There was a terrible and all too familiar pain in my leg. I was sitting on the sideline of what was meant to be my final high school soccer game, clenching my leg oblivious to the world as a panic started to consume me. I dimly noticed the attentions of the athletic trainer and my parents, my mind hazy and vision tunneled. My sobs shook my chest as I started to realize that all the recovery and pain I went through the past year was in vain. Trying to calm me down, my mother sat on the bench and told me to look at her. When I did, my red-green eyes met hers, and I whispered, “This wasn’t supposed to happen.” That memory still haunts me, approaching 3 years later. Even writing that paragraph and remembering the pain and sorrow caused my heart rate to increase. Sometimes when I lace up my cleats and pull my socks over my shin guards that moment will flash through my mind, causing me to hesitate when I finally step onto the field. Recovery from injuries are not easy, especially when the post-injured have mental scars to match the physical ones. I have the feeling that I am not the only person who has muttered those five words. I am not the only human who expected my story to take a different path. When I said those five words I discovered a truth only complete mental oblivion could make me admit. The truth was that I did not trust God’s plan. I thought I did, I thought there was nothing in my soul but trust for my Creator, but there it was, a kernel of truth that slipped through my filter, I thought I was the master of my fate. I accepted the first time I broke my leg as okay, because I knew it would give me a story. For a long time, I thought I had to finish that story, to overcome the odds and tell the world of my success. Turns out my story is not that kind of story. When I broke my leg the second time I did not think it was okay. My growing was done after the first recovery, I had no desire to repeat the process. Yet there I was, uttering those five words, heart broken and forgetting I chose a long time ago to put my life in God’s hands. My story is not one of success or of failure, it is much deeper than that. My story is one of a Creator gently nudging me in a direction that would lead me to a better life, preparing for a future I do not yet know. What could have been was not comparable to what will be. My story is one of growth. My pain is not the same of what you might be going through or have gone through. Yet, if you have ever said those five words, if you have ever thought that you were better off writing your own story, you and I have something in common. I do not know why bad things happen, and I am not here to debate the theology behind it. I am here to ask you a question, a question so simple yet complex. A question you may not know the answer to. The question that has haunted me for years. What kind of story is yours?