eyes for spring.

As I became someone new in the weeks following his birth, I noticed how spring showcases God’s creation. Since then, I’ve slowed my life down, now better able to watch the seasons and tune myself like a violin to each season’s unique composition. We’ve timed our routines to the pulse of the earth and in so doing become believers in spring. The anticipation of dirt under our nails as we plant vegetables, herbs, and berries. The mapping of hikes on our favorite trails, to observe the changes in flora from winter’s bluntness to spring’s abundance. The expectation of longer days spent exploring our yard or eating outdoors. In the last few years, I’ve witnessed spring become the vital season for our family, deepening our roots in values and rhythms. I enthusiastically await spring.

I don’t know yet if I’ll have a spring this spring. If I’ll be able to dig in the dirt or go for long hikes or even handle sitting outside for meals. When will I get to ring the bell? Unknown. I still believe I will, but we’ve stopped forecasting the healing timeline. We take things week by week. Sometimes day by day.

At the end of fall, 11 days following a planned surgery, these wounds ruptured without warning. Unexpected wounds. Unplanned for healing. Unspeakable physical pain. Unbelievable conditions. As someone with a deep fear of physical harm, the word “wound” diminished me. So surreal to me, the word itself acted as an early frost, forcing me into hibernation. 

I acquiesced myself, swept through the end of fall and into the beginning of winter; going through every motion without awareness. Feeling as if I was burdening my husband with the care over my wounds, the running of our home, and the nurturing of our son. Releasing my son to friends for the adventures and exploration we used to do together. Granting medical decisions to a team unqualified and uninterested in the healing power of God. Avoiding God who I’d thought would protect me from this kind of harm. When my son had arrived in the eye of the storm, I’d seen God perform a miracle in a moment. He’d sheltered us in the storm and now, where was he? I checked out so I wouldn’t ask the question, why won’t he heal me in a heartbeat? 

The healing process would take two steps forward, then three steps back. No one knew why. The projected timeline would be changed again. I’d slip deeper into hibernation, passive and inattentive.

Ironic because of a phrase I say to my son almost daily: “pay attention to where your feet are.” It’s our anthem. I said it one day on a hike to curb my impulse to shout at him to be careful and instantly loved it. I’ve used it hundreds of times since. I say it to draw his awareness to our surroundings and keep him in the moment. I encourage us to awaken our senses with the phrase. It’s my gentle reminder to be mindful of his body.

These wounds, openings under each breast restricting my movement and breath, convinced me my feet were anywhere but important. These wounds urged me to stop paying attention, to disappear. To bring a winter on my own soul.

But God doesn’t leave us in our self-imposed hibernation. He sent an army, through a series of messages all arriving on one single December morning. Each message having a commonality: Isaiah. Friends, family, church community, coordinated by his mighty hand, sent me different verses from the prophet who foretold the Son would one day shine light on our circumstances. Isaiah 41:13, do not fear. Isaiah 43:19, he is making a way. Isaiah 55:6, seek the Lord. Isaiah 9:6, a son will be given. Isaiah 64:8, I am work in his hands. 

I bathed in those words, sat up, and looked pain in the eye. I grabbed pain’s hand firmly. I met pain and learned its methods. Pain whispered to me, “I am not a pain you can avoid; you have to pay attention.”

I was no longer in hibernation. Attentive to the fact I’d consented my circumstances to determine my outlook, it was time for a change. 

Immediately, with my attention directed at where my feet were – even though those feet were simply snuggled in slipper socks and stuck in the same spot – God made a fresh path. I started the new year with a referral to the Wound Care center. Face-to-face with a bell bearing another verse from the book of Isaiah. A promise of healing.

During this new phase of the journey, the one where I’ve determined my outlook based on the covenants of God, he has given me lifework: 

Pay attention to my Word.

Pay attention to your posture.

Pay attention to people who have loved you through this.

Pay attention to where you’re placing your hope.

Pay attention to where you’re placing your joy.

Pay attention to your purpose.

Pay attention to who needs love today.

Pay attention to the laughter and lessons, serving proof of life being lived here and now.

And by all means, just pay attention. Don’t wait until you ring the bell to be where your feet are, and celebrate what you can do, or who you can love, right now. 

So even as I long for my own spring healing, today, as I watched a woman ring the bell I long to grasp, I celebrated her spring alongside her. I know I still have a long way to go but I’m blessed to watch the sun warm her spring awakening. As her dad clumsily recorded her moment on his phone, I joined in with the nurses cheering for her. I laughed as her dad said, “Goodbye, hope we don’t see you again!” As she exited, I told her, “Congratulations! I’m so happy for you,” adding to the chorus of warmth celebrating her new moniker: healed. 

As she walked out the door I thought about my own turn with the bell. Instead of wondering when it might be, I imagined how it will feel to enter my own spring. It will feel like orange cresting the horizon; like yellow dotting young grass. It will feel like pink blushing buds; like lush, flush greenery filling up every empty space. It will feel resplendent. I took a moment, eyes closed, breathing deep, to pray before exposing my wounds to the medical team, “Father, let me be clay in your hands until I ring this bell. While waiting, position my heart to pay attention to where my feet are, even as I endure this winter. I trust spring is coming.”

Today I felt the kiss of spring on my cheeks. Today I looked forward to spring’s promises. Today I didn’t ask when or why, I only asked to be present to witness winter’s transition to spring. And today I cheered as a stranger rang her bell. 

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This piece was written in February 2024 as a submission for a journal. It was rejected but it’s time for me to share it with the world.

I did eventually ring the bell, on August 7, 2024. I had a setback and wound re-openings at the end of the month. I rang the bell and walked out of wound care for the final time on September 28, 2024. There was much journey between my writing of this piece and my bell ringing, which I will share one day. But for now, for someone waiting to ring their own bell, I share this part of my story.