God doesn’t run His kingdom on tidy plans and five-year goals.
He parts seas and raises the dead.
He told His people to march around a city for seven days and blow trumpets.
He fed thousands with a little boy’s lunch.
He told a general with leprosy to bathe seven times in a muddy river.
He had Moses lift a bronze serpent on a pole for healing.
He equipped a woman with a broken body to praise Him from a hospital bed.
And the ultimate? Paul said it when talking about the foolishness of the cross to people.
It doesn’t make sense to the human mind that a Jew executed on a Roman cross would be the Savior.

This is not a normal hospital stay.
But we left normal many exits back.
We came for my wife to undergo two more surgeries, adding to her long list.
That was four months—and nine operations—ago.
Gracie’s now at ninety-eight.
Yes, you read that right. Ninety. Eight.
Surgeries. Procedures. Anesthesia. ICUs. Step-down units. Physical therapy. Blood loss. Pain meds. Infections. Setbacks. Do-overs. You name it.

We passed absurd somewhere after surgery #50. But at #98? That’s when my mother said something over the phone this week that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about:
“This is so ridiculous … it has to be God.”

Not sarcasm. Not a joke. Just clarity—spoken down the line from a weary, faith-worn mother who’s watched us walk this road for decades.
Decades of the impossible becoming inevitable—and somehow survivable.

Nearly all of this traces back to a horrific car accident Gracie had in 1983—before I even met her. She collided with a cement abutment. Her injuries were catastrophic. She was rebuilt as best as medicine allowed at the time and set on a lifelong path of orthopedic hardship. Eventually, she lost both legs. And the surgeries count mounted. By the time we were engaged, she was already at twenty-one operations. And it hasn’t slowed down since.

After nearly forty years as a caregiver, I thought I’d heard it all. But that one line from my mother?
That was theology dressed in civilian attire. And it was dead-on.

Because this level of hardship, this scale of endurance—it doesn’t make sense.
I have no spreadsheet to explain how we’re still upright.
Physically? We’re worn to the bone.
Emotionally? Charred.
Financially? Let’s just say there’s not a GoFundMe page big enough.
But spiritually?
Oddly anchored.

Don’t get me wrong—I’ve asked questions.
I’ve shouted prayers into parking decks.
I’ve clenched fists in hospital chapels.
I’ve stared at vending machines, not knowing what day it was, trying to remember the last time either of us slept.
I’ve wondered if heaven put me on hold.
And yet …

I’ve seen a different kind of math — the kind that doesn’t show up on spreadsheets. Heaven’s math.
Because when I tally the surgeries, I also have to count the grace.
The unexpected provision.
The absurd peace.
The kind of calm that defies diagnostics.

Last month, the entire wound on her left leg dehisced when she sat up in bed, opening four inches wide and a foot long. I was reminded of why I’m a musician, not a surgeon. I quickly got the nurses into the room and directed them to call the surgical staff while keeping Gracie calm. As I helped her recline back in bed, she held my hand with everything in her while crying and trying to breathe. Telling her not to look down, I made eye contact with her while a team rushed to her side to address the wound. Not knowing what to do, I led her in the first chorus that came to my mind.
“In my life, Lord – be glorified; be glorified.”
Gracie sang with me, and then she took over—through gasps for breath: “In my leg, Lord – be glorified; be glorified.”
The nurses and doctors were stunned. In their years, they’ve heard screaming, crying, cursing—but no one had heard singing and asking God to be glorified in such a wound.
That’s not math that we understand.
It was so ridiculous to the human mind — it had to be God.

That’s when Paul’s words to the Corinthians start ringing through the hospital walls:

“For the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men.”
—1 Corinthians 1:25

God doesn’t run His kingdom on tidy plans and five-year goals.
He parts seas and raises the dead.
He told His people to march around a city for seven days and blow trumpets.
He fed thousands with a little boy’s lunch.
He told a general with leprosy to bathe seven times in a muddy river.
He had Moses lift a bronze serpent on a pole for healing.
He equipped a woman with a broken body to praise Him from a hospital bed.
And the ultimate? Paul said it when talking about the foolishness of the cross to people.
It doesn’t make sense to the human mind that a Jew executed on a Roman cross would be the Savior.

So yes—ridiculous?
Absolutely.
But divinely ridiculous.

After surgery #25, you’ve got a story to tell the grandkids.
After #50, people suggest writing a book.
After #90, you stop pretending this is something you can manage.
You realize something else—Someone else—is clearly at work.

Because there’s no explanation left but this:
But God …

That’s when you stop clinging to a gospel of easy answers—and cling to the one that bled, suffered, and conquered death.
I used to pray for answers.
Now? I pray for presence.
I used to beg for relief.
Now? I ask for the grace to get through the day.
I used to feel pressure to explain our story.
Now? I just let people watch what happens when Christ walks with someone through suffering—and doesn’t leave.

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you … and through the fire, you shall not be burned.”
—Isaiah 43:2

We may not be done. Gracie’s body is worn. But her spirit? Iron.
And me?
I’ve stopped trying to chart the road ahead—because that map caught fire a long time ago.
Instead, I hold fast to something scandalously simple:
God is good.
Christ is near.
Grace is sufficient.
Even when nothing else makes sense.
Maybe especially then.

So when someone hears our story and shakes their head in disbelief, I’ll borrow my mom’s words. Because, honestly, they’re the only ones that fit:
“This is so ridiculous, it has to be God.”

I wouldn’t have chosen this road.
Gracie certainly wouldn’t.
But even here, even now—we’re learning that His presence is not a consolation prize.
It’s the very point.

Peter Rosenberger hosts the nationally syndicated radio program, Hope for the Caregiver. His newest book is “A Caregiver’s Companion: Scriptures, Hymns, and Forty Years of Insights for Life’s Toughest Role.” Fidels Publishing August 2025. @hope4caregiver