A Hip Story 

“Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel, because you struggled with God and with men and have overcome. . . it is because [he] saw God face to face and was spared.”

Are you familiar with the Old Testament story about Jacob wrestling with God? It is a hip story, a tale of crossing the ford and counting possessions and solitude.

A man alone.

A wrestle until daybreak. Torn tendons wrapping blessings and causing life-reminding limps.

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On October 21, 2006 after DJing an early evening wedding, I slouched the day away on a  leather-cushioned stool at Woody’s Bar and Grill waiting for my date with “the mister” to begin. 

The work week battled for the prime real estate of my mind as a rolodex of hustle and bustle, a masterpiece of logistics and the heavy weight of management took ground in my thoughts. This relaxing night promised to usher in a typical autumn wedding-filled weekend with this bit of respite scheduled in. Late night dates were the only time I could count on seeing my husband, alone. Our small business was thriving. . . a neutral party transportation company for children-in-shared-custody. . . and full of busy days. My weekday mornings were spent homeschooling our three children and answering the business phone that took residence in my tie-dyed apron’s front pocket. 

“Your next spelling word is, “receive” . . . {phone rings} just a moment, kids, pull out your ‘brain-booster’ folder while I take this call on the ‘Child Safe Transportation’ line. . .” 

After answering a question of where the driver was, verifying the receiving guardian’s identification, or relaying the safety precautions we put in place when transporting a child; I jumped back to administering the spelling test to my 5th grader. 

And so the busy days beat on. 

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Hubbie’s brain-child turned successful small business was making a difference in the lives of divorced families, foster children, and the local community; all while supporting our young family of 5 and providing what we needed to renovate our new “American Dream” home. 

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We were no strangers to owning a business. Early in our marriage we “ditched” the concept of being an employee at the photo store and as waitstaff at the local restaurant. We turned the page on a new chapter in the “service industry,” as business owners. 

 — — — 

That October night began to fold on me as I waited. 

And waited. 

A woman alone. 

My stomach began to turn and my patience ran thin. 

He was late.

This season was busy and full and pregnant with foolish choices. . . the pressures of owning two small businesses, parenting and schooling three elementary-aged children, remodeling the new family home and bearing the weight of provider met face to face with impulsive purchases and dangerous “behaviors.” 

A detail man. 

How could he not remember our date? We carved a time out of our stone wall of todos to be together. How could he possibly be late?

{Phone rings}  “Babe, I laid my bike down and I am hurt, really bad. I can’t feel my leg.” 

The real estate in my brain was now occupied by grief and fear and a rolodex of pictures of my husband laying by the side of Interstate 84 with his Honda VFR 800 wrapped in barbed wire, his helmet autographed by the loose gravel and him flat on his back watching the Life-flight helicopter circling overhead. 

I heard a voice in my head say, 

“ Your next spelling word is “receive” {ears rings} just a moment, child, pull out your “heart-calming” folder while I take this call on the Husband Safe Transportation line. . .” 

I called 911.

After answering a question of where the driver was, verifying the receiving guardian’s identification, and relaying the safety precautions we put in place when allowing my husband to ride the country roads late at night; I jumped back to administering the cocktail to my frightened nerves. 

Then I asked a friend to help me drive to where he was. 

A 100+ mile per hour motorcycle crash, followed by a rag doll toss into the bushes left Him wrestling as a man alone with torn tendons wrapping blessings beneath his road ravaged  flesh. 

The rolodex reeled into a silent movie as I road along as a passenger in the ambulance and into Magic Valley Regional Medical Center.  First responders stabilized his broken ankle and hip, sawed off his wedding ring, administered IV pain medication and treated the mister for shock. 

We didn’t know that this would be a life altering event at the time. Broken ankles and broken hips translated to broken dreams and broken homes. But as in Jacob’s story, the sun rose again and he was limping because of his hip, but God had blessed him. 

— — —

The story continues today. 

It is a hip story, a tale of crossing the ford of failure and forward healing and counting possessions and breaking solitude to make room for a new name. He has struggled with God and with men and have overcome. . . it is because [he] saw God face to face and was spared.”

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2 thoughts on “A Hip Story 

  1. Pingback: What is a Yurt? | colormejennifer

  2. Pingback: Working Full Time | colormejennifer

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