Did I ever tell you about the 28 days that I spent in isolation? I was 33 years old, 350 miles away from home and undergoing treatment for acute leukemia.

Entering that room at M.D. Anderson Hospital was necessary. I needed a sterile environment to prevent infection from invading my body once my immune system was destroyed by the chemotherapy.

As I walked through the door of the isolation room, to my immediate right was the foot of the bed. The door and bed consumed the width of the room. Directly opposite the door was a large window through which I could view visitors. It didn’t take long to inventory the furniture in my sparse, new home. In addition to the bed, there was a sink, a camper’s potty and a television on a metal stand. The bed was along the wall that housed an opening protected by a thick plastic curtain. My IV tubes ran through this opening and nurses would place their hands in gloves, which were incorporated into the curtain, to check my vital signs throughout the day.

This was undoubtedly the most primitive environment that I had ever lived in. My idea of camping is a hotel without a microwave, but it didn’t take long for me to adjust to my new surroundings.

The day I was released, I quickly walked through the corridor to join my husband, who stood by the visitor’s window outside of my room. Suddenly, I turned and looked into my room and stepped back in surprise. “It’s so small,” I exclaimed. “That room is so incredibly small.

“Yes…” Michael hesitated, “But didn’t you realize how small it was when you were in there?”

“No,” I answered, surprising even myself. “When I was in there, it didn’t feel that small. But now, on this side of the window, it seems so tiny.”

While I was in that room, the box, it was

sufficient. However, once released, it was amazing to think that I had existed in

that small space. I just wanted to stretch my legs, walk away and never again live in that box.

  Through a miraculous healing from God, I never returned to the isolation room at M.D. Anderson, and I was blessed with a fifth child, Victoria Grace. She is my daily reminder that all things are possible with God.

In spite of all of this, I am embarrassed to say that I sometimes allow myself to go back to living life in a box. Maybe not a box at a hospital, but mental, self-constructed frames that confine my ideas, my dreams and even my prayers to what I can believe is possible. When I do that, it’s as though I also place God in my own little theological box, doubting His ability to be all that He is, the God of the impossible.

I am determined to break out of the box and return to the faith I so easily exercised when I was in desperate need of a miracle. Looking past my own faults and fears, I am placing my trust in the One Who cannot fail, for “He performs wonders that cannot be fathomed, miracles that cannot be counted.” Job 5:9

Ronny may be reached at rmichel@rtconline.com.