It was an ordinary Monday morning, five years ago today.

Nothing about the morning warned me that my life was about to change. Peter had left for work, and I was getting ready for my day as usual. I had some back pain, but that wasn’t unusual for me. Ever since my serious car accident in 2006, back pain had been part of my story. It had become something I had learned to live with day by day.

I stepped into the shower, thinking it was just another normal Monday morning.

Then, out of nowhere, the most excruciating pain shot through my lower back and down into my legs. It was so severe that I screamed. I screamed so loudly that I am still surprised my neighbours didn’t hear me.

And then, in a moment, my legs gave way.

I collapsed onto the shower floor, unable to use my legs at all. I was paralysed from the waist down.

I cannot fully describe the terror of that moment. One minute I was standing in the shower, and the next I was lying on the floor, helpless, frightened, and completely unable to make my body do what I wanted it to do.

Somehow, I managed to turn the shower off. Somehow, with no use of my legs, I army-crawled my way into the bedroom. I pulled myself onto the bed, dragged the doona over me, reached for my mobile phone on the bedside table, and called St John of God Hospital.

That phone call became the beginning of a journey I never saw coming.

During the next week, I received news I could hardly take in. Doctors found a spinal tumour that had grown so much there was very little room left for my spinal cord. As if that wasn’t enough to process, I was also diagnosed with two brain tumours.

I was shaken to my core.

My world changed.

There were days when I felt frightened, overwhelmed, and unsure of what lay ahead. I didn’t know what the future would look like. I didn’t know what my body would do. I didn’t know how much my life was about to change.

And I was so very human.

I was terrified. I struggled. I cried. I questioned. I felt fear, shock, uncertainty, and deep vulnerability.

But my humanness did not take away my faith in God.

And my faith in God did not take away my humanness.

I think that is something I have learned so deeply through this journey. Faith does not mean we are never afraid. Faith does not mean we don’t feel pain, or grief, or confusion. Faith does not mean we have all the answers.

Faith means we do not have to face the fear alone.

Through it all, I discovered that God was near. Not always in loud or dramatic ways, but in quiet strength. In peace that came when I needed it most. In the steady rock Peter was beside me. In the love of my adult children and their partners, my grandchildren, and my extended family. In the care of dear friends around me. In the courage to keep going when I didn’t know how to keep going.

God did not leave me.

He was with me on the shower floor.
He was with me in the surgery.
He was with me when I had to learn to walk again.
He was with me in the waiting.
He was with me in the fear.
He was with me in the unknown.
And He is still walking with me today.

I don’t share my story because I have all the answers. I don’t.

I share it because I know what it feels like to be afraid, and I also know what it feels like to be carried by God.

Five years ago, my life changed in a way I could never have imagined. But even in the darkest valley, I was never abandoned.

There have been moments when I have felt small inside my own life. But even then, even in the most frightening and vulnerable places, I was not forgotten. I was held. Not because I was brave every day, because I wasn’t, but because God was faithful every day.

When I reflect on the past five years, I can see it all.

There has been suffering, yes. There has been fear. There has been uncertainty.

But there has also been hope. There has been comfort. There has been strength I know did not come from me.

And there has been God — faithful, present, and near.