Anthem of the Unbroken

Anthem of the Unbroken

The first thing I ever learned to fight was gravity.

I was born with both feet turned inward—clubbed. In 1980, when I was five months old, the surgeries began. Casts before my first words. My left foot took two rounds and mostly made its peace with walking. My right foot? That one became a battlefield with a mailing address. Too many surgeries to count. Metal. Screws. Scars that map the whole story if you run your finger slow.

They said I’d fall.
They said I’d break.
But God lit a fire…
And this fire don’t fade.

I grew up measuring distance in steps and seasons of rehab. I learned to laugh because it hurt less than crying and did the same job. I learned that progress is noisy and backsliding is quiet. I learned to love a challenge like it owed me money.

Years later, the hardest decision came dressed as a certainty. In the summer of 2015, the plan on the table was a below-knee amputation. “We’re at the end of what we can do,” they said—gentle voices, good people. I stared at my foot the way you look at a house you grew up in and wonder if it’s time to move. Family, friends, a loud and stubborn amputee community rallied around me. They fought for my choice, not against anyone. The doctors pivoted. On August 28, 2015, they replaced the ankle instead of taking the leg. Hardware went in like a small cathedral. I woke up feeling like a cyborg held together by prayer.

Rebuilding wasn’t cinematic. It was three years of patience that felt like forever. I relearned to walk, again. The rhythm of rehab is a drumline: count, breathe, push, rest, repeat. I collected small victories as if they were rare coins—one block without tears, a flight of stairs without bargaining, standing at the sink brushing my teeth without leaning on the counter. And when I finally walked—really walked—I thanked God for a miracle with bolts and polymer.

Steel in my bones, scars in my skin,
Every loss is fuel to win.
Pain in my foot, chains in my stride,
But I drag the ground, I will not hide.

Then came August 2024, mean with heat and harder news. The hardware had failed. The cartilage was gone. Bone kissing bone. My foot, the faithful fighter, was out of surgical options. “No more,” the doctor said—no malice, just math. Three choices followed like somber ushers: a brace that might buy me five years with bearable pain, another reconstruction with a high chance of failure, or amputation. You could’ve scraped my heart off the floor with a tongue depressor.

I chose the brace. I also chose an option that wasn’t on the form: trust God. Faith isn’t my last resort—it’s my first language. And I wasn’t going to walk this alone.

So we built a team. Nurse Practitioner Joy Keeton at Godley Family Medicine took the medical lead; Coach Dorothy Holland at Fitness Affect took the physical one. We agreed on a simple, wild premise: if we could safely build muscle around the failing joint—especially in my right foot and lower leg—it might act like a natural brace. Not a cure, not magic, but scaffolding my body would build for itself.

Joy put me on an experimental pharmaceutical. I won’t play scientist here; I’ll tell you my part: for me, it helped. It gave my body a chance to respond to the work. Joy and Dorothy mapped the plan like a mission—slow progress, strict form, relentless patience. They communicated constantly, guarding me from the ditch on either side: recklessness on one, fear on the other. My job was the hardest and the simplest—show up, do the work, be honest about the pain, and keep the faith.

I won’t bow, I won’t fall,
Even crawling — I’ll take it all.
By His word, I will not yield,
My God is my sword, my shield.

The brace was awkward at first, a spaceship part strapped to a human. The temptation was to hate it. Instead, I blessed it, thanked it, treated it like a bridge I’d one day cross without. Dorothy retrained my gait in fractions of an inch. We taught sleepy muscles to wake up and bear load—intrinsics of the foot, calves, hips, core—everything that could share the burden. Sets felt like sermons: three rounds of ten, breathe on the hard part, exhale the fear. Progress was measured in less-sore mornings, in one more minute upright, in a left turn that didn’t ignite fireworks in my ankle.

Some days the pain spiked and the world narrowed to a doorway and a chair. Some days I could almost hear the run I was chasing—like a song through a wall—so close the air changed. On the worst nights I laid out my tools like talismans: brace, ice, scriptures scribbled on paper, the text thread with Joy and Dorothy, the playlist that turned pain into rhythm. I’d pray in the dark: not for easy, for forward.

The enemy lies, whispers my name,
But fear has no power in holy flame.
Clock keeps ticking, body screams “quit,”
But I was built by God for this!

Fear speaks fluent practicality. It will hand you a pen and ask you to sign away tomorrow for the relief of today. But fear burns when you hold it near holy fire. So I kept bringing it to Jesus—again and again, like a stubborn thought you return to the altar until it finally stays. I told Joy the truth even when it embarrassed me. I told Dorothy when I needed to slow down even when I wanted to be a hero. The miracle wasn’t one big bang; it was a million small yesses—mine, Joy’s, Dorothy’s, and the God who stitched me together the first time.

“I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength.” I shouted that on stage for years. In the gym, it changed shape. “All things” became ankle circles, controlled eccentrics, step-ups with perfect alignment, stopping one rep before the joint barked back. It meant taking the win of walking a grocery aisle without seeing stars. It meant sitting in my car after a session, crying loudly and not apologizing to anyone for it.

Fear is the chain, doubt is the knife,
But faith in my God will cut through strife.
I’ll bleed, I’ll burn, I’ll break, I’ll fight,
But I will not quit — not tonight!

This is the part people don’t put on Instagram: the boredom. Healing is mostly repetition in a room that smells like rubber mats. It’s doing the same careful thing again, trusting your future to the compound interest of obedience. It’s a brace you learn to love and then, one day, forget to put on for an hour because your muscles carried more than they used to. It’s the first time you realize your foot trusted the floor. It’s hope, not as a feeling, but as a plan.

Where am I now? In the tension—walking more, hurting less on some days, still negotiating with pain on others. The brace is a tool, not a sentence. The muscle in my lower leg is changing shape, like a map redrawn after a hard winter. Sometimes I let myself imagine the impossible: a run, a dance, the simple joy of moving without bracing for impact. I don’t promise myself fairytales. I promise myself faithfulness.

I won’t bow, I won’t fall,
Even crawling — I’ll take it all.
By His word, I will not yield,
My God is my sword, my shield!

If you’ve read this far, hear me: the victory isn’t whether I ever sprint down a track. The victory is that I did not surrender my story to despair. Jesus held my will when my body couldn’t hold anything else. NP Joy Keeton fought with brains and heart. Coach Dorothy Holland fought with science and steel. Together we decided my right foot’s not a cautionary tale. It’s a testament.

“You can break my body… but you’ll never break my will.” That’s not a taunt. It’s a quiet oath I make at night and renew every morning. The fire God lit in me when I was five months old—tiny and bandaged and already fighting—still burns. Some days it roars. Some days it’s a coal under ash. Either way, it’s there. And I’ll keep walking toward it, inch by inch, breath by breath, until the ground stops feeling like an enemy and starts feeling like home.

Before I step offstage, I need to name the hands that kept me standing.

Bobby—my calm in the storm, my steady, stubborn, muscular constant. On August 12 we hit twenty-five years, and somehow you still meet every bad day with gentleness and every good day with laughter. You bench-press my chaos, my sass, and, yes, the Amazon boxes. You carried groceries and grief, braced my body and my spirit, and loved me like a promise you meant to keep. I love you. I’m here because you were.

To our kids, Bobbydale and Lexi: I’m sorry for the nights my pain crowded your rooms, for the appointments that stole weekends, for the way worry taught you grown-up words too early. Your silent heartache did not go unnoticed. I felt it—and I prayed it wouldn’t harden you, only deepen you. I only ever wanted to be the best mom I could be. I’m proud of you—of your grit, your kindness, your humor when the air got heavy. You’re my favorite proof that love can do hard things.

Mom, thank you for praying when no one was around to hear it. You fought battles on carpet and kitchen tile, and your tears—though unseen by human eyes—were felt by Jesus. My soul knew of your sacred prayers; they found me when I was too tired to speak. Grandma, thank you for the faithful, everyday prayers that stitched a net under me. Some miracles arrive loud; some show up as someone who won’t stop praying.

Daddy, thank you for the years you were here—from 1980 to January 6th, 2009. Your imperfect love still gave me a firm foundation. My soul misses you, Daddy. See you one day, far, far in the future.

To my brother and sister: your sarcasm is medicine. You made me laugh when I wanted to break things, and deep down I always knew you wanted to fix it for me if you could. That love landed.

God rest the soul of Susan Lane, who led the fight that saved my leg in 2015. Her courage helped rewrite my story. She is dearly missed, and I carry her yes with me.

Joy Keeton, thank you—for listening like it’s a clinical skill (because it is), for treating the whole person, and for working to heal with more than mere pharmaceuticals. It’s rare to find a medical professional who partners like that. I’m grateful it’s you.

Dorothy Holland, thank you for believing I was worth the chance. You could have said no—and I would have understood—but you didn’t. You chose to stand in the gap with me and build what others said couldn’t be built.

Joy and Dorothy are the kind of professionals this world needs more of—sharp minds, bigger hearts, and a bias for hope.

To my employers, Deahl andPatti Rooks: thank you for your prayers, your patience, and your trust. You supported me in the “what ifs” and the “even ifs.” Even when my foot gave me trouble—even if my leg had been amputated—you never held it against me. Where others might have let me go, you saw the fight God put in me and kept entrusting me with the care of your youngest. That faith has weight; I carry it with honor.

To my friends near and far who kept believing when I couldn’t—who texted, called, sat, drove, cooked, and reminded me I’m more than my x-rays—thank you. Much love to Broski (Casey Gibson), Mary Wright, Trinity Obenauf, Deanna Norman, Eva Vrbančič, Jon Tingle, Eldon Brack and so many others whose names live in my phone and my ribcage. You were a chorus when I needed more than a solo.

And most of all—Jesus. Thank You for surrounding me with Your arms and warmth, for carrying me when my soul was ready to fade, for meeting me in operating rooms, waiting rooms, and living rooms with the same steady presence. When I ran out of strength, You were not out of me.

This is my vow in the light of all that love: I will keep showing up. I will keep turning pain into prayer, prayer into practice, and practice into steps—small, stubborn, forward. If the fire dims, I’ll tend it. If the ground tilts, I’ll brace it. I won’t bow, and I won’t fall without reaching. We built this endurance together, and by His word I’m not done yet.

Psalm 40:2 (ESV) — “He set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure.”
-Amy Lee Murr