Learning to Walk Again

Watching my friend and neighbor struggle after losing part of his leg (and an arm) has given me a deeper understanding of what it truly means to relearn how to live. Years ago, an infection in his foot led to an amputation, and ever since then he has faced challenges most people have never witnessed. Some days the prosthetic fits well enough for him to move forward. Other days the smallest change in his body, a sore spot or a shift in weight, makes it painful or impossible to even put it on. What looks like a simple act of walking becomes a daily negotiation with pain, balance, and determination. Every step requires patience, courage, and a willingness to try again.

I admire him deeply. He has every reason to be angry about the circumstances that led to losing his leg, yet he chooses kindness. He chooses hope. He chooses to keep going. His attitude is a quiet testimony of strength.

The more I have watched him, the more I realize how much strength it takes to rebuild life from the ground up. He has had to relearn how to stand, how to trust his footing, and how to move through the world with a body that no longer works the way it once did. There is humility in that process, a quiet bravery in choosing to keep going even when the journey is slow and the progress is uneven. His perseverance has shown me that healing is not a single moment but a long series of small, faithful steps.

As I have reflected on his journey, I have seen pieces of my own story in it. Losing Kelly felt like losing a leg of my life. We walked together through everything, working, serving, praying, laughing and loving. We moved through the world side by side. When that was gone, I had to learn how to walk again too, just in a different way. My balance was off. My rhythm was gone. Even the simplest parts of life felt unfamiliar. Every step since then has required intention and a kind of emotional rehabilitation.

Part of my healing has come from returning to the things that steady me. Music, the outdoors, and writing have always been therapy for my soul, but grief pushed them aside for a time. I am now returning to those blessings as they become therapy for my heart and soul once again. They help me find rhythm again, fresh air again, and words when life feels too heavy. Learning to live after loss is slow, imperfect, and sometimes painful, but it is still movement forward. And like my friend, I am learning that every small step counts.

Isaiah 40:31  But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.