God with Skin

CHAPTER 6

Tuesday, May 13
17:00 pm
Las Cruces, NM

"Jesus might have said, 'I became man for you. If you do not become God for me, you wrong me.'" Meister Eckhart

"Christ has no hands but our hands to do His work today
He has no feet but our feet to lead men in the way
He has no tongue but our tongue to tell men how He died
He has no help but our help to bring them to His side.
- Annie Johnston Flint"

"Where two or more of you are gathered in my name, there I am in your midst." - Jesus of Nazareth (Matthew 18:20 NIV)

Fred tells a familiar, “chicken-soup-for-for-the-soul” kind of story about a young girl who had been tucked into bed, said her prayers with her mom and dad when a thunder and lightning storm struck with bone-chilling force and window rattling sound.Her mom and dad sensing her fright told her that she need not be afraid, “God is always with you.” They made sure her night light was on and closed the door. The thunder and lightening increased in its furiousness. After an especially loud clap of thunder the little girl bounded out of bed and ran to her parents. They held her close and reminded her that she didn’t need to be afraid, God was always with her. To that she replied, “I know that, but sometimes I just need God with skin on.”

It was about 5:00 in the afternoon several days after Fred’s accident. I had spent hours that day beside his bed in ICU. I was feeling a little light headed and hungry. I didn’t want to go to a restaurant or the hospital cafeteria so I decided to drive home. Fortunately, our home was only about 3 miles from the hospital. As I drove through our neighborhood on this sunny afternoon I started to ponder, “I wonder what I should to be feeling right now? You would think that someone who has had a relationship with God for most to her life, a pastor’s wife notwithstanding, would be feeling very close to God. She would be overwhelmed with his presence and peace. As the car curved around the street I admitted to myself I felt none of these things. Instead I felt incredibly sad, very tired, and just plain empty.

I know that our walk of faith is not one that is to be based on feelings but I love those times when feelings line up with what you know to be true; when you can literally feel the presence of God, you know he is as real as the furniture in the room or the clothes on your back. This would often be the case for me during the singing of worship and praise songs or on a hike on a beautiful day in the mountains where the magnificence of creation would shout, “I AM!” I wished for that reassurance on my ride home. I longed to see and feel Jesus. I wanted God with skin on.

I was about a half block from our home when I saw him. I pulled over to the side of the road and watched. I saw him coming out of our home with a mop and a bucket, with a broom and a dust pan. Recently I found an open letter that I wrote to our Northminster congregation during this time.

May 18, 1997

What a week this has been. I’m not sure what I thought I would feel – you know, being a Christian facing the trial of a lifetime. To be honest there were not a lot of warm fuzzy moments in which I felt a supernatural surge of God’s power. My cry to God was that I felt weak and so brokenhearted that I didn’t think I could stand it. It would tear my heart out to hear Fred cry out in pain and not be able to do anything. When I would go home and see Fred’s tennis shoes, Brandon wagging his tail expectantly, or even see the TV that should be tuned to a sports station with Fred eating chips and salsa in front of it, all I could do was cry. I love Fred so much, I can’t imagine life without him.

It was in the midst of this weakness and sadness, however, that I did see Jesus. I saw him leaving my house after cleaning it one afternoon. He left fresh bread on my counter and food in my refrigerator. He even replenished my favorite flavored coffee creamer. He held my hand when I needed to cry, wrote me notes, and sent me flowers. He stayed all night with Fred so that I could go home and rest peacefully. He mowed my lawn, fixed the cooler, and saved seats for us at Melissa’s graduation. He prayed with me and for me.

Thank you for being God with skin this past week.Judy

God with skin on is what Christ has called us to be here on this earth. If that was how we acted, if that is what was on display to the world, it is my guess people would flock to the Church. Instead of that, the stories that make the headlines are of misuse of funds by a church leader, or that a pastor or church leader has had an affair with a church member or even worse molested a young person. If that is what I thought being a part of a Christian church was all about, I too would turn the other direction.

If you have had the wonderful privilege of being part of a caring family of believers - usually that means a part of a local church family - you know that there are a thousand other stories that could and should be told about how Christians care for one another. Ours is one of those stories that never made the news but should be told.

From the first minute of the night of the accident when Melissa and I were led to the small, private waiting room we were not alone. Dave Sallee, a colleague and friend of Fred’s was there with his wife Nancy from the beginning of the night to the end. He would go to the larger waiting room and give updates to those that had come to the hospital. God with skin on.

Our church was home to a Montessori Preschool. Some of the little children were being picked up when the accident happened. Several of the families with young children were the first to come to the hospital and begin a vigil of prayer and support. During the evening, someone counted 70 people that had come to the hospital. They spilled out from the Emergency Waiting Room, to the Hospital Lobby, to the Prayer Chapel. Some would go home, others would arrive as the news spread through the community. College students mingled with the concerned elderly. God with skin on.

I had developed a wonderful friendship with a colleague from the Head Start program that I directed. She was a gift to me. Betty was also married to a pastor but had maintained her own career throughout their time of ministry. She was a nurse who had spent time in public health prior to joining the Head Start staff. We had long talks and could gracefully move from talking about children and families in our program to our own personal lives. This interchange was sprinkled with times of prayer.

Betty sat beside me in the small waiting room, holding my hand and explaining the implications of the reports that the doctors and nurses would give us. She was a calming, reassuring presence. It was Betty who took Melissa aside and said, “if your mom is having a bad day, just give me a call. I’ll come as soon as I can.” Kresta, who arrived two days later, and Melissa took her up on that offer just a couple of days later. God with skin on.

At one point a man threw open the door to the small waiting room to extend his support and tell me the people at his church were praying for Fred. “And who are you?” He explained he knew Fred from Rotary. It was then that I realized the news of Fred’s accident was spreading like wild fire. The base of support was reaching far beyond our close friends and church members. God with skin on.

When Fred was moved to ICU where he would spend the next 28 days, there was a constant flow of people to sit beside me, touch me, encourage me and even laugh with me. Morphine masks not only the pain but the brain! Fred said some of the most hilarious things in his attempts to talk people into helping him get out of the bed that was so restrictive.

“Get me out of bed. I need to get the megaphone for the line dance.”

“Get me out of bed. I need to go see the Soup Natzi (from a Seinfeld episode)”

When those didn’t work, he turned to a more spiritual argument.

“Get me out of bed. I need to process the paperwork for the conversions from last night.”

We started keeping a notebook for people to sign, leave messages, and also funny things that Fred said. God with skin was there every day.

It was Sunday morning, three days after the accident, and I was alone in ICU with Fred. I couldn’t emotionally face going to church that morning and seeing someone else in the pulpit.

The quiet of the morning, however, allowed me an opportunity to talk with Dr. San Filippo. I asked him in the typical American, instant everything manner, “So, are you going to do surgery on his neck tomorrow or the next day?” His answer startled me. He said, “It’s not when he gets to surgery, it’s if he gets to surgery.”

Dr. San Filippo then explained to me what I turned into the Big Four. He said that due to the number of bones that were broken, there was a risk of developing blood clots. These clots could break loose and move to his heart, lungs or brain. Pneumonia could set in because of Fred’s immobility. His external wounds could become infected and his wounded internal organs could develop internal bleeding. Each of these things would be addressed medically but there were no guarantees.

Fred’s rotating bed would promote circulation and help reduce the chances of pneumonia, they would put in a vena cava filter to help catch blood clots, they would clean and monitor his wounds and his vital organ signs. But he reiterated again, there were no guarantees. Each of these things could take Fred’s life before surgery. He gave and example of a young man who had had pelvic injuries just a few weeks prior and had died of a blood clot.

I’m sure it is necessary for doctors to give the worst case scenarios and to not give false hope to patients and their families, but wow, hearing this news felt like a bucket of cold water had been poured over me. At that moment, I sarcastically nicknamed Dr. San Filippo, Dr. Sunshine!

As I gained my composure, I told Dr. San Filippo that I knew there were people in the hospital right now who believed in God and were praying for recovery but, due to the seriousness of their conditions, were going to die. That is what we do. We are born, we live, we die. Many times death comes when we yearn for longer life, more time with our families, more time to do things that are undone, to see places we have not seen.

"But," I continued. "I believe that God is able to intervene in areas that are out of our control." So, I would be praying that God would be the attendant of the “Big Four,” that he would take care of the things that were out of our control. “You do your job, Dr. San Filippo, and we will leave the rest to God.”

Prayer was another area where there was real and overwhelming support. God was in skin by Fred’s bedside when colleagues from the Ministerial Fellowship would stop by and tearfully share Scripture and prayer. God was the Episcopal Priest who made the sign of the cross on Fred’s forehead each time he visited and told how his congregation had said prayers for us. God was incarnated in the presence of the Elders who came to the Trauma room the first night to anoint Fred with oil and pray for divine healing. God was there in the lives of those who came, and without saying a word out loud, put their arms around my shoulders. I knew their loving presence was a cry out to God on our behalf. And though not visible to us, there were thousands of people across the country and around the world, who, when Fred’s injuries reached their respective ears, fervently prayed for him and for me.

Having always believed in the power of prayer, this new outpouring for us was both humbling and powerful. Prayer became something more than a routine function; it became our lifeline to God’s healing grace and sustaining strength. And it was all because of the promise Jesus had once made: “Wherever two or more are gathered in my name, there I am in their midst.” (Matthew 18:20)

Sometimes we do need a God with skin! Knowing Jesus was with me in such precious, tangible ways was an absolutely life-giving source of grace and strength that helped calm the stormy seas and give the courage and peace to make it through this part of my life’s journey.

A Day Just Like Every Other Day

CHAPTER 5

05:15 am MDT
May 8, 2010
Las Cruces, NM

“There exists only the present instant... a Now which always and without end is itself new. There is no yesterday nor any tomorrow, but only Now, as it was a thousand years ago and as it will be a thousand years hence.” Meister Eckhart

“Do exactly what you would do if you felt most secure.” Meister Eckhart

“Life is what happens to you while making other plans.” John Lennon

Thursday, that fateful day in May began for me just like any other day. I had awakened early – around 5:00 a.m. The first light of day was beginning to dawn with subtle orange and pastel pink hues. The light filtered into our bedroom window through the blinds on the French doors that led to our viewing balcony.

Brandon, my Golden Retriever was by my side as I went downstairs to start the morning coffee. For the 4 years we had been together we had become attached at the hip. He went to the office with me; faithfully followed me every step of the way as I mowed our lawn; curled up by the recliner in the evening as I watched TV and liked going anywhere with me in the car. We sometimes joked that Brandon was the son we never had. While the rest of the family slept, Brandon's and my daily, morning schedule followed a closely prescribed routine. It was pretty much the same every day.

That morning, as soon as I opened the front door, Brandon shot past me like a bolt. Like he had some secret, urgent mission to accomplish upon which someone’s life depended, he made several frantic circles around the front yard before focusing his radar on daily copy of the El Paso Times. As quickly as his morning mission to relieve himself had begun, once he had refocused and now was locked onto his ultimate target. He was possessed by a different set of instincts; retrieving. He scooped up the paper in his gentle mouth and proudly brought it to me, sitting down by my side to let me take it from him.

Once inside, he lay impatiently my side. Like a coiled spring he was ready to unwind completely but he knew the routine. Years of daily routine fed his brain the fact that it wouldn’t be long before we headed out the door and up to the end of our cul de sac, Cloudcroft Circle, to venture out into the East Mesa desert for our daily 5 mile run.

For now he had to content himself by thinking of all the rabbits and quail he would soon be chasing. As he stretched out on the tile floor, he would let out an occasional muffled yelp and his legs would twitch as he dreamed of the chase. Only occasionally was he lucky enough or stealthy enough to catch such a prize. And when he did, he never killed. It was on more than one occasion that some poor stunned animal, playing dead, and covered with the foamy saliva of his captor, was laid at my feet. With eyes that seemed to say “aren’t you proud of me? Look what I brought you!” and his entire body convulsing in a tail-wag gone mad, he would bound off for the next adventure in the desert. Now in his semi-conscious sleep, he dreamed of the chase.

My routine during this time was to read the paper, particularly the sports section. Then I finished the Crossword Puzzle and the other word games. I had only to fold up the paper for Brandon’s normally bent ears to perk up. Jumping to attention, he looked at me with the same expectant eyes a child might have towards a parent just before going on a ride at an amusement park. This was his favorite part of the day. It was mine also.

After putting on my running shorts and lacing my Brooks Beast running shoes, I downed the last remaining swallow of morning coffee, set the cup in the sink and made for the door. We were ready to go. Brandon knew just what to do. He went to the laundry room, grabbed his leash from its customary hook and, with leash in mouth, began his joyous prance of anticipation.

This was our daily routine. During the winter months, when the temperatures were milder, we sometimes ran in the afternoon. In mid-May it was best to get out early. The temperature would undoubtedly climb into the high 90s or low 100s by late afternoon. Heavy physical exertion could be dangerous for dogs and humans. Besides, we both preferred the early morning solitude of the desert.

The sun was just beginning to filter its brilliant gold radiance over the jagged peaks of the Organ Mountains. These mountains are so named because their towering cliffs and rocky crags resemble the pipe organ of a great cathedral. The desert was alive with the sights and sounds of wildlife.

There was a gap in the rock wall at the east end our street. This man-made space was to allow the rare, but torrential waters of summer thunderstorms to pass through and find their way into the storm drains. It also allowed a person on foot or mountain bike admission to the desert’s mysterious and haunting beauty. As we passed through that break and I removed Brandon’s leash, a lizard scurried to find cover under one of the many Creosote plants.

Large desert jackrabbits were also out in abundance. Chasing these rabbits was Brandon’s main reason for living. Simply mentioning the word ‘rabbit’ sent him off on a frenzied dash through the rocky, cactus strewn hillsides – only to be seen again in a half mile or so. One day, he had seen a coyote off in the distance and off he bounded only to come charging back with his tail between his legs as he realized the coyote he had seen was accompanied by 2 or 3 friends who shrewdly waited for him to approach and then reversed the chase.

If I ran five miles, Brandon must have run 8 or 9 on these daily jaunts. He was lean and athletic. He was born to run and run he did, with carefree abandon and enthusiasm. His joyful exuberance somehow seemed to buoy my flagging spirits and tired muscles.

For me, these morning runs were my time for prayer, reflection and spiritual renewal. The fresh sweet air was scented with the fragrance of morning dew on Creosote, Cholla, Ocotillo and Prickly Pear cactus, all of which were in bloom. I was invigorated with each step. Very seldom did we encounter other runners or walkers although I always followed a path that had obviously formed from years of such use by others. That morning we were all alone and it was wonderfully refreshing. It was the kind of morning that made you think “It’s a gift to be alive.”

As we neared the completion our usual route, it was time to get Brandon’s leash back on him and cover the last half mile or so through the neighborhoods of High Point – the general name for this subdivision of stuccoed, southwestern homes. Signs of life were just beginning in those homes as families rose, ate their breakfast, and prepared for work, school and the other activities with which suburban families fill their days.

We arrived home to our two story, Mediterranean style home and came in through the decorative wrought iron gate that led to the back yard. This was the home Judy and I called our dream home. We had it built just three years earlier thinking we would be staying in Las Cruces for many more years to come. Facing south and sitting on a hill, the living room had a high, majestic ceiling with large arched windows that looked out across the neighborhood. With little effort, a glance to the right afforded a view of the Rio Grande Valley to the west. It was a verdant green at this time of year with budding pecan trees, and acres of green chile fields. To the left was a view of the Organ Mountains.

Brandon headed off to get a drink of water and find a shady spot to rest and relive his morning adventure. He would spend the rest of his day snoozing and dreaming about catching one of those elusive rabbits and keeping watch over the house. I went back to the kitchen and poured another cup of coffee, peeled open a fruit and granola bar and turned on the small TV that sat by the breakfast bar. The morning news was on but not much was happening. I turned it to ESPN to check the baseball scores. The day had begun. So far, it had begun just like most other days.

Judy was just rising. After mixing some cream and sugar into her coffee and getting oriented to a new day, we talked briefly about our plans for the day. As the Administrator for the Head Start program for Las Cruces Public Schools, she told me she had a number of interviews to conduct that day but would be home at a regular hour. There were no other special plans or activities planned for that day for either of us. We would have dinner together that evening, joined by daughter Melissa and more than likely her fiancé Jerry.

I went upstairs and pressed the shirt I intended to wear that day. It was a peach colored shirt I had just ordered from the Lands End Catalogue. It went well with the Tabasco brand tie Judy had recently given me. A quick shower, another glimpse out the viewing balcony off our Master Bedroom, and I was ready to head over to the church.

I loved this house. In comparison to many, it was not huge. But its architecture, red tile roof, stately columns and dramatic windows were striking. It sat on a small rise at the corner of Cheyenne Street and Cloudcroft Circle. We often thought of it as a sentinel guarding the entrance to our cul de sac and the 40 or so homes that formed our immediate neighborhood. As I walked through the laundry room and out into the garage, I had no inkling that I might never have the chance to relax in the recliner, listen to jazz in our Family Room loft or sleep in our water bed again. Little did I know I might never again experience and enjoy that early morning reverie at the breakfast bar, or tend the rose garden we had planted on the East side of the house. I just assumed I would be back around dinner after another pretty ordinary day of ministry.

My 1994 Honda Passport made the seven mile jaunt down the hill and across the Rio Grande Valley to church like it was on auto pilot. Up Roadrunner Boulevard to US 70. Wait for just enough of a break in the steady stream of engineers headed out to the White Sands Missile Range. Ease across the Eastbound lanes and sneak into the turn lane, then gradually get over into the right hand lane and head West down the hill. Turn right at the Albertsons store and wind your way further west to Valley Drive. Be careful as you pass Mayfield High School as student drivers, pedestrians and cyclists would all be arriving at the same time. Turn north on Valley Drive for 2 blocks and turn into the expansive, half-paved parking area of Northminster Presbyterian Church. This was the daily route. I hardly had to think about it. Only rarely did I vary it.

Once at the church, I marveled yet again at its beauty. The original building sat on nearly 4 acres of what used to be farm land. Directly to the East, across Valley Drive or US Highway 85, there was a large field, normally planted in cotton; occasionally with one of the many varieties of green chile this valley had become noted for. From nearly anywhere on the property you could look East across that field and up to the Organ Mountains; Las Cruces’ most famous landmark. There was enough land on our property for a large ball field, a basketball court, and ample parking throughout the landscaped, lighted lot. There was also room for further expansion. Some of the property was still graveled and in need of tending.

In 1991 we had added a 250 seat sanctuary and a new office and C.E. wing. It was a dramatic building that sat diagonally across the property. With a sweeping roof line and a 35 foot high clerestory, its architecture was both modern and traditional at the same time. On the west side of the sanctuary was a series of windows looking out toward the Organ Mountains. The front arched window was 30 feet high and had just been replaced with a beautiful stained glass rendering of the Presbyterian Seal. Separating the sanctuary from the original building was a covered, pillared walkway and a beautifully landscaped courtyard.

Preschoolers were just beginning to arrive for a day at Montessori School. A line of station wagons and vans was forming as parents dropped off their children. The school, begun and run by a church member, occupied the Multi-purpose room that had once served as our worship space, Around back there was a fenced play area that provided shade from the hot sun and a welcome break from the rigors of pre-school studies. I greeted the Director with a wave and “good morning” as I parked my car and strolled under the stuccoed colonnade and across the inner courtyard to the main office door.

No one else was here yet. I would have the chance for some peaceful study time before the phone began ringing and people started dropping by. First order of business: check my Franklin Day Timer for any appointments. Oh yes, two men from a church in El Paso were coming at 4:00 to look at the bus we were trying to sell. Otherwise, there were no major meetings to lead or counseling sessions to perform. I could devote the better part of my day to the completion of my sermon for the coming Sunday.

Mother’s Day was coming in just three days. I had already bought a few presents for Judy but I made a note to myself to go out and buy a card and look for some other little gift. Her birthday had been just three days earlier and I had given one of her Mother’s Day gifts to her as a birthday present. I felt I needed to replace it and buy another for my wife of 25 years and the mother of our two beautiful daughters.

The Elders of our church had met just the week before to hear the news that I had accepted a call to Enumclaw, Washington and Calvary Presbyterian Church. Judy and I would be moving at the middle of June and I had to check on and confirm the scheduling of preachers who would supply the pulpit once I left. I guessed I should probably spend some time organizing my library and files to prepare for our impending move. Other than that, the schedule was free to work on what would be one of my last sermons. I was glad for a normal day.

Janet, the church secretary arrived around 9:00 with her usual chipper, upbeat demeanor. Today would be the day to finish the bulletin in preparation for Sunday’s services. There were always two bulletins; one for our 8:30 contemporary service, and another for our more traditional 11:00 service. Her day would be full. We always kept our fingers crossed that the copier wouldn’t go on the blink on Thursday. In spite of our prayers, it often did. Another normal day.

In addition to our preparations for a cross-country move, Judy and I were also excited about our daughter Melissa’s graduation with honors from New Mexico State University. Later that day, she was to turn in her final paper. At long last all her requirements for graduation would be met and she could walk with her class at the Pan American Center; NMSU’s basketball arena. Later in the summer, she was to be married to Jerry Parks, a boy she had dated for 3 years. After their marriage, they would be moving to Schaumburg, Illinois. We weren’t thrilled at the thought that we would be separated by so many miles but it was exciting to be thinking of an August wedding.

Our oldest daughter Kresta, was also engaged to be married. Ryan was a man she had met while working out on the Oregon Coast at the Cannon Beach Christian Conference Center. Their wedding was to be in October and would take place in Nampa, Idaho which was his hometown. Not knowing anyone there, Judy was busy trying to help plan a long distance wedding. I, like most men, was pretty much oblivious to those details.

How we were to pull off two weddings, organize our household for a move and leave jobs, friends and family all in such a short span of time was beyond me. Thankfully Judy and the girls were thinking more of the weddings. It was my task to prepare the church for the impending interim period until they could find another pastor. I had scheduled visiting preachers to begin in mid-June. I intended to preach until then. We were due in Enumclaw, Washington on the 1st of July.

It is too easy to get so comfortable with life that you take each day for granted. That was certainly true of this day. It is possible to not fully appreciate the people, the places, the relationships and the activities that are part of life because they become so ordinary, they become almost automatic. Though there were these special things looming in our future, this day was like any other day in most ways. I assumed it would go as planned and with no major disruptions. I took my life and my routines for granted.

I think I told Judy I loved her before I walked out the door, but I can’t remember for sure. I am pretty sure I gave thanks to God during my morning run for my family, my health and the many blessings God had bestowed on us in life. We weren’t rich, but after 25 years of marriage and ministry, we were now in a place of relative financial stability. We owned a beautiful home, each had dependable cars (if not fancy), and most importantly we had a wonderful family. Life was good.

Our house was often filled with people: friends of Melissa and Jerry, Young Life Leaders with whom we had established a strong bond because we organized and chaired the local Committee, members of our small group Bible Study, neighbors and church friends. Just the night before a young woman – Lyn McKinley – had been over. Together we had sat out on the patio and talked over Lyn’s plans to enter Seminary and prepare for ministry. We felt our house was a gift from God and so it was open to anyone. But, I am not entirely sure we recognized fully what blessings we enjoyed.

Life goes on. While committed to the principle of God’s sovereignty over every area of life, we had probably fallen into the trap that so many today do: assuming that we had control over our lives, our futures and our safety. One day was the same as another. It was just a matter of doing what had to be done with as much energy and creativity as possible.

I had often used some familiar Biblical passages to counsel others about not taking life for granted.
James 4:13 - 15 says, “Now listen you who say, ‘Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.’ Why you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead, you ought to say, ‘If it is the Lord’s will we will and do this or that.”

That is exactly how we were living though. We were making plans. We were anticipating the future. We were going through the motions of everyday life, taking it all as though we were somehow responsible for it. We gave lip service to the fact that God was in control. In reality, we probably tried to take too much credit.

It only takes a brief instant in time for all that normalcy to change. Something unexpectedly good might happen that catapults you back to the realization that God is the giver of every good and perfect gift. Sometimes, the thing that spurs a person back to reality is pain and suffering.

C.S. Lewis in his epic work The Problem of Pain states that “pain is God’s megaphone.” It is through the “gift of pain or suffering” that God brings a person back to a relationship with himself. No one would choose that for themselves. Nobody wants it. Yet, God uses those experiences in our lives to shake us free from the doldrums and apathy of independence and selfishness.

In his classic, collaborative work with Dr. Paul Brand, Where is God When it Hurts, Phillip Yancey marvels at the fact that pain is a gift from God. To illustrate the point, Dr. Brand, who had worked for many years dealing with leprosy in India, saw over and over again that those who did not experience pain, were more seriously in danger than those
who could experience pain.

Once again, my counsel to people as a pastor had been to welcome trials and hardships because God uses them to strengthen faith. To put it more glibly, an old adage suggests that “when life hands you lemons, you should make lemonade.”

In my normal, daily, routine life, it was always easy to tell others to practice those principles. I never expected that I would find myself in the dire straits of facing the trial of a life time; a trial that could change my life – our lives – forever. It might possibly even end that earthly life.

I was soon to discover that my advice would be seriously put to the test. My normal, taken-for-granted life was about to be shaken to the core. It would not be another ordinary day.

A Race Against Time

CHAPTER 4

16:50 pm
Las Cruces, NM
(somewhere along Valley Drive)

The shrill, ear-piercing pitch of an Ambulance's siren is designed to slice through any other noise on the road. Cars move to the side to let the emergency vehicle pass while inside people are wondering what has happened; an accident? a heart attack? a stabbing? The sound of that blaring siren is not only deafening but it is a haunting reminder of the tenuous nature of life.

Inside the AMR (American Medical Response) ambulance, I was only vaguely aware of the deafening noise of the siren. More critical to me was the earnest, concerned voices of the attendant riding in the business end of the vehicle with me. In constant communication with the hospital, he gave updated readings on vital signs, estimated time of arrival and intermittant questions for me to answer: "How was the pain? Can you move your hand? What about your leg? Are you still with me?" The siren was a seemingly distant, disattached noise from another world. In the microcosm of that rolling emergency room, it seemed unreal.

I found my mind was occupied with thoughts about my wife and kids. I tried to imagine where we were along the familiar route down Valley Drive and up University Blvd. I think I must have faded in and out of consciousness because I remember being gently shaken and spoken to. Once in a while a bright light would shine in each of my eyes, checking to see if pupils were dilated, or reactive.

There was no doubt this was serious stuff. It was no casual drive. It was a race against time in the minds of the driver and attendant. Later, one of them would tell me he had not expected me to make it to the hospital alive. My life was hanging by a fragile thread.

I had always heard it said that when a person is in a terrible accident or a dangerous situation that their life flashes before their eyes. At that moment one’s mind is flooded with explicit events, important relationships and major milestones from their life. In an instant, just a few fleeting seconds the highlights and, possibly the lowlights, of life pass through the mind as though they were being replayed on a DVD player and being projected so vividly a person can almost see and feel them as though they were real.

I can only remember one such time in my life when I experienced that phenomenon prior to this day.

Judy and I were students at Wheaton College in the western suburbs of Chicago. We had been home with our families in Denver over our Christmas break. Returning back to Wheaton with a close friend and her two children, ages 6 and 9, we were trying to out race a large snow storm headed across the plains. We didn’t quite make it. Late in the afternoon black ice had begun to form when we lost control of the car and skidded out of control. The car fishtailed for about 500 yards before swinging completely around and then flew through the median, spraying snow and dirt in all directions. The skid continued and the car careened across the lanes of oncoming traffic on Interstate 80 just east of Kearney, Nebraska. It only took ten or fifteen seconds from the first moment when Judy cried out “I’m sorry” until we were sitting at the bottom of the embankment, facing the opposite direction from our original course.

The garish green Plymouth Duster was covered with a freakish combination of snow, dirt and cornstalks. Thankfully the car had remained upright and after a brief check, everyone reported to being okay. A motorist traveling in the opposite direction from our original course stopped to check on us. When he first saw us pass in front of him, he thought it was some crazed snowmobiler or four wheeler out having fun in the snow. When he realized it was a car full of passengers, his irritation turned to genuine concern. He was relieved to find us shaken but all right. To say we were frightened is an understatement. In reality, we could barely breathe. Our hearts were racing at the rate of an Olympic Marathoner at mile 26.
Amazingly, I was able to drive the car out of the ditch and up the embankment. After a quick check of tires, lights and other important features, we very carefully, and silently, drove a few short miles back into the nearest town and downed several cups of hot coffee and cocoa while our nerves settled down.

During the split seconds of that close call, since Judy happened to be driving at the time, I remember the sensation of seeing my life flash before my eyes. I didn’t have to worry about holding the wheel or threading through oncoming cars. All I could do was grab the dashboard and peer out the front windshield with dread at what I thought was certain death. That was in 1971, 26 years prior to my encounter with a bus. It was one isolated experience. I had not been in a similar predicament since.

I am by no means a daredevil or extreme risk taker. I have never shied away from certain physical challenges. At the same time I have never tempted fate’s hand by bungee jumping, sky diving or free climbing sheer rock faces. However, I did own and ride a motorcycle for several years. I have enjoyed skiing the black diamond slopes in Colorado, New Mexico and Washington. I have led teenagers on High Adventure outings like cave exploring, hiking and even a little rock climbing. I have pedaled a bicycle around Lake Michigan, through the Colorado Rockies, down the Oregon Coast and traversed the state of New Mexico from its southernmost border to the Colorado state line. All these activities have carried some risk but none of them were what I would consider overtly dangerous. I always prepared for them and calculated the best and safest way to tackle them so that the possibility of real danger was minimized

So here I was in the back of an ambulance, the focus of great medical attention and concern. This time though, my life wasn't passing through my semi-conscious fog. Instead, some innate, self-will to live - to see my daughers get married; to sit on the viewing porch with Judy and watch a glorious New Mexico sunset; to smell the damp pungent aroma of desert creosote and watch Brandon, my golden retreiver running companion bound effortlessly and joyfully through the hilly desert terrain. Those were the consuming images and thoughts dancing in and out of my mind.

One other thought grabbed my attention. "How could this have happened?" It seemed impossible. Was this a dream from which I would wake up only to realize this hadn't happened - I had only imagined it in my subconsciousness? The answers to those questions would have to wait. For now, it was enough to get to the hospital alive and begin the grueling, fearful steps of whatever lay ahead.

Trauma: Life in the ER

CHAPTER ONE

8 May, 1997
16:45 MDT
Las Cruces, NM

“Mr. Davis, stay with us! Mr. Davis, keep breathing! Sir, can you hear me? Can you tell us what hurts?”

Sirens blaring, engine roaring, paramedics busily and professionally performing their life-saving work: I always wondered what went on inside an ambulance. Now aware from an eyewitness point of view, I was in shock and in way too much pain to be fully cognizant of what was happening. The Paramedics - just as the EMT first responders had done - did their jobs with a grim and determined sense of urgency. At the same time they remained professonal, calm and efficient. IV drips were running. An oxygen mask was placed over my face. A blood pressure cuff was wrapped securely around my immobile right arm as my rapidly dropping blood pressure was regularly checked and written down. It was way too low. My respirations and pulse – way too high. This had to be a quick trip diagonally across town to get to Memorial Medical Center; Las Cruces and Dona Ana County’s only hospital.

In one sense, the trip by ambulance seemed to take no time at all. From the concerned tone in the voices of those attending to me I assumed I was drifting in and out of conscious awareness. At the same time, the pain from my right hip, which had been dislocated and pushed completely through the socket, was sending shrill, unbearable waves of nauseating pain throughout my body Unable to move - in part because of being strapped securely to a gurney and more to the point, because there had been some as of yet undetermined level of injury to the spinal cord - there was no relief. As routine practice, pain medications were not issued until further testing at the hospital could confirm the severity of my injuries. It would be a long night.

Even though I couldn’t see where we were going, I knew the route. I had driven it hundreds of times. It was the same route I had often taken to the hospital when visiting hospitalized parishioners. The ambulance tore south by southeast down Valley Drive to University Boulevard. I remember feeling the wide sweeping left hand turn, just in front of the Spanish Territorial Holiday Inn with its bright white stuccoed walls and its sienna tiled roof. The ambulance swayed slightly to the right as it careened around the corner. Even though lashed to the gurney I felt I might slide off just the same. Then it was East on University Blvd., up the slight hill past New Mexico State University, and across Interstate 25 then past the NMSU Golf Course. The driver, a man who attended our church on occasion, artfully dodged through afternoon traffic, honking his horn through the numerous intersections regulated by traffic lights. Then it was left on Telshor Boulevard, the street which was home to the hospital. Up under the covered drop off in front of the Emergency Room entrance, personnel from the ER/trauma unit were there to meet us at the door. Their voices echoed vaguely in the recesses of my semi-conscious mind.

“Pedestrian MVA. Mr. Davis was allegedly run over by a school bus and was drug approximately 40 feet. Blood pressure 60 over 40, pulse 150, respirations 50 and shallow. Pupils are equal and reactive. Patient complains of pain to pelvis and right hip. No movement or sensation of the bilateral extremities. Severe abrasions and bruising to the back, face and head.”

The businesslike communication was just like something from television’s, “ER.” Interestingly enough, “ER” was Judy’s and my regular television show to watch every Thursday. It would be on TV that later that night and I wouldn’t be able to watch. Judy probably would miss it as well. But then I guess we didn’t need to watch the show. We were living it.

With Ambulance and Hospital personnel running alongside, I was wheeled into Trauma Room 1, the room reserved for the most seriously sick or injured patients. Bright overhead lights glared down on bruised and swelling eyes. The blinking and beeping of all the ominous monitors, gauges, instruments and other unidentifiable paraphernalia gave this small room the look of some mad scientist’s laboratory. I felt like Dr. Frankenstein’s monster.

I was slightly aware that all my clothing had been cut off my body including my new, peach colored Land's End shirt, a pair of Polo Khakis and my favorite tie bearing the picture of a bottle of Tobasco Hot Sauce. I was totally exposed and vulnerable. I could not have cared less.

Under the glare of the overhead lights, it was painful to open my eyes. They were swollen and bloodshot. The scratching of the eyes must have been from spraying gravel as I was drug underneath the bus. I wondered if my contact lenses had gotten folded up in the corners and were further irritating my eyes. At some point they had come out. An Opthomologist confirmed that there were no contact lenses in place.

A bevy of nurses, doctors and attendants began introducing themselves to me and asking me how I was doing and reassuring me that they were going to take good care of me. "How was I doing?" What a stupid question. But their calm, reassuring voices did have the desired effect. I felt I was in good hands. Each one in turn asked, “Where does it hurt?” Then came the poking and jabbing; testing to see if my belly was tender from any internal bleeding.

Someone said, “Dr. San Filippo should be called in.” Dr. Bruce San Filippo was Las Cruces’ only neurosurgeon; one reason why the Hospital did not have Level 1 Trauma status. In most cases, patients who incurred serious head or spine injuries had to be sent to El Paso or Albuquerque to such a Trauma Center. On this particular night he was on call. He arrived shortly - I have no idea as to how long - to consult on my case.

CT scans, MRIs, X-rays all revealed that there was a subluxation/fracture or dislocation of the spine between the C5 – 6 vertebrae. The spinal cord had been pinched. It wasn’t severed but it had been compromised. As a result I was experiencing partial quadriplegia or, as it would later be diagnosed, quadra-paresis. I had very little if any movement in any of my extremities. People began taking my arms and asking if I could push against their hands. There was very little movement; even less strength. The same routine began with legs. However first, they asked if I could wiggle my toes. Try as hard as I might, I could only slightly bend them downward. Soon I was being pricked with some little instrument and then alternately tickled with a finger. “Can you feel this Mr. Davis? Where am I touching?” I had very limited sensation.

Judy was finally allowed to come back to this small room bustling with busy professionals to be with me. I don’t remember if we talked or if she simply observed what they were doing. I could see she had been crying. She told me later she had to sit down with her head down, lowered between her legs to prevent her from fainting. I didn't know that but I was extremely glad she was there by my side right then.

In a little over one month, June 17th, we were to celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary. We dated for four years before we were married. We had been through a great deal together over the previous 29 years including career changes, cross-country moves, the birth of our children, and graduate school for each of us, the death of two parents. We were close and she was my best friend. Would we make it to our anniversary? I wasn’t sure. But I knew these moments were important and I don’t think I could have endured them without her.

She told me that people from the church had already gathered at the hospital. They were taking turns, going in small groups to the small hospital chapel to pray. There seemed to be about 60 or more she said.

There were more tests. An MRI, more CT scans, Xrays, EKGs and more. I was placed in a Stryker frame to keep me immobile. The Stryker frame looks somewhat like a thrill ride from an amusement park. It is no thrill; especially if you are the one strapped in and completely immobile. It is a frame in which the patient is sandwiched between two firm sides and strapped down. These hard surfaces are mounted to large wheels at either end which allow the patient to be rotated alternately between resting on the back and laying face down; suspended in mid-air, yet without the freedom of movement or weightlesness. Neither view - staring at the ceiling and the overhead lights or the floor, littered with discarded medical supplies - had much to offer. Each was excruciating and fearsome. The specter of paralysis was real. Judy and I were both scared.

It was explained that the C-5 vertebrae was dislocated a measure of 3/4 in. Fortunately, though termed a fracture, the vertabrae was in tact and no chips had broken free to sever the cord. However, in order to reduce the degree of dislocation in the spine, Gardner-Wells tongs were attached to my skull allowing traction weights to be hung off the end of the bed. This allowed for the stretching of the spine back into its original alignment. Local anesthetic was used for this procedure but nothing could dull the sensation of the attaching screws being bolted into my head. I remember telling someone, I am not sure who, “This all hurts too much, why not just let me die right now.”

By the time the night was over, all the tests had revealed that, in addition to the dislocation and subsequent damage to my spinal cord, I had sustained numerous broken ribs (7 I think), my pelvis was fractured in 9 places and my right hip had been severely damaged. There were also abrasions, bruises, exhaust burns and cuts on my head, back, arms and legs. Thankfully, even though they had been “insulted” by the severe jostling, Drs. could not detect any obvious bleeding from my internal organs. And, even though I had suffered multiple abrasions and contusions on my face and scalp, no major blow to the head had occurred and they felt there had been no brain damage.

Dr. Tafoya, the attending physician in the ER that night told us later that mine was one of the most difficult cases they had seen in their hospital. Usually such serious injuries are medi-vaced by helicopter to facilities better suited to such trauma. He said that with each test further, more serious injuries became apparent.

The biggest concerns however, Doctors had told Judy, were the threat of infection from the many deep lacerations on my back and legs; the likelihood of pneumonia from being immobilized for what might be a very long time; and finally the real possibility of a pulmonary embolism. The pelvis is a very vascular part of the human anatomy. Even though I was not bleeding internally from ruptured or lacerated organs, the severe damage to the pelvis was an immanent threat to any recovery.

All the while this was taking place behind the closed doors of the ER, outside, in the waiting room and in the chapel, a cadre of Christians had gathered to surround Judy and Melissa with love and reassurance and to pray for me. Many of those gathered were from our church. But others had gathered as well. The host of a local radio talk show had gotten news of the accident and had broadcast the general details and had asked for people to be in prayer. A number of my colleagues in the Evangelical Minister's Fellowship and the Las Cruces Ministerial Association had also come to stand in prayer.

I, of course, was essentially unaware of what was going on out there. Yet I continued to feel a strange peace. There is great power and peace in the united prayers of God’s people. By later that night, Christians from many different churches in Las Cruces and around the country had begun praying concertedly for us. That knowledge has always been a humbling and powerful thing. It gave us all courage to keep going.

Having experienced few such trials myself, I had always asked how people faced such terrible crises. The answer I found was that God carried me – carried us – through, moment by moment; need by need; supplying just enough strength and grace to face each new stage in our crisis.

We didn’t know what the next day would bring. And to be real honest, the prognosis was not favorable that there would be many tomorrows. But somehow we knew that God held that future and we could rest in him.

Around one a.m., I was moved from the Emergency Room to the Intensive Care Unit. Judy and Melissa went home to rest. David Sallee, my friend and the local Presbyterian Campus Pastor stayed the rest of the night with me. Finally, pain medication was administered and it began to subtly dull the worst of the pain. Finally, a few moments of fitful but welcome rest.