CHAPTER 7
June 15th, 1997
El Paso Texas
Sierra Vista Rehabilitation Hospital
“He is no fool to give up what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose.” Jim Elliot
“Whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will save it.” Jesus of Nazareth
"What more can He say than to you He hath said, to you who for refuge to Jesus have fled? (from the Traditional American Hymn "How Firm A Foundation")
As the ambulance drove the 40 or so miles down I-25 between Las Cruces, NM and El Paso, TX, I began pondering a question that continues to haunt me to this day. "How firm are the foundations on which my life is resting?" Like so many questions that go unconsidered, I had blithely lived 47 years of life, with few real tests to the stability of my life's support structure.
Facing yet another huge change in life, I was now being forced to ask myself that question. When I had been taken to the hospital and was faced with the spectre of life and death, I was hardly concerned with such philisophical query. In my 28 days of residence in room #14 of the ICU at Memorial Medical Center, I was too heavily drugged to give the thought much consideration. When I was moved up to the 6th floor with the rest of the "normal" orthopaedic patients, I was too preoccupied with such things as sitting up or lifting two pound dumbbells or visiting with the countless entourage of visitors who so faithfully came to encourage me and pray with me.
Now, I was well enough to be moved to a rehabilitation hospital - a place Dr. Sunshine thought could be my home for 6 months to a year. I didn't know what to expect. I felt afraid of the unknown and apprehensive about the task ahead; rehabilitation, and perhaps walking again. I didn't know anyone in El Paso really. It was a strange place away - though not far - from my family and friends. Could I cope? Would it be too much for me? Was my life stable and secure on strong foundations. Those were my thoughts that day as the American Medical Response team drove me to my next challenge (this time at a much saner speed than its first race to the hospital the day of the accident). Those are still the questions I ask myself regularly.
It occurred to me that I had lived out a powerful metaphor during the years prior to my accident; a metaphor that taught me a great deal about foundations.
Two of the happiest days in the life of a New Church Development Pastor are the day the congregation has grown enough that they are ready and willing to enter into a building program and the day the building is finally done. August 7, 1990 was the first happy day for Northminster Presbyterian Church. August 31, 1991 was the second.
The Presbytery of Sierra Blanca is an immense, desolate piece of geography comprised of 20 churches, one campus ministry and a few specialized ministries to the poor. In 1980, the leaders of the Presbytery, assisted by folks from First Presbyterian Church conducted a survey among people living along the rapidly growing Elks Club neighborhood of Las Cruces, New Mexico. The question they asked, as they went door to door was, “How would you feel about a Presbyterian Church being planted somewhere in this area?” The response was overwhelmingly positive. “Yes, we would be fine with that. Go ahead.”
A piece of prime real estate was purchased along US Highway 70, about one half mile east of Elks Drive and Interstate 25. It was the area city planners said would grow with the greatest projected population. The Presbytery secured the services of the Reverend George Fry to come and do the development work of starting a new Presbyterian Church. The small fellowship of original members began by meeting in one family’s living room. Before long they were overcrowding that room. Another family had redone their garage area to accommodate this small worshiping group of committed believers. College professors, farmers, NASA engineers, homemakers, students, car salesmen and retirees were all part of this initial “church fellowship” known as North Valley Presbyterian Fellowship. The foundation of a new congregation, made up of “living stones” had been laid for future growth and ministry to take place.
The numbers continued to grow; not just with people living in the immediate neighborhood but with folks from throughout the Mesilla Valley, so named for the small town that was the original settlement along the Rio Grande River. Even though Mesilla dated back as far as 1543, Las Cruces was where the railroad came therefore it became the primary population center of the valley. It is an area rich in history and culture; celebrating the diverse blending of Native American, Spanish and Anglo heritages.
In addition to the stunning scenery of the Organ Mountains and the haunting, mysterious wilds of the surrounding deserts, the valley itself is verdant with year round crops of onions, chiles, cotton, and pecans. Hot Air balloons dot the sky in the cool autumn mornings. Each year, “The Whole Enchilada Fiesta” creates the world’s largest enchilada and provides an opportunity for town residents to gather together and celebrate the area's culture and cuisine. Every September, the air is filled with the pungent, unmistakable aroma of green chiles being roasted. New Mexico is the "Land of Enchantment" and Las Cruces is a unique and special place.
New Mexico State University, a school with an excellent reputation for its Research, Engineering and Agricultural programs attracts approximately 14,000 undergrad students each year and provides many opportunities for sports, economic and cultural activities for the enjoyment and enrichment for the community.
People were now coming to the fledgling church in such numbers that a decision had to be made. Should a building be built on the newly purchased property? Or, should the Presbytery purchase an existing piece of property on Valley Drive? A simple 4,000 square foot building that had been used by another church already existed there. It was comprised of four separate Sunday School rooms and a larger room, that occupied approximately half the building’s usable floor space. That room had served as a worship center for the previous congregation and would be adequate for this new church’s current needs as well. The building was located on a 4 acre parcel right in the heart of the valley and conveniently located on a major road that made it accessible for people driving from any direction. That was the choice.
Financing was secured and the move was made. The property provided plenty of space for growth and development. What’s more, it had been built to blend in with many of the older, adobe, territorial style houses and buildings of the area.
By March of 1981, there were 49 adults who signed a petition asking the Presbytery for permission to charter as a congregation within the Presbyterian Church (USA). A strong foundation had been laid. A new church was well underway.
The initial enthusiasm began to wane some and after a slower than expected rate of growth, Reverend Fry felt his leadership had taken the church as far as it could and so he moved on to start another congregation further south in Dona Ana County, near the borders of El Paso Texas and Juarez, Mexico. The Reverend Richard Schlater was called to be an interim Pastor while a Pastor Nominating Committee was formed and the search for a new pastor began. In September of 1984 the congregation voted to call me as their first full-time called Pastor. Judy and I and our daughters plunged in with eager enthusiasm. Making a commitment to children’s and youth ministry, the church began to grow once again and by 1989, the little sanctuary was filled to near capacity for two services every Sunday.
Thus, the decision was made in January of 1990 to go ahead and begin plans for a new building addition that would give us a new Sanctuary, Offices and Christian Education Space. In August of that year, we broke ground and construction began early the next year.
Watching the work progress right outside my study window, I soon realized how important a strong, physical foundation is for the long term stability of a building. Because the soil in this river valley was heavily comprised of clay – the same kind of clay the locals had used for centuries to make the adobe bricks for their homes – the entire site needed to be excavated to a depth of six feet so that fresh, “engineered soil” could be brought in, andtamped down to form the basis for a strong foundation.
Adobe clay, while possessing many good qualities, is a poor soil foundation to build on because it contracts and expands with the extreme temperature swings of this desert area. In the winter snow can fly and night time temperatures can reach down to below freezing. In the summer time, temperatures can easily reach 105 – 110 degrees. Any building built on this adobe clay would quickly incur structural stress and cracking. The clay had to go. Only when this excavation had been done and had passed numerous tests as to its suitability could the concrete footings and slab be poured. Eventually the foundation was laid. That was a momentous day.
After several agonizing months of slow progress, a building began to take shape with framed walls, arched windows and a very authentic territorial design. Later, when the building was nearing completion, the 70’ long clerestory was framed and completed. It was time to roof the new Sanctuary. I remember driving up one day to see that the large bales of shingles and the rolls of roofing materials had already been transferred to the roof structure and the roofers were ready to begin.
There was an obvious, major problem. The weight of this roof structure, some 35 feet high, was too great for the wall supports that had originally been designed and it was sagging like an old, sway-backed horse. I visited the foreman, Brian, in the construction trailer and pointed out this deficiency. After several days of contemplation and re-engineering, a solution was mutually agreed upon. On both sides of the clerestory, five upright, steel I-beams, each anchored to the main structure of the building would supplement the 2x4 studs that had proven inadequate. Once the solution was decided upon and implemented, work resumed and the new Sanctuary really took on a sense of worshipful reverence. Again, I had realized from this experience the importance of strong foundations. A building that isn’t adequately anchored to a solid foundation risks serious danger.
Without ever having verbalized it in such terms, I had come to realize that one’s personal life also needed to be structured upon strong, foundational support. During the days of recovery and rehabilitation following my accident, I pondered the foundations at the root of my life. Were they adequate?
Clearly, at the base of my life were two identifiable foundations: My faith in Jesus Christ, which, though it had been present in some form for as long as I could remember, had really begun to grow and take on substance during my freshman year in college. It was then that I not only had re-dedicated my life to Jesus Christ, it was also the time when I felt God clearly place a call to ministry upon my life. Since that night in a dorm room at Colorado State College in February of 1969, I had made following Christ as his disciple my number one priority. Wherever it might lead me, I was committed to following Christ. Since Judy and I had just begun dating, she was the first to know of this new sense of purpose and direction in my life; one she has shared and nurtured every step along the way.
My faith story had really been a journey not a fete accomple. Over the years my faith has ebbed and flowed like the continual tidal flows of the ocean. It has known great moments of victory and moments of real discouragement and doubt. I have struggled at times to be faithful and have often battled temptations and selfish, willful desires. In spite of my unfaithfulness, God had always proven to be completely faithful. Even if I was like shifting sand, God was a rock; THE ROCK of my salvation and I could depend on God to never let me slip too far away.
About three months after the accident, I was in Rio Vista Rehabilitation Hospital in El Paso. Each day was a grueling struggle as I worked so hard to rebuild muscles that had long since grown dormant; learn to use a wheel chair and adapt to a new, uncertain way of life. A group of men from our new church in Washington – Calvary Presbyterian - came to visit with us while I was in rehab. I think they wanted assurance that I might some day be able to come and pastor their church as much as they wanted to visit and encourage us. However, their presence was a huge boost to our morale. John, Keith and Charlie came and visited me in my room, and also endured watching me sweat through vigorous sessions of Physical and Occupational Therapy. As they watched me struggle to simply move my legs, let alone use them for walking, I am sure they wondered if I could function effectively as their pastor. One morning, Keith said to me, “Fred, you must have remarkable faith to have come as far as you have through this ordeal.” My reply (and I don’t know where it came from but it seemed right at the time) was, “No, I don’t have remarkable faith. I have tiny faith but it is in a huge God.” I still believe that.
Faith is strong not because of the person who possesses it but in the one in whom it is anchored. For faith to be a strong foundation in a person’s life does not require that that person be a spiritual giant or celebrity. All it needs is to be focused in the great God who created the universe and who rules all things by his omnipotent and loving hand.
I found my strength and my faith waned during this ordeal. But God never did. God was always sufficient; no, even abundant in grace and strength for each moment. Was it my faith that helped me survive? No. It was God on whom my faith rested in its entirety. That was the foundation.
The familiar old hymn dating back to the late 1700s resonates through my heart and mind whenever I wonder whether my foundation is secure.
"The Soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose, I will not, I will not desert to his foes. The soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake, I'll never, no never, no never forsake!"
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
A Companion in Suffering
CHAPTER 7
May 17, 1997
sometime in the middle of the night
I fully perceived at that moment that it was Jesus, both God and man, who suffered for me, for I now knew it directly without anyone telling me ...I was astonished that our God who is to be feared and revered would be so intimate with a sinful creature such as I." Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love
Hospital Intensive Care Units are busy places. There are beeping machines, bright lights, Doctors and nurses writing in charts and consulting with each other on individual patients. They exist in that environment 24 hours a day, like an all night convenience store. Patient’s vital signs are monitored frequently - from remote monitors at the main nurses desk, and in hourly, personal, hands on checks. Medications are given and treatment is performed on a regular basis; almost like clockwork.
Some patients are there as an intermediary care station following surgery. Some have had major problems such as heart attacks or cancer. Still others are there because of accidents or some other traumatic event in their life. Because of the dire condition of most patients, the cries of pain can be heard echoing up and down the corridor. Distraught family members, eyes swollen and red from lack of sleep and tears, make a steady parade as they take turns entering the unit while others keep constant vigil in nearby waiting rooms, drinking stale coffee and pretending to be interested in old issues of “Sports Illustrated,” “Modern Science” or “Home and Garden.”
The medical staff seems to always be on the verge of overwork. Each nurse in the unit that was my home for 28 days was assigned to only two or three patients. The level of care required by each patient provided more than enough work for the shift. Often, each patient needed some care at the same time as the others. It can be frantic at times. We noticed that ICU staff was rotated to other assignments in the hospital on a regular basis. When we asked, one nurse told us that very few were able to deal with the emotional and physical strains of working so close to life and death cases on a daily basis. Answering call buttons, responding to beeping monitors, changing IV bags, answering phones, listening to Doctor’s orders and trying to give reassuring words to patients and family create an atmosphere of high pressure. Their work station almost hummed with activity 24 hours a day, seven days a week.
From a visitor’s standpoint things have changed immensely. It used to be that hospitals were very restrictive about who could and could not enter and visit patients in an ICU. Usually, it was only two immediate family members at a time; perhaps the patient’s minister. That was about it.
In more recent days however, the medical community has begun to realize that patients who are visited more often and by more people seem to do better and recover more quickly. The restorative power of support, prayer, love and presence cannot be minimized. At Memorial Medical Center at least, the policy was to allow a fairly steady stream of visitors. This manifestation of love and support was not missed by us, and, for the most part, was welcomed. It also took its toll. There were times when Judy had to put a sign outside the door asking people to sign a notebook but not come in.
Looking back through that notebook of who had come to visit each day, I continue to be amazed at the number of people who came to visit me – or really Judy Melissa and Kresta. I was pretty well sedated with morphine. In addition to saying really crazy things, I have very few lucid memories of the different people who were there to visit. When the morphine began to lose its edge against the shrieking pain, I was more mentally alert and knew who was there. But at those moments, I was also more consumed with the pain than with appreciation for any visitors. And for some strange reason, I had a difficult time, if I were lucid at the moment, of taking off my “pastor hat” and thinking I had to minister to them. It is said you can take a preacher out of the parish, but you can’t take the parish out of the preacher. I found that to be true.
The people I do remember and am forever grateful to were the ones who volunteered to stay with me through the long hours of the night. This gave Judy a chance to go home and rest – something she needed desperately but was often unable to do because of worry and stress. Nonetheless, any break from the intensity of my condition and the constant regimen of medical attention was welcome to her
For me, the nights were the worst. What few memories I do have seem to be concentrated during the long night hours. Often I was more awake and in need of conversation then than at any other time during the 28 days the ICU was my home.
Bill read the sermons of his brother and father to me. They were both Presbyterian ministers. Bob shared the cross in his pocket – a token reminder of Christ’s constant presence. Our church had given them out to each member during a Spiritual Renewal Weekend just a few weeks prior. It had meant a great deal to him but he felt I might need it more.
Vic paced the main corridor, bugging nurses to increase my pain medication. Daryl shared some of his favorite Celtic Music CDs and the latest box scores from my favorite Major League Baseball team, the Colorado Rockies. Even our church organist Barbara stayed a night just visiting, trying to keep my spirits up; catching a nap during the times I was able to doze off.
Our daughter Melissa read some of her college literature papers. Under the best of circumstances they were deep and beyond my ability to comprehend. With the assistance of drugs, I had no idea what she was reading to me. But her presence there was a great comfort. Those times were special as we were bonded closely.
Our daughter Kresta was also able to leave her job at the Cannon Beach Christian Conference Center to come visit for several days. I know that it was tough on her to see her dad in such misery knowing there was little she could do. Her fiancé Ryan came up from Phoenix as well. There was someone different each night and though I can’t remember every one, I know their presence by my side was a great help.
The “Roto-rest” bed, while being a marvel of modern medical technology, is somewhat akin to a medieval torture rack. Until I was past the most critical point as far as infections and the function of my vital organs, surgery to fuse my cervical spine had to be postponed. To prevent further damage to the spinal cord, I had to be kept completely immobile. This was the bed to do just that. With my head held rigidly in place by the Gardner-Wells tongs and stabilized by 20 pounds of traction, the best I could do was side to side glances with my eyes.
Because of the damage to my hips and pelvis, both legs were kept in traction as well. There would be no movement there. To prevent any movement of my arms or torso, heavy foam pads were placed around and between my legs, between my torso and arms and around my outside form. These were then strapped down. What little movement I had regained in my hands and arms from the injury itself was now completely restricted. At times I felt like a mummy. My constant obsession whenever I was awake was to get up out of the bed. If there was someone there to listen to me – anyone – I would harass them with “Won’t you please let me get up for just a few moments? I promise I will be good.” There was nothing I wanted more than the freedom of movement and to be upright.
Deep inside, I knew my legs were still paralyzed and that trying to stand would be disastrous. But that didn’t matter. I was desperate to get out of that contraption; to go jogging, or to head over to the office to catch up on some study, or to go visit one of my parishioners.
The Doctors and nurses always won that battle. So did Judy. And so there I remained: a prisoner in a bed that was designed for patients just like me. In addition to its capacity to restrain (entomb) a person, the bed also rotated from side to side to a position of 45 degrees on each side. Because of such immobility, there are numerous possible complications that can set in. One is blood clots. Many of my injuries were to very vascular areas of the body. Without mobility, blood clots could easily form. One of the leading causes of death to spinal cord patients is pulmonary embolism, not the spinal injury itself. Another danger is bed sores. The elasticity and health of a person’s skin begins to break down. The bed I was in was designed to minimize the development of those sores and inhibit the formation of blood clots in my legs.
The bed had one other interesting feature as well. Panels could be removed from the underside of the bed so that treatment of the open lacerations and infections on my back could be cleaned and dressed several times a day. Once again, nighttimes seemed to be the hours I was most aware of this excruciating procedure. No matter how gentle the attending nurse was, it was extremely painful.
I am told that burn patients experience the greatest pain because of the constant treatment of the burns they have to endure. One of the nurses told me that they were treating my back in much the same manner they would a person whose back had been covered with serious burns.
I was aware of suffering in a way I never knew could be experienced. I also experienced a different awareness that was every bit as real to me as the pain. I don’t know when exactly I had this epiphany. I didn’t see a bright light or have an angelic visitation. Somewhere in the recesses of my heart and mind, the Lord gave me the calm assurance that I was not alone in my sufferings – that Jesus had suffered also. In some mysterious and profound way, I considered myself privileged to be sharing with Christ in his sufferings. Besides the constant bedside support of family and friends, there was someone else in ICU #14. Christ was there in Spirit with me. He was my companion through the long, tiresome days and the lonely painful nights.
I am not a super spiritual person. That may sound strange to you. I have lived a Christian life for many years. I grew up going to church at Corona Presbyterian Church in Denver, Colorado. Whenever the doors of the church were open, my family was there participating at some level. In high school I participated in Youth For Christ, singing in a group that traveled around doing High School Assemblies and ministering in churches.
In college, I began ministering to runaways and drug users in the Old Town section of Chicago through Wheaton College’s student ministry program. Later, both Judy and I became Campus Life Club leaders. In the three years following our marriage – from 1972 – 1975, Judy and I worked full time with Youth For Christ/Campus Life clubs. Our first assignment was in Wheaton, Illinois, and then Bellevue Washington.
In January of 1975, we moved back to Denver with our 1 year old daughter Kresta and our yet to be born daughter Melissa firmly growing in Judy’s womb and waiting to be born in July of that year. I enrolled in Denver Conservative Baptist Seminary where I crammed a 3 year M.Div. program into 4 years while we managed apartments and I worked full time at the church where I had been raised.
Those were busy days filled with fruitful ministry and happy memories. After my graduation in 1979, I was called to be Associate Pastor at First Presbyterian Church in Renton where I served for 5 years. In August of 1984 I accepted the call of Northminster Presbyterian Church in Las Cruces.
During all those years in ministry, I had tended to other’s spiritual and emotional needs. I had preached – faithfully I hope – the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I had written and taught Vacation Bible School Curriculum, Adult Studies and small group programs. I have known and walked with Christ through all those times. I had never felt the Lord's presence as profoundly as I did nowl right there in that Roto-rest bed; in the painful agony of broken ribs, tender,lacerated skin and throbbing pelvic fractures.
In Youth For Christ, one of the lessons we taught young people was the importance of living a “balanced life.” Based on Luke 2:52, where it says “And Jesus grew in wisdom and in stature and in favor with God and man," we encouraged young people to live lives that kept the physical, mental, social and spiritual dimensions of their life in balance. I was determined in my life and ministry to keep that balance as well.
Consequently, my life has never been a sequestered one, devoted only to faith and to ministry. I pursued other interests such as skiing, running, bicycling, reading, word games, photography, working outdoors and going to movies. I felt it was always important to be an active part of the community. I joined Rotary Club where I met weekly with other professional people; not all of them Christians. We tried to cultivate relationships with our neighbors. I have always tried to serve the communities in which we lived in some way.
My life has never measured up to that of a spiritual giant. But my faith in Christ was a real part of the overall picture. And my theological convictions were solidly founded upon the Sovereignty of God. God was in control. God had not caused this accident to happen to me, but I knew and was comforted by the fact that he had allowed it; had miraculously spared me from death; and that he had some clear purpose resulting from this experience. When I was at a point of having lost everything, possibly even my very life, I realized in a new and powerful way that Jesus was really all that I had. And he was there with me. And I felt a deep sense of being united with Christ in his sufferings.
I tried to share that message with anyone who might listen. One long, lonesome night, a new nurse had been assigned to the ICU unit on a temporary basis. She had been given the assignment of tilting my bed up to 45 degrees on one side, removing the back panels and treating my festering, scarred back.
Since she had not treated me prior to this time, she wanted to know what had happened to me. How had I come to be in such seriously ill condition? As I related the details of my accident (I think I was able to relate them pretty clearly) she began to sob uncontrollably. I apologized if I had shared too much detail and I asked her what was wrong. She related to me that her husband had been killed in a one car automobile accident two weeks before.
The accident had occurred on a deserted stretch of Interstate 10 between Las Cruces and Deming. It was late at night when he had lost control of the car, hit a guard rail, and slid across a median. The car rolled numerous times and he was ejected. Because it was late and it had happened in a desolate place, no one had seen the accident and he was not discovered until the next morning. The State Patrolman had told her that they were sure his death had been quick and he had not suffered long. But her fears and questions persisted. She had been tormented as she thought about what he might have felt and thought as he lay there alone, dying.
I was able to share more of my experience. When I had been lying face down on the concrete slab where the bus had finally deposited me, I was at absolute peace. I knew with certainty that Christ was there with me. He truly was the good shepherd who walks with people through the valley of the shadow of death. I told her that I had experienced the reality and the peace of God at that moment more so than at any other time in my life and I was sure her husband, had he not died instantly experienced the same blessed assurance.
This nurse, who was now a new friend, thanked me for helping her. I told her that one reason God had allowed me to go through this ordeal and live, was to be able to comfort and reassure people just like her. I asked if I could pray with her. She said “yes, please.”
I never saw her again. But the next day, a day I was scheduled to have surgery to stabilize my hips and pelvis, I couldn’t wait to see Judy. The moment she walked in the room I blurted out, “I know why God allowed me to go through this honey.” And then I related the previous midnight conversation and prayer. I am not sure Judy understood it in quite those terms.
What she did do each day was put up verses of scripture on the orthopedic bar that ran overhead from the head of my bed to the foot. Each day, there was a fresh reminder of God’s unfailing love. Since I couldn’t move, as I stared upwards, all I could focus on were those verses of Scripture and an array of family pictures that were also changed regularly. Those Scriptures and pictures kept my hope alive and my faith centered.
I was also kept during those long nighttime hours by the verses of Scripture I had memorized – some of them had stayed with me from my childhood. Others were ones I had just recently committed to memory.
Whenever I was on a long bike ride, a friend had taught me to put a verse of scripture in the map pocket of my handlebar bag. Instead of focusing on the steepness of a hill or the tiredness in my legs, I learned to focus on that one verse and commit it to memory. I learned a lot of Scripture that way.
I also applied the same technique to my daily runs in the desert. Broken only by the occasional appearance of an owl, quail or coyote, or a call to my running companion, my Golden Retriever Brandon, the deserts of Southern New Mexico had provided a wonderfully quiet place to memorize Scripture.
I think it was when I had been confirmed in faith and had joined the church at age 12 that I learned several verses from Psalm 119. One that stood out was: “How does a young man keep his way pure? By keeping it according to thy word, O Lord. Thy Word have I hid in my heart. I seek you with all my heart: do not let me stray from your commands.” (Psalm 119: 9, 10)
God’s Word is like the rains sent down from heaven to water the earth and bring forth crops. It does not return void but accomplishes the very thing for which God sent it forth. I learned that all that time memorizing was fulfilling a great purpose: keeping my mind focused on the Lord and not despairing over my situation.
For some reason, the book of Philippians became the foundation for my assurance during those days and nights in ICU. As if on automatic cue, important verses from Paul’s letter flooded my mind just when I needed them most. At first, it was chapter 1:21. “For me to live is Christ and to die is gain.” That kept me going during the earliest days when Doctors were saying my condition was so critical I might not even make it to surgery to repair the spine. That was all right. The thought of leaving Judy and the girls behind was a sad one, but the thought of being complete in Christ was one that gave me peace.
Later on, the night before my spinal surgery, when the pain and the sense of confinement were at their worst, I was reminded of chapter 3, verses 10 and 11. “I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead.”
That same night, a group of Elders from our church had come to anoint me with oil and pray over me with the laying on of hands. This was a practice that had become a very meaningful part of our church’s worship life. Each Communion Sunday, we had established a time at the end of the service for any person seeking healing for some area of their life to come forward and meet with the Elders. Those were precious times of faith and fellowship. We saw God do some miraculous things through those prayers.
It was a very natural thing then, for those same Elders to march in, en masse, to the ICU to hold a service for healing prayer in my room. Others from the church joined in as well. The room was so full that people were standing shoulder to shoulder. One lady, Margaret Short, for whose husband we had prayed for a few months earlier, couldn’t find room inside, so she was outside the first floor room with her hands pressed against the window. The spirit of Christ was also present.
Several of the Elders offered words of encouragement or shared verses of Scripture. I asked if I could say a few words. I shared with the group an old joke. “Did you hear about the Calvinist pastor who fell down the stairs and broke his leg? He calmly said, “Well I am glad that’s over.” Only in this instance I said, “Did you hear about the Presbyterian Minister who was run over by the bus? I am glad that’s over.” Then I went on to share (probably at some length as I was never one to preach short sermons) how this verse had meant so much to me.I was buoyed by the conviction that through this I was sharing in the fellowship of Christ’s sufferings and that was a privilege not a burden.
They anointed me with oil and prayed and then we sang the song with which we closed each Sunday’s service. Joining hands, our voices intoned “Bind us together, Lord, Bind us together in chords that cannot be broken. There is only one God. There is only one Lord. There is only one King, that is why I sing. Bind us together Lord, Bind us together in chords that cannot be broken.”
It was a sacred moment; for me, for Judy, and for all who were there. After I had finally returned home from the Rehabilitation Hospital, I wanted to go visit those nurses in ICU who had become so special to me. As we visited, one of them remarked about that prayer service. She was not a religious person, she said, but something strange and very holy seemed to happen that night. The busy, noisy activity of a full ICU seemed to stand still in time and a quiet peace enveloped the entire unit as a small group of believers prayed and sang and trusted God in that room.
Yes, the nights were the most difficult and lonesome times. But on this night in particular, a hospital room became a sanctuary. Just as God used a manger’s stall and a plain wooden cross to show the world his love and mercy, he had shown himself once again in a very unlikely spot to a person – no, a group of people – who really needed it.
To this day, I still find that night times are the times when, after Judy has gone to bed, in the lonely quiet of our family room or den, I find myself aware once again, that I am never really alone, Christ has been and is always there sharing life’s journey with me.
May 17, 1997
sometime in the middle of the night
I fully perceived at that moment that it was Jesus, both God and man, who suffered for me, for I now knew it directly without anyone telling me ...I was astonished that our God who is to be feared and revered would be so intimate with a sinful creature such as I." Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love
Hospital Intensive Care Units are busy places. There are beeping machines, bright lights, Doctors and nurses writing in charts and consulting with each other on individual patients. They exist in that environment 24 hours a day, like an all night convenience store. Patient’s vital signs are monitored frequently - from remote monitors at the main nurses desk, and in hourly, personal, hands on checks. Medications are given and treatment is performed on a regular basis; almost like clockwork.
Some patients are there as an intermediary care station following surgery. Some have had major problems such as heart attacks or cancer. Still others are there because of accidents or some other traumatic event in their life. Because of the dire condition of most patients, the cries of pain can be heard echoing up and down the corridor. Distraught family members, eyes swollen and red from lack of sleep and tears, make a steady parade as they take turns entering the unit while others keep constant vigil in nearby waiting rooms, drinking stale coffee and pretending to be interested in old issues of “Sports Illustrated,” “Modern Science” or “Home and Garden.”
The medical staff seems to always be on the verge of overwork. Each nurse in the unit that was my home for 28 days was assigned to only two or three patients. The level of care required by each patient provided more than enough work for the shift. Often, each patient needed some care at the same time as the others. It can be frantic at times. We noticed that ICU staff was rotated to other assignments in the hospital on a regular basis. When we asked, one nurse told us that very few were able to deal with the emotional and physical strains of working so close to life and death cases on a daily basis. Answering call buttons, responding to beeping monitors, changing IV bags, answering phones, listening to Doctor’s orders and trying to give reassuring words to patients and family create an atmosphere of high pressure. Their work station almost hummed with activity 24 hours a day, seven days a week.
From a visitor’s standpoint things have changed immensely. It used to be that hospitals were very restrictive about who could and could not enter and visit patients in an ICU. Usually, it was only two immediate family members at a time; perhaps the patient’s minister. That was about it.
In more recent days however, the medical community has begun to realize that patients who are visited more often and by more people seem to do better and recover more quickly. The restorative power of support, prayer, love and presence cannot be minimized. At Memorial Medical Center at least, the policy was to allow a fairly steady stream of visitors. This manifestation of love and support was not missed by us, and, for the most part, was welcomed. It also took its toll. There were times when Judy had to put a sign outside the door asking people to sign a notebook but not come in.
Looking back through that notebook of who had come to visit each day, I continue to be amazed at the number of people who came to visit me – or really Judy Melissa and Kresta. I was pretty well sedated with morphine. In addition to saying really crazy things, I have very few lucid memories of the different people who were there to visit. When the morphine began to lose its edge against the shrieking pain, I was more mentally alert and knew who was there. But at those moments, I was also more consumed with the pain than with appreciation for any visitors. And for some strange reason, I had a difficult time, if I were lucid at the moment, of taking off my “pastor hat” and thinking I had to minister to them. It is said you can take a preacher out of the parish, but you can’t take the parish out of the preacher. I found that to be true.
The people I do remember and am forever grateful to were the ones who volunteered to stay with me through the long hours of the night. This gave Judy a chance to go home and rest – something she needed desperately but was often unable to do because of worry and stress. Nonetheless, any break from the intensity of my condition and the constant regimen of medical attention was welcome to her
For me, the nights were the worst. What few memories I do have seem to be concentrated during the long night hours. Often I was more awake and in need of conversation then than at any other time during the 28 days the ICU was my home.
Bill read the sermons of his brother and father to me. They were both Presbyterian ministers. Bob shared the cross in his pocket – a token reminder of Christ’s constant presence. Our church had given them out to each member during a Spiritual Renewal Weekend just a few weeks prior. It had meant a great deal to him but he felt I might need it more.
Vic paced the main corridor, bugging nurses to increase my pain medication. Daryl shared some of his favorite Celtic Music CDs and the latest box scores from my favorite Major League Baseball team, the Colorado Rockies. Even our church organist Barbara stayed a night just visiting, trying to keep my spirits up; catching a nap during the times I was able to doze off.
Our daughter Melissa read some of her college literature papers. Under the best of circumstances they were deep and beyond my ability to comprehend. With the assistance of drugs, I had no idea what she was reading to me. But her presence there was a great comfort. Those times were special as we were bonded closely.
Our daughter Kresta was also able to leave her job at the Cannon Beach Christian Conference Center to come visit for several days. I know that it was tough on her to see her dad in such misery knowing there was little she could do. Her fiancé Ryan came up from Phoenix as well. There was someone different each night and though I can’t remember every one, I know their presence by my side was a great help.
The “Roto-rest” bed, while being a marvel of modern medical technology, is somewhat akin to a medieval torture rack. Until I was past the most critical point as far as infections and the function of my vital organs, surgery to fuse my cervical spine had to be postponed. To prevent further damage to the spinal cord, I had to be kept completely immobile. This was the bed to do just that. With my head held rigidly in place by the Gardner-Wells tongs and stabilized by 20 pounds of traction, the best I could do was side to side glances with my eyes.
Because of the damage to my hips and pelvis, both legs were kept in traction as well. There would be no movement there. To prevent any movement of my arms or torso, heavy foam pads were placed around and between my legs, between my torso and arms and around my outside form. These were then strapped down. What little movement I had regained in my hands and arms from the injury itself was now completely restricted. At times I felt like a mummy. My constant obsession whenever I was awake was to get up out of the bed. If there was someone there to listen to me – anyone – I would harass them with “Won’t you please let me get up for just a few moments? I promise I will be good.” There was nothing I wanted more than the freedom of movement and to be upright.
Deep inside, I knew my legs were still paralyzed and that trying to stand would be disastrous. But that didn’t matter. I was desperate to get out of that contraption; to go jogging, or to head over to the office to catch up on some study, or to go visit one of my parishioners.
The Doctors and nurses always won that battle. So did Judy. And so there I remained: a prisoner in a bed that was designed for patients just like me. In addition to its capacity to restrain (entomb) a person, the bed also rotated from side to side to a position of 45 degrees on each side. Because of such immobility, there are numerous possible complications that can set in. One is blood clots. Many of my injuries were to very vascular areas of the body. Without mobility, blood clots could easily form. One of the leading causes of death to spinal cord patients is pulmonary embolism, not the spinal injury itself. Another danger is bed sores. The elasticity and health of a person’s skin begins to break down. The bed I was in was designed to minimize the development of those sores and inhibit the formation of blood clots in my legs.
The bed had one other interesting feature as well. Panels could be removed from the underside of the bed so that treatment of the open lacerations and infections on my back could be cleaned and dressed several times a day. Once again, nighttimes seemed to be the hours I was most aware of this excruciating procedure. No matter how gentle the attending nurse was, it was extremely painful.
I am told that burn patients experience the greatest pain because of the constant treatment of the burns they have to endure. One of the nurses told me that they were treating my back in much the same manner they would a person whose back had been covered with serious burns.
I was aware of suffering in a way I never knew could be experienced. I also experienced a different awareness that was every bit as real to me as the pain. I don’t know when exactly I had this epiphany. I didn’t see a bright light or have an angelic visitation. Somewhere in the recesses of my heart and mind, the Lord gave me the calm assurance that I was not alone in my sufferings – that Jesus had suffered also. In some mysterious and profound way, I considered myself privileged to be sharing with Christ in his sufferings. Besides the constant bedside support of family and friends, there was someone else in ICU #14. Christ was there in Spirit with me. He was my companion through the long, tiresome days and the lonely painful nights.
I am not a super spiritual person. That may sound strange to you. I have lived a Christian life for many years. I grew up going to church at Corona Presbyterian Church in Denver, Colorado. Whenever the doors of the church were open, my family was there participating at some level. In high school I participated in Youth For Christ, singing in a group that traveled around doing High School Assemblies and ministering in churches.
In college, I began ministering to runaways and drug users in the Old Town section of Chicago through Wheaton College’s student ministry program. Later, both Judy and I became Campus Life Club leaders. In the three years following our marriage – from 1972 – 1975, Judy and I worked full time with Youth For Christ/Campus Life clubs. Our first assignment was in Wheaton, Illinois, and then Bellevue Washington.
In January of 1975, we moved back to Denver with our 1 year old daughter Kresta and our yet to be born daughter Melissa firmly growing in Judy’s womb and waiting to be born in July of that year. I enrolled in Denver Conservative Baptist Seminary where I crammed a 3 year M.Div. program into 4 years while we managed apartments and I worked full time at the church where I had been raised.
Those were busy days filled with fruitful ministry and happy memories. After my graduation in 1979, I was called to be Associate Pastor at First Presbyterian Church in Renton where I served for 5 years. In August of 1984 I accepted the call of Northminster Presbyterian Church in Las Cruces.
During all those years in ministry, I had tended to other’s spiritual and emotional needs. I had preached – faithfully I hope – the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I had written and taught Vacation Bible School Curriculum, Adult Studies and small group programs. I have known and walked with Christ through all those times. I had never felt the Lord's presence as profoundly as I did nowl right there in that Roto-rest bed; in the painful agony of broken ribs, tender,lacerated skin and throbbing pelvic fractures.
In Youth For Christ, one of the lessons we taught young people was the importance of living a “balanced life.” Based on Luke 2:52, where it says “And Jesus grew in wisdom and in stature and in favor with God and man," we encouraged young people to live lives that kept the physical, mental, social and spiritual dimensions of their life in balance. I was determined in my life and ministry to keep that balance as well.
Consequently, my life has never been a sequestered one, devoted only to faith and to ministry. I pursued other interests such as skiing, running, bicycling, reading, word games, photography, working outdoors and going to movies. I felt it was always important to be an active part of the community. I joined Rotary Club where I met weekly with other professional people; not all of them Christians. We tried to cultivate relationships with our neighbors. I have always tried to serve the communities in which we lived in some way.
My life has never measured up to that of a spiritual giant. But my faith in Christ was a real part of the overall picture. And my theological convictions were solidly founded upon the Sovereignty of God. God was in control. God had not caused this accident to happen to me, but I knew and was comforted by the fact that he had allowed it; had miraculously spared me from death; and that he had some clear purpose resulting from this experience. When I was at a point of having lost everything, possibly even my very life, I realized in a new and powerful way that Jesus was really all that I had. And he was there with me. And I felt a deep sense of being united with Christ in his sufferings.
I tried to share that message with anyone who might listen. One long, lonesome night, a new nurse had been assigned to the ICU unit on a temporary basis. She had been given the assignment of tilting my bed up to 45 degrees on one side, removing the back panels and treating my festering, scarred back.
Since she had not treated me prior to this time, she wanted to know what had happened to me. How had I come to be in such seriously ill condition? As I related the details of my accident (I think I was able to relate them pretty clearly) she began to sob uncontrollably. I apologized if I had shared too much detail and I asked her what was wrong. She related to me that her husband had been killed in a one car automobile accident two weeks before.
The accident had occurred on a deserted stretch of Interstate 10 between Las Cruces and Deming. It was late at night when he had lost control of the car, hit a guard rail, and slid across a median. The car rolled numerous times and he was ejected. Because it was late and it had happened in a desolate place, no one had seen the accident and he was not discovered until the next morning. The State Patrolman had told her that they were sure his death had been quick and he had not suffered long. But her fears and questions persisted. She had been tormented as she thought about what he might have felt and thought as he lay there alone, dying.
I was able to share more of my experience. When I had been lying face down on the concrete slab where the bus had finally deposited me, I was at absolute peace. I knew with certainty that Christ was there with me. He truly was the good shepherd who walks with people through the valley of the shadow of death. I told her that I had experienced the reality and the peace of God at that moment more so than at any other time in my life and I was sure her husband, had he not died instantly experienced the same blessed assurance.
This nurse, who was now a new friend, thanked me for helping her. I told her that one reason God had allowed me to go through this ordeal and live, was to be able to comfort and reassure people just like her. I asked if I could pray with her. She said “yes, please.”
I never saw her again. But the next day, a day I was scheduled to have surgery to stabilize my hips and pelvis, I couldn’t wait to see Judy. The moment she walked in the room I blurted out, “I know why God allowed me to go through this honey.” And then I related the previous midnight conversation and prayer. I am not sure Judy understood it in quite those terms.
What she did do each day was put up verses of scripture on the orthopedic bar that ran overhead from the head of my bed to the foot. Each day, there was a fresh reminder of God’s unfailing love. Since I couldn’t move, as I stared upwards, all I could focus on were those verses of Scripture and an array of family pictures that were also changed regularly. Those Scriptures and pictures kept my hope alive and my faith centered.
I was also kept during those long nighttime hours by the verses of Scripture I had memorized – some of them had stayed with me from my childhood. Others were ones I had just recently committed to memory.
Whenever I was on a long bike ride, a friend had taught me to put a verse of scripture in the map pocket of my handlebar bag. Instead of focusing on the steepness of a hill or the tiredness in my legs, I learned to focus on that one verse and commit it to memory. I learned a lot of Scripture that way.
I also applied the same technique to my daily runs in the desert. Broken only by the occasional appearance of an owl, quail or coyote, or a call to my running companion, my Golden Retriever Brandon, the deserts of Southern New Mexico had provided a wonderfully quiet place to memorize Scripture.
I think it was when I had been confirmed in faith and had joined the church at age 12 that I learned several verses from Psalm 119. One that stood out was: “How does a young man keep his way pure? By keeping it according to thy word, O Lord. Thy Word have I hid in my heart. I seek you with all my heart: do not let me stray from your commands.” (Psalm 119: 9, 10)
God’s Word is like the rains sent down from heaven to water the earth and bring forth crops. It does not return void but accomplishes the very thing for which God sent it forth. I learned that all that time memorizing was fulfilling a great purpose: keeping my mind focused on the Lord and not despairing over my situation.
For some reason, the book of Philippians became the foundation for my assurance during those days and nights in ICU. As if on automatic cue, important verses from Paul’s letter flooded my mind just when I needed them most. At first, it was chapter 1:21. “For me to live is Christ and to die is gain.” That kept me going during the earliest days when Doctors were saying my condition was so critical I might not even make it to surgery to repair the spine. That was all right. The thought of leaving Judy and the girls behind was a sad one, but the thought of being complete in Christ was one that gave me peace.
Later on, the night before my spinal surgery, when the pain and the sense of confinement were at their worst, I was reminded of chapter 3, verses 10 and 11. “I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead.”
That same night, a group of Elders from our church had come to anoint me with oil and pray over me with the laying on of hands. This was a practice that had become a very meaningful part of our church’s worship life. Each Communion Sunday, we had established a time at the end of the service for any person seeking healing for some area of their life to come forward and meet with the Elders. Those were precious times of faith and fellowship. We saw God do some miraculous things through those prayers.
It was a very natural thing then, for those same Elders to march in, en masse, to the ICU to hold a service for healing prayer in my room. Others from the church joined in as well. The room was so full that people were standing shoulder to shoulder. One lady, Margaret Short, for whose husband we had prayed for a few months earlier, couldn’t find room inside, so she was outside the first floor room with her hands pressed against the window. The spirit of Christ was also present.
Several of the Elders offered words of encouragement or shared verses of Scripture. I asked if I could say a few words. I shared with the group an old joke. “Did you hear about the Calvinist pastor who fell down the stairs and broke his leg? He calmly said, “Well I am glad that’s over.” Only in this instance I said, “Did you hear about the Presbyterian Minister who was run over by the bus? I am glad that’s over.” Then I went on to share (probably at some length as I was never one to preach short sermons) how this verse had meant so much to me.I was buoyed by the conviction that through this I was sharing in the fellowship of Christ’s sufferings and that was a privilege not a burden.
They anointed me with oil and prayed and then we sang the song with which we closed each Sunday’s service. Joining hands, our voices intoned “Bind us together, Lord, Bind us together in chords that cannot be broken. There is only one God. There is only one Lord. There is only one King, that is why I sing. Bind us together Lord, Bind us together in chords that cannot be broken.”
It was a sacred moment; for me, for Judy, and for all who were there. After I had finally returned home from the Rehabilitation Hospital, I wanted to go visit those nurses in ICU who had become so special to me. As we visited, one of them remarked about that prayer service. She was not a religious person, she said, but something strange and very holy seemed to happen that night. The busy, noisy activity of a full ICU seemed to stand still in time and a quiet peace enveloped the entire unit as a small group of believers prayed and sang and trusted God in that room.
Yes, the nights were the most difficult and lonesome times. But on this night in particular, a hospital room became a sanctuary. Just as God used a manger’s stall and a plain wooden cross to show the world his love and mercy, he had shown himself once again in a very unlikely spot to a person – no, a group of people – who really needed it.
To this day, I still find that night times are the times when, after Judy has gone to bed, in the lonely quiet of our family room or den, I find myself aware once again, that I am never really alone, Christ has been and is always there sharing life’s journey with me.
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