Recently I wrote a column in which I addressed the question, “What’s this world coming to?”

Basically, I said, despite the horrors we hear about daily, the world remains a “mostly good” place. Bad things happen, but good things happen, too, far more good than bad. It’s a matter of perspective, how we choose to look at it.

As I finished that column, I could almost hear my mother say, ‘You forgot to add ‘Lord willing and knock on wood!’ ”

If you aren’t familiar with the term, I’ll try to explain it, but don’t expect it to make sense.

The first part, of course, is just a way of saying, “God’s will be done.” The second part is an old superstition, a silly belief that if you say something is good — your health or luck or life in general — you need to “knock on wood” or the good thing you noted might soon turn to bad.

It has to be wood. Plastic or metal won’t work. And you have to do it right away, while saying the words, “Knock on wood.”

Far be it from me to put faith in superstition. But I am my mother’s daughter and nobody’s fool and, well, why tempt fate? I might’ve said, “Lord willing and knock on wood.” But I forgot.

And the very next day —  as a coincidence, I’m sure, not a consequence — I tripped on my shoe, twisted my ankle and broke two bones in my foot.

It was one of those bad things that happen to all of us. But it happened to me. And there was not one good thing about it.

Except it could’ve been worse. Instead of my foot, it might’ve been my head. And it didn’t require surgery or a cast. Just a big ugly boot with 40 Velcro straps to wear day and night, while also using a wheelchair, for six to eight weeks.

And just like that, in the twinkling of an eye and the twisting of an ankle, I stopped being someone who could walk and drive and do as she pleased, more or less, and never liked asking for any kind of help.

It’s a sobering experience to suddenly lose something you’ve always taken for granted.

My brother is blind and suffers from cerebral palsy. It shames me to admit he has complained less in all his years than I have in this past week.

Fortunately, help is in good supply. My husband has outdone himself, proving to me and to anyone who wondered, why exactly I married him. How he’ll hold up for seven weeks remains to be seen.

Friends and family have also offered to help, though they live miles away, and it’s hard to send a tuna casserole by mail.

My kids and grandkids call or text or FaceTime to check on me, and the sound of their voices and the photos they send are almost as good as pain pills.

My daughter and her 4-year-old flew from California to spend a few days with us.

“I’m sorry you broke your foot, Nana,” Henry said. “I’m going to take really good care of you.”

And indeed he has (when he isn’t shooting water cannons in the pool or watching cartoons with Papa Mark). Today we played hide ‘n’ seek, just the two of us. Henry hid in all sorts of good places, but I found him every time. That’s what nanas do, even with a broken foot.

My turn to hide posed a problem. Where exactly does a woman in a wheelchair hide?

“Here, Nana,” Henry said, handing me a sweater. “Roll away some place, then put this over your head and wait for me to come find you!”

I wheeled myself behind a chair, threw the sweater over my head and sat like a stump waiting for Henry to find me.

He took his time, pretending not to notice the nana-sized elephant in the room. When he ran off to pretend to search the bedrooms, I wasn’t worried. I knew for sure, sooner or later, he would find me.

Bad things happen, but good things happen, too, far more good than bad.

Love will always find us. Lord willing and knock on wood.

Sharon Randall can be reached at P.O. Box 777394, Henderson NV 89077 or on her website: www.sharonrandall.com.