Thank you, Jesus—for teaching me not just how to walk with a limp, but how to run with it.

An old blog post from 2015 brought me to tears this week. In it, I quoted C.S. Lewis from A Grief Observed: “The death of a beloved is an amputation.”

I wrote, “Eventually I’ll learn to walk with only one leg—but I’ll always be aware of its absence.”

The words still ring true. Losing someone you love is like an amputation, and for the last ten years I’ve been learning how to walk without my leg.

In the beginning, I couldn’t imagine walking again. The pain was constant and unbearable.

Today, that leg still aches sometimes—some days more than others. Like an old injury that flares up when you step wrong, grief has a way of reminding you it’s still there. Sometimes you have to slow down, tend to the ache, change your posture.

But one day, you take a step. And then another. It doesn’t go away, but you begin to learn to live with it.

I cried when I found that post—not out of sadness, but because somehow I’ve found myself running. Not perfectly. Not in my own strength. But experiencing joy. Gratitude. Peace.

Not without a limp.

Not without pain.

But with Jesus.

Thank you, Jesus—for teaching me not just how to walk with a limp, but how to run with it.