I have conclude God has a sense of humor.

Not a ha-ha humor. Not a sitcom laugh track humor. More like the kind of humor where He leans back, folds His arms, looks at the angels and says, “Watch this.”

I have trouble kneeling. Can’t walk very far and use a wheelchair. My fingers tremble like an addict overdosing on caffeine. My hands ache. Spine aches. Knees ache. Got cancer. Still have cancer. Have Parkinson’s. And my right foot, who went to sleep perfectly fine on January 16th, tendered its resignation on the 17th. “Dude, not working today. And by the way, not sure when I’m returning.” Trust me, this stuff was never on my childhood vision board.

Meanwhile, my persistently aloof brother jogs five miles every day.

Five. Fucking. Miles.

Every. Day.

No limp. No wheelchair. No mysterious clicking noises when standing. He casually hints winning the health lottery as though one might casually say, “Oh, I built an entire home at work today and grabbed a case of beer on the way home. What one?” I’m not saying I resent him—but if I were God, I would at least have given matching symptoms, if not in fairness, but for symmetry. I often think of what happened on the assembly line. You might presume the system would distribute aches and pains evenly. Heck, you might even believe there’d be a cosmic spreadsheet (with pivot table): “Okay, this guy gets bad knees, that one gets shaky fingers, and so on. Everyone gets something.” Nope.

For some? Sampler Platter.

Yeah. Some get the Sampler Platter. And somewhere in life, the Sampler Platter recipient will start asking the big questions. Theological ones. The ones people don’t usually put on greeting cards.

Why me?

Why now?

And honestly—why this combination?

Upon asking these questions, I imagine God saying, “I give you these because you notice things.”

“What? What the hell? I noticed things perfectly well when my knees worked.”

Apparently hearing me, God muses, “You know what would really complete this experience?”

“What?”

“Constipation.”

“Oh, god damn it.” A sliver of silence, “I mean, gosh darn it.”

Some mornings I wake up, stare at the ceiling, and think, ‘Again?’ 

After which, I wait.

And wait.

And … wait.

But here’s the part they don’t tell you about suffering: it sharpens your eyesight in strange directions. You start seeing the world at wheelchair height. You notice who slows down without being asked. You recognize the people who don’t look away when your hands shake. You learn that pain is loud—but kindness whispers, and you must lean in to hear it.

You also learn humility the hard way. I used to kneel easily. Now kneeling is a negotiation involving furniture, prayer, and a solid exit strategy. I used to walk far without thinking. Now every step requires a small committee meeting between foot, balance, and gravity.

And yet—here I am.

Still waking up.

Still noticing.

I still laugh. Sometimes at God. Most times without. If I don’t, I might scream and screaming seems impolite, especially to my neighbor’s dog, and of course before coffee.

If you’re reading this and your body has betrayed you in ways you never signed off on, I want you to know something: you are not failing life. You are not weak. You are not being punished.

You may simply be part of God’s very odd angelic die-casting process. You know that one angel on the assembly line, turns to an angel on break, ask the score of the heavenly Prayerful Punters vs. Hallelujah Hurlers game, turns back and realizes the assembly line moved beyond. Looking at all this shit and yells, “Sampler Platter.” Bells ring, an angelic choir hums in unison, ‘Whaaaa,’ and all the world screams back, “Sampler Platter.”

Some people are given strong legs to run. Others are given strong hearts to sit, listen, and say, “I see you. Me too.”

And maybe—just maybe—that’s the joke. Not that we hurt. But that even in the hurting, we still matter. We still connect. We still help someone else feel less alone.

I see you. I see all of you.