It was my ninety-second surgery—my fifth during this particular ten-week hospital stay.
I had just been wheeled back to my hospital room. After more than forty years of long hospitalizations—moving between pre-op, ICU, surgery, and recovery rooms—it still takes a toll. The anesthesia, the tubes, the pain—I was tired. Foggy. I just wanted the room quiet and the lights low.
But a CNA walked in. She wasn’t even assigned to me—just clocking out and stopped to check in. Kind. But something was off in her face. Heavy. Sad. You can always spot it when you’ve carried your own pain for a long time.
As she shared the serious troubles she was having at home, I untangled my hand from the tubes and cords and took hers. I didn’t think about it—I just did it.
And I told her something I’ve learned the hard way:
“The same Savior who sustains me through all this will sustain you too.”
She’d taken care of me on and off during this stay and knew a little of my story.
In 1983, I fell asleep at the wheel. My car slammed into a cement abutment, then flipped and tumbled down a slope into a dry creek bed. The impact was violent—my legs were crushed and pinned over my shoulders. I couldn’t move. Smoke filled the cab, and flames crept through the dashboard. The pain was unbearable—bone, metal, fire—and I knew I was trapped.
Then I saw a figure in the fire. And from somewhere deep inside, I cried out: Jesus, only You can save me now.
Moments later, a stranger climbed down the embankment, crawled halfway into the burning car, and stayed with me—keeping me alive until paramedics arrived. Afterward, ten truckers who helped extinguish the fire searched for him. Several said he helped restart my heart. Once the paramedics showed up, he seemed to have vanished.
He showed up. And so did grace.
Yet the crash set me on a long, painful road. I’ve endured ninety-two surgeries—nearly all related to injuries from that wreck. I eventually lost both legs. I live with relentless, intractable pain.
Admittedly, it’s been brutal—but I’m still here. I still show up. Why? Because He still shows up.
That day with the CNA, I also shared a truth that’s carried me through countless hospital stays. It came from my friend Joni Eareckson Tada, who wrote in When God Weeps:
“God permits what he hates to achieve what he loves.”1
Those words tumbled out of me between pain and grogginess, but they were planted deep long ago. They’ve carried me, and I knew they could carry her.
Later that evening, my husband Peter—who quietly observed the whole encounter—texted Joni to tell her. She replied with deep gratitude that words she had written decades ago still echo such truth.
Joni’s lived with quadriplegia since 1967. She also lives with chronic pain. But during this most recent hospital stay, she checked on me almost every single day. She sang to me over FaceTime while I was in the recovery room.
Let that settle in.
She’s carried more suffering than most will ever know—and she still ministered to me.
That’s how He works—in hospital rooms, through a friend’s voice, even over FaceTime.
This isn’t about being strong, or brave, or inspirational. It’s about not wasting the pain. It’s about opening your hands—even when they’re trembling or encumbered by IV lines—and offering Jesus to someone else.
Everything in me just wanted relief—some sleep, and to be left alone.
But grace shows up in weakness. It always has.
I’ve clung to what Scripture says in 2 Corinthians 12:9:
“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is perfected in weakness.”
That’s not just a verse—it’s my reality.
Because He didn’t call in sick either. He ministered from the cross. While suffocating, bleeding, and mocked—He turned to the thief next to Him and gave him hope. He looked at His mother and made sure she’d be cared for. And He prayed, Father, forgive them for the very ones who nailed Him there.
Is the servant greater than the Master? Not even close. The best a servant can do is point to the Master.
So no—I didn’t call in sick. Even after my ninety-second surgery, I won’t.
Because especially as we approach Easter, I’m reminded He never did.
And for me? That’s enough—and His grace is sufficient.
ABOUT GRACIE ROSENBERGER
Gracie Rosenberger is the founder of Standing With Hope, a prosthetic limb ministry to her fellow amputees. Learn more at standingwithhope.com.
Work Cited
- Joni Eareckson Tada, When God Weeps (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan), 84.
