By Sandra Mann

“Your husband has been in an accident at work and you need to go to him now.” Those words came from the white-faced supervisor who had just received the phone call where I worked at the campus library. “I don’t know what has happened—they just said he’s been hurt and they need you over there,” he added, answering the look of shock and confusion on my face.

I ran toward the cafeteria where my husband worked without looking back. I must have grabbed my coat, because it was half on by the time I reached the building and climbed a flight of stairs. “What’s wrong? What happened?” kept racing through my mind. Bursting into the back of the room where the serving area was, I found a crowd hovering over my husband, who lay half under a stainless-steel serving counter. He was covering his face with his hands, crying out, “I hurt. I hurt.”

I dropped to my knees among broken plates and tried to comfort him. “He just fell over and smashed his face on the counter,” a co-worker said through tears. Another beside him asked, “Has he ever fainted or had a seizure before?” I answered, “Yes. He has epilepsy.”

This was a “bad” day. He came home from the hospital with a black eye that would impress any nine-year-old boy, a headache the size of Montana, and orders to stay down for a couple of days. I came home with orders to watch him closely for any signs of concussion or additional seizures, the dread of paying a hospital bill, and the fear that he might lose his job. I wondered if it was finally okay for me to break down and cry.

We had been married four months, were both working part-time on campus, going to school full-time, and living on a shoestring budget. Now what was going to happen? Our paychecks would shrink because he’d missed work. Our studies would suffer from missed classes. My husband had lost a week of memory due to the seizure, so he had to reread books and notes just to catch up. And crying only added a headache and puffy eyes of my own. The only thing I could think to do was pray—so I did. It turned out to be the best action I could have taken.

Within three weeks of returning to school, our lives were blessed in ways we never could have imagined. All of our professors agreed to let us make up assignments and did not dock points in mandatory-attendance classes. The fire chief came to inspect the accident scene and declared that the kitchen had become dangerously hot—fans should have been installed to reduce physical stress on the staff. Because of that finding, the work insurance covered the hospital bills, so we avoided out-of-pocket medical expenses.

My husband’s supervisor, who oversaw a scholarship program that provided free meals in the cafeteria, told us, “I’m giving both of you scholarships—for two meals a day, Monday through Friday, plus two meals each weekend—for the rest of this semester and the next one as well.” That support helped us get through the year without needing a student loan.

My faith skyrocketed as I witnessed the Lord blessing us through countless acts of kindness from friends, family, and co-workers. My prayers were answered in ways I never would have dreamed. From one very “bad” day came feelings of humility, gratitude, and hope. Looking back, I’m still amazed at how much more “good” came to us during and after that challenging time.

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