Flat on my back for three weeks, fighting an infection that ravaged my body and attacked both legs, leading to surgery and talk of possible amputation of one or both, I awoke intact but with a grueling regimen of physical therapy three times a day. Exhausted physically, mentally, and spiritually I went through the paces, mumbling like a zombie.

One morning I found myself with the challenge of standing on one foot while placing the other gently on top of an orange safety cone. The goal was to not knock the cone over or crush it while retaining my balance. I couldn’t do it no matter what encouragement the young and pretty therapist gave me. Frustrated, I finally kicked the cone across the room shouting, “You don’t get it. I couldn’t do this back when I had two healthy legs.” Embarrassed at my outburst, I just stood there quietly on one leg. “Congratulations!” She smiled. “Look at you. This is the balance I was looking for . . . and the attitude.”

That was the genesis of my recovery. Six months later when I baptized her first baby, I stood on one foot and thanked her for helping me find the balance I needed.