IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL SATURDAY morning, and a couple of friends and I were going for a motorcycle ride, off the beaten path about an hour out of Los Angeles. I was warned there would be some very sharp turns, and since I hadn't ridden these roads before, I took careful note.
Out of the blue, though, I took a turn too wide, drove off the side of the road and crashed. One leg appeared to be badly injured. One of my friends offered to call an ambulance, but I wanted to meet this situation through prayer, as I'd learned to do over the years. So I got back on the bike, which I was able to do safely, and then rode to his house to get patched up.
By the time my friends helped me back home, I couldn't walk, and the slightest movement brought a great deal of pain. I felt overwhelmed—worried about what might happen to my leg—and I kept blaming myself for the crash. I was convinced that I'd gotten lazy and hadn't been paying enough attention to the road. That I'd done this to myself. And even though I knew better, I actually found myself wondering if I was somehow being punished for past mistakes.
