Something scary happened on Halloween. And it had nothing to do with ghosts or goblins or graves.

My son, Brett, fell on the construction site where he was working.

He was taking the boards off an old barn when the tank he was standing on—a battered affair once used by a long-gone farmer—gave way under his weight. In an explosion of plastic, Brett shot downward. He grabbed out to stop himself—and sliced three of the fingers on his left hand. The brunt of the fall was taken on his left knee—the same knee he had surgery on a scant six months ago.

So instead of finishing decorating the jack-o-lantern cakes I’d baked, I spent Saturday afternoon in the emergency room with Brett and his wife Stacy. The medical staff iced Brett’s knee; they stitched up his fingers; they gave him a prescription for pain.

It was the beginning of what will be many long, hard months for Brett…and his wife and his two small children. The knee will have surgery whenever the swelling goes down. For now, Brett has it wrapped and tries to elevate it several times a day. It hurts—a lot. As I write this, he is having hand surgery at a clinic nearby. Stacy and little Knox (3 months old) are with him.

I took Isabelle for the afternoon. At 2, she still considers coming to Nina’s a big adventure. And her being here forced me to put on a happy face. The day is bright and sunny—very un-November-like. After lunch, we sat on the back stoop taking part in Isabelle’s favorite activity: blowing bubbles.

While she chattered on about “watch me” and “look, Nina” and “Isbee do” I thought about Brett. I had been praying since early morning—for the surgeon’s skill, for Brett’s complete recovery, for his pain to be bearable.  I had emailed friends, asking them to pray. I had alerted my church’s prayer chain. I was planning a good dinner for us all. Still, there must be something else I could do…

I snapped back into the present to hear Isabelle insisting that I, too, blow bubbles. So I got another container and joined her. The wind tossed the transparent spheres here and there. Some landed on the grass. Some blew back into our faces. Others soared high, over the house and into the sky. Try as I would, I could not make them go in one direction or another.  The unpredictability of it all delighted Isabelle as she blew and re-blew, watching to see where the wind would carry her latest creations.

Much of what happens in life is out of my control. And, try as I might, I can’t fix everything that hurts or threatens my loved ones. But thank God—literally—that Someone loving and powerful cares about us all. And He who directs the wind will surely blow healing Brett’s way.

Your prayers are appreciated.