I never imagined that walking would become a conscious act, a miracle measured in deliberate steps and gratitude tucked into each movement. And yet, here I am—telling a story that involves not only scalpels, prosthetics, and a new knee, but also the invisible hand of God guiding the men and women who have devoted their lives to the art of healing.
My surgery took place in Seattle. A total knee replacement. Something that, decades ago, would have meant prolonged suffering, increasing disability, and a life reduced by chronic pain. But today, thanks to scientific advancement, to precise technology, and to the diligent study of those who have spent years learning the human body, I experienced a surgical procedure that borders on the miraculous. I don’t use that word lightly. Because even though there were no flashes of lightning or visions of heaven, there was something sacred in that cold room, filled with machines humming with borrowed wisdom.
It all began with a pain I could no longer ignore. It wasn’t just the natural wear of age or the toll of an active life. It was a persistent reminder that this body has limits, and that living with pain—while it may refine the soul—can also wear it down if not accompanied by hope. So I sought the guidance of specialists. And that’s how I ended up in the care of experts in Seattle—a city known for its strongly liberal and progressive atmosphere, but also home to men and women deeply committed to study, medicine, and cutting-edge science.
It’s a city of contrasts—bold ideas paired with a reverent precision for knowledge. And in the middle of it all, I discovered there’s no contradiction between faith and science when both serve the purpose of healing. What some see as opposites, I experienced as divine harmony.
From the planning of the timeline to the coordination of the trip, from the packed suitcase to the first step inside the hospital—she was right there. My wife was more than company; she was certainty. Every journey we took toward Seattle, every decision, every document signed, every room we entered together—was lit by her gaze. A gaze that gives me everything. There is no other way to say it. Just by being there, she reminded me that I wasn’t alone, that this was not a battle but a path we were walking together.
From the very first consultation, I knew I was in good hands. But more than that, I felt I was in hands prepared by the Lord. Because even though they spoke in technical terms—post-operative protocols, regional anesthesia, titanium prosthetics, and future physical therapy—I couldn’t help but think of a scripture: “All these things come from the Lord.” Not everything divine comes with wings. Sometimes, it comes with surgical gloves, white coats, and medical degrees hanging on the wall.
The day of the operation was a strange mix of peace and nerves. I was surrounded by professionals who knew exactly what to do, and yet my mind couldn’t help but return to the moment I prayed in silence as the IV was placed. I didn’t ask for a miracle in the traditional sense. I asked that the hands of those doctors be guided. That their decisions be inspired. And that, if the Lord allowed it, I might return home with the assurance that the pain I had carried for years would soon be only a memory.
I woke up a few hours later with a new knee and a remarkable clarity. The pain I felt was nothing like the one that brought me to that operating room. It was different—a pain that signaled renewal. It was as if my body was saying, “Something changed. Hold on just a little longer. You’re going to be okay.”
And then I saw her.
After the surgery, while my body was adjusting to this new chapter, they brought me to the recovery room. There, beneath the soft lights and the steady hum of machines, appeared the face I had been waiting for. My wife. I can’t fully describe what I felt in that moment—it was a mixture of relief, peace, and deep love. Amidst the tubes, the bandages, and the lingering anesthesia, her gaze reminded me that even in fragility—even in vulnerability—there is comfort. There is tenderness. There is purpose.
She didn’t need to say much. Her presence alone was medicine. And in that instant, I realized I hadn’t just awakened with a new knee. I had awakened to a greater truth: that God’s love manifests through those who love us most. Seeing her there, so steady and gentle, was a blessing I hadn’t anticipated with such intensity.
“And my soul was filled with joy as much as my body regained strength.” (Alma 27:17, paraphrased). That’s exactly how I felt. Though my body was sore and weak, my soul was full. Not because of the surgery itself, but because of the unwavering love of someone who has stood by me through it all—even on the days when I could barely stand myself.
I then remembered a passage from the Old Testament: “Behold, I have created the smith who blows the coals in the fire… and I have created the waster to destroy” (Isaiah 54:16). In other words, the Lord also creates the craftsman—the one who controls the fire, who forges the new. Today, those modern smiths are the biomedical engineers who design prosthetics, the orthopedic surgeons who cut and align with millimeter precision, the anesthesiologists who subdue pain with exact formulas, the nurses who serve in quiet devotion.
It’s not idolatry to acknowledge the value of science. It’s rightly placed gratitude. Because the science that’s used to relieve human suffering is, without a doubt, part of the Lord’s plan. We don’t live in Moses’ time. We live in the era of microsurgery, artificial intelligence, custom implants, and regenerative medicine. But the God who guided Moses is still the same one who inspires a surgeon in Seattle.
The pain management was so effective I could hardly believe it. Precise medications, constant monitoring, clear instructions. I felt cared for at every step. And not just by the healthcare professionals—but by that feeling that behind all the science, there was a divine design giving it meaning.
Even the hospital itself felt like a temple of knowledge—its orderly rooms, impeccable protocols, cold lights that illuminated more than wounds: they illuminated hope. Every machine, every technique used, was the result of years of study. But also of faith. Faith that pain is not the end. Faith that the body can be restored. Faith that the future can be brighter than the past.
Many say that technology drives us away from God. But my experience has shown me the opposite. In my case, technology brought me closer to Him. Because I understood that living without pain is a blessing. That being able to walk, to bend my knee, and even dream of kneeling again, is a modern miracle born of the same eternal God.
Now, as I begin this process of healing, I know that every small progress will serve as a reminder of God’s love manifested through science, professionals, treatments—and most especially, through that woman who waited for me after the surgery with a love that can’t be bought or fabricated, but is built through shared faith and years lived side by side.
To live in this era is a blessing. To have access to these resources is a privilege. And to be a witness of it all is a responsibility: to never silence the miracle, even if it was stitched together by human hands—because those hands, I am sure, were guided from above.
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