CHAPTER 10
Longbranch Washington
August 2006
Judy
"...the human charioteer drives his (winged horses)in a pair; and one of them is noble and of noble breed, and the other is ignoble and of ignoble breed; and the driving of them of necessity gives a great deal of trouble to him." Plato (from the Phaedrus Dialogue)
"Forgive as the Lord forgave you..." Paul, the Apostle Colossians 3:13
"We forgive freely or we do not really forgive at all." Lewis Smedes - "Healing the Hurts We Don't Deserve"
A young, confident disciple named Peter asked Jesus “how many times should we forgive someone?” Feeling smug and self righteous he suggested 7 X 7. That sounds like a lot of times…49! But Jesus replied with an even greater number. He said you are to forgive 70 X 7 times. I read that conversation many times thinking I can’t imagine needing to forgive someone four hundred and ninety times. That is until after Fred’s accident, actually after his recovery.
During Fred’s most critical time in the hospital, I was consumed with his daily progress. Everyday prior to his first surgery blood was drawn to check his white blood cell count, his liver enzymes, and other things that indicated whether his body could endure surgery. Sometimes this was the only news I could give to people. Things moved slowly.
I was also consumed with pacing the hall outside of the ICU room when he was crying out in pain. I discovered nurses have very different ways of monitoring for pain in patients. Some were strictly by the clock. If there were 20 more minutes until the next dose of morphine was to be administered, you would wait those 20 minutes. No matter how much I was in their face pointing out that my husband was really in pain and he needed relief right now, they stuck with their time schedule. Then there were other nurses who would ask Fred, “Now on a scale of 1-10, 10 being the worst pain imaginable, where are you right now? If that pain gets to a 7 or an 8, you let me know. We’ll give you something before it gets too bad.” I loved those nurses!
When he was moved to the rehab hospital in El Paso I started each day with going to work early and working through my lunch hour so that I could drive the thirty five miles to El Paso from Las Cruces. I wanted to be there every day to cheer Fred on in his slow recovery.
When Fred returned home there were a whole new set of challenges. These were some of the hardest days for me. I would get up early so that I could help Fred into the shower, tend to some stubborn wounds that were still healing and help put on his white, tight ted hose. Although I know wearing the ted hose was important to promote good circulation and prevent blood clots, I sometimes felt they were sent from Satan himself. What a struggle to get them on each day!
Although these were challenging, draining and even at times discouraging days, I was not entertaining thoughts of bitterness toward God or towards Bob. I knew God was a sovereign God. I had never lived by the health and wealth theology that seems to say if your faith is strong enough, if you plant enough seeds (usually money), you will be blessed. The implication being, you will be well and wealthy.
I knew that believers were not exempt from tragic things happening to them. Godly people have cancer, still born babies, rebellious children, spouses that cheat on them, and they are involved in tragic accidents. I knew that God did not take you out of difficult times but was with you during them. In the cycle of emotions that people are supposed to go through after a serious loss, I thought I was just skipping the anger one. That is until Fred was as recovered as he was going to be and I realized how life altering this accident would make his life.
One of the things that attracted me to Fred early in our relationship was his physical abilities. In my star struck 17 year old eyes, he was a hunk. He loved to hike, play pick-up basket ball, and ski difficult slopes in the Rocky Mountains. He was just generally a very physically fit person. This was quite a contrast to me. I didn’t even learn how to swim until I was in college. Backpacking, are you kidding? That was not my idea of a really good time.
Fred’s love of exercise only increased after we were married. In our first year of marriage he led a group of high school boys on a long bike trip around Lake Michigan. This was followed by many other long distance bike trips. He continued to ski, loved to play golf, and added regular running to his life of being physically fit.
I was especially grateful for his love of running. He could come home from the office or from a day of stressful visits feeling down, stressed and/or tired. After a good three to five mile run he would return invigorated and light hearted. I loved what running did for him. As many people have discovered, exercise helps to reduce stress. This was certainly true of Fred.
It was Fred who first tried to teach me to downhill ski. We were dating at the time. I wanted to learn how to ski so we could enjoy this sport together. I loved the majestic mountain views and although I was not at all inclined to athletic endeavors, I was hopeful this would be one I would catch onto fairly easily.
I found my first challenge in learning to ski. It was the time that just about ended our budding relationship. Fred was determined I needed to learn how to stand up after I had fallen. He gave me directions, plant your pole, dig the edges of your skis into the slope of the hill, and push yourself up. It all sounded so easy until I tried again and again only to slip back to the ground. Finally another skier held out his hand and helped me up. I decided to take lessons the next quarter of college.
I did learn to ski and we enjoyed many trips to pristine Rocky Mountain ski areas. Keystone became one of our favorites. I loved watching Fred effortlessly glide down the slopes, skis always parallel, unafraid to tackle even the most challenging slopes. That was the point where we went our separate ways, however. I stuck to the easy and intermediate slopes and he sped down the black diamond slopes. We would meet at the bottom and start up together again on the chair lift. These were good times. When our daughters became teenagers, skiing became a sport our whole family enjoyed.
When we were in Enumclaw going through the interview process that would lead to a call to Calvary Presbyterian, one of the things we talked about was how great it would be to live so close to a ski area. We made plans to buy season tickets and even do some night skiing after a work day. Skiing after a work day was probably a pipe dream. Even if we had arrived in Enumclaw in perfect health, our schedules would likely not have allowed for that to happen. Under the best of circumstances our idyllic dreams and reality collide.
The second winter after Fred’s accident he decided he was going to give skiing a try again. He had his skis adapted with a half inch plate under the binding of the left ski to compensate for his leg length difference. He knew it would be different and difficult but did not realize how hard it would be with the permanent paralysis that kept him from being able to life up his feet or keep them turned inward.
Now in Washington State we made the trip to Crystal Mountain Ski Resort, only an hour drive from Enumclaw. The winter day was typical for western Washington. It was rainy when we left Enumclaw and cloudy and lightly snowing at Crystal Mountain. After getting our skis on, Fred headed to the bunny slope and I glided to the chair lift to go up to the top of the mountain and ski down. He didn’t want to ruin my time on the slopes by staying with him. All the way up I kept thinking how unfair it was that he was the one that had the ability to ski taken from him. He was the one that loved it the most.
I skied to the bottom of the hill, waved to Fred and got back into the line for the chair lift. The line was slow moving so I could watch Fred on the slope with all the other beginners, most of whom were young children. He fell frequently and struggled each time to get up again. As I moved into place to get on the chair lift, I met a woman who was from our church. I burst into tears. “I can hardly stand to watch Fred. It breaks my heart to see him struggle to ski. He was such a competent skier and now he can hardly stand.” She replied to my outburst the way many people would over the next few years when I would feel discouraged for Fred. “But aren’t you glad he is alive?” Of course I was glad he was alive. But somehow that didn’t take the hurt or anger away from my heart. There were huge losses that were a result of the accident. The reality of these losses gnawed at me and made me sad and angry.
I think that may be the first time I wrote an angry letter to Bob in my mind. “Why didn’t you stop that bus? What were you thinking or not thinking? You have no idea how awful life is for Fred. You are probably just happily living your life now thinking ‘Everything is fine now. Fred is well. He is at his new church. Life is good.’” Well, it isn’t. It’s terrible.”
Fred tells me I have a tendency to overreact.
It’s true, life was not all terrible. I was so grateful that Fred was walking, that he was alive. There was much happiness in our lives but none the less, the permanent paralysis in his legs would limit what he could do physically. Some injuries can be exercised back to complete wellness but spinal cord damage is not one that any amount of exercising will help. He was permanently disabled.
Because of Fred’s foot drop, he would often trip. He would trip and fall in the middle of a street or on a sidewalk. One time we were in a Park and Ride lot rushing to catch a shuttle bus to go to a University of Washington Husky football game when Fred ended up on the cement. Later in the stands Fred faced another challenge. It was almost impossible to maneuver to our seats because of the narrow space between the legs of the people we had to pass and the seats in front of us. This was compounded because Fred could not lift up his feet. Off went another bitter, mental letter to Bob.
During the night Fred would have leg cramps. The natural thing to do is pull your feet back stretching the back muscles where the cramp resides. Since Fred could not do this, he would struggle out of bed sometimes several times a night trying to relieve himself of the pain. Another mental letter off to Bob.
Fred didn’t have these feelings toward Bob at all. I marveled at his forgiving spirit and his ability to not cast any blame on Bob. Why was I having such a hard time? I think that once I had done everything I could for Fred, once I realized how difficult some things would be for him and I couldn’t do anything more to fix it, I just felt helpless. That is when the anger toward Bob set in. More than one person told me that it was harder for the person, often the spouse, to watch their loved one in pain or suffering than it is for the person going through it.
The mental, angry letter writing became more frequent. I knew it was not right nor particularly helpful. I wondered if it was cancer that Fred was struggling to overcome. Who would I be angry at? The people who use too many dangerous pesticides on our food? Second hand smoke? Or just the gene pool that we have drawn from?
When I would have these thoughts of anger and even blame aimed at Bob, it actually sent me into a state of confusion. I knew Bob did not do anything intentionally to hurt Fred. He cared deeply for Fred. He was his friend. He was a brother in Christ and a real servant. If there was a person in need, Bob was there. I knew he felt horrible about the accident. How could I be harboring any ill feeling toward him! It was hard for me to accept that I needed to forgive him
My narrow view of forgiveness was something you gave someone who had intentionally done something to hurt or harm you. I am always amazed to hear of people who forgave someone who intentionally shot them, raped or molested them, was driving drunk and caused an accident, or slandered them. Our friend Bob was not in this category. There was not an ounce of malevolence on his part.
Bob did not do anything intentionally, but in my mind he was the one who started the bus, was behind the wheel and did not stop it. His lack of response caused Fred to suffer and sustain permanent injuries. I realized I had not forgiven him for that.
I knew that forgiveness was something God expected from us. “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” So, my journey of letting go of my anger began with the Lord’s Prayer. Every time we would pray that prayer as a community of believers or I would pray it alone in quietness, I would think of Bob and forgive him, not for what he did but for what he didn’t do, stop the bus.
I’d like to say it just took a time or two to completely and finally forgive Bob, but it didn’t. I had to do it again and again, again and again. I began to understand why Jesus said you need to forgive seventy times seven. Sometimes it takes that many times.
It was seven years after Fred’s accident. I was part of a small group of women that was studying the book 40 Days of Purpose. I had shared in my small group Bible Study at other times my struggle with forgiveness and letting go of my anger, but this night when I shared, the women prayed specifically for me. There was not a bolt of lightening but the next time Fred tripped, I didn’t write a mental letter to Bob
In spending time in further reflection I realized that my struggle to forgive Bob was likely a smoke screen for not wanting to truly accept what had happened as part of God’s sovereign will. Was I angry at Bob or at God for somehow being absent at the moment of the accident and allowing it to happen? My smugness in thinking I could easily accept whatever came my way as something God had allowed believing He was in control was tested and I was found wanting.
I am not unlike many people of faith who wrestle with how the sovereignty of God and the free will of man fit together. Great theologians and thinkers have written volumes trying to put these two truths into perspective. I have come to think of them as parallel truths. On the very best of days there is only a tiny flicker of understanding about how these can both be true.
I am not a puppet but God is in control. Every day I make decisions. Every moment of every day, God is in control, holding together the very universe yet mindful of me. This was true on the day of the accident, it was true during the difficult days of rehabilitation, it is true today. Bob was behind the wheel of the bus but God was on his throne not surprised by one second of the events of that day.
Has forgiving Bob, accepting the accident as part of God’s sovereign will made me forget what happened? No. Do I still yearn for Fred to have full use of his legs, to be able to fully do everything he did before the accident? Yes. But what forgiveness and acceptance has done is it has replaced anger and resentment with a quiet, calm sense of peace.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
WRESTLING WITH GOD
CHAPTER 9
Longbranch, Washington -
August 2006
“I wrestle with these questions which do not have logical answers, wrestle with mysteries, much as Jacob wrestled with the angel. How do we even attempt to understand the meaning of tempest and tragedy, love and hate, violence and peace?”
-Madeliene L’Engle A Stone for a Pillow
It seems like a lifetime ago now - a different time, a different place, a different set of circumstances. But it's all real life; all part of the story. Here we are sitting aboard our boat MV Providence, hailing port Enumclaw, Washington. We are bobbing lazily up and down with the gentle breeze and occasional wake left by another boat leaving their mooring in Filucy Bay. I am staring out the window at Mt. Rainier to the east. Grinding accidents, hospital Emergency Rooms, Stryker Frames, Intensive Care, hospital food, physical and occupational therapy, surgeries, and traction all seem surreal and haunting. At times I hardly am able to remember that this was all part of what happened in our lives.
I am now 9 years removed from all those experiences. They were life changing to be sure. Trying to process my thoughts and feelings today seems to be a mix between post-traumatic stress syndrome, and complete gratitude to God. Life seems normal once again - no, better than normal. Life is good. I can't shake the haunting memories though and that is part of my gratitude.
What’s it like to wrestle with God? Is it possible to contend against the almighty and not be completely destroyed or consumed? Does it betray a person’s confession of faith to cry out to God and ask “why?” While I was hospitalized – 28 days in intensive care, 10 days on the 6th floor orthopedic ward, and then 8 weeks at Rio Vista Rehabilitation Hospital in El Paso – there were numerous times when I felt I was wrestling with God.
Yes, there were times when I did feel an utter and complete serenity about all that had happened. In fact those times were more the rule than the exception. I had forgiven Bob (my friend who was behind the wheel of the bus). It was an accident and under different circumstances, the situation might have been reversed.
I didn’t know what the future held or what physical outcomes I could expect –would I ever walk again, would I live a life in constant pain, would I be able to continue in my ministry as a pastor? However, I knew God was good and that I could trust him for whatever the days and years ahead might hold. I can’t remember even a fleeting thought of lasting resentment towards God. I trusted him – and do trust him still – implicitly.
I am human though and I asked the same questions that most people ask? I still do! “Why me, God?” Did I do something bad for which I am being punished? What if I had left the parking lot that day one minute earlier and not been there to meet the men who wanted to buy the bus? What are you trying to teach me? What do I need to learn through this?”
After the initial critical hours were past, I began to heal. Laying immobile in a bed for 4 weeks gives a person a lot of time to reflect. As I recuperated, I also wrestled with God regarding some of the other changes and losses that were to come my way. I remember the first day I arrived in my room at Rio Vista Rehabilitation Hospital. It was Friday, June 13th (that had an ominous ring to it). As part of a course of standard admission examinations and consultations, I was beset by a steady stream of Doctors, Nurses, Physical, Speech and Occupational Therapists, Social Workers and Counselors. They all asked the same questions. They all checked the same things for signs of reflex, range of motion, strength, ability to chew and swallow, and speech. Judy thought they might also be concerned about my mental acuity and whether I had sustained any brain damage. Often they would talk to her or ask her questions instead of asking me those same questions.
One of these interviews was different though and very disturbing. A therapist came to talk to me (us) about bathroom function. With spinal cord injuries that occur higher up in the spine more of the person’s body is affected. A very common problem is incontinence of both the bowels and the bladder. The thought had never even crossed my mind. We (Judy was in the room with me and, once again, the things I experienced became her experiences as well) were stunned and devastated. Up to this point, I had assumed that all the assistive medical procedures and personnel were just helping with this as a course of my initial recovery. Eventually, it would pose no problems.
She wanted us to watch a computerized video program so we would be fully informed. Then we could ask her questions and she could arrange for counseling to help us deal with this humbling news.
We couldn’t watch the video. Maybe later; maybe some day; but not then. We set it aside in silence and refused to consider that option. To watch it suggested a tacit acceptance of something we didn't want to think about. Denial is one of the initial stages of grief and we were definitely in denial.
Other realizations presented themselves as well. The next day, Saturday, I began to realize how different my life was going to be, beginning with my total lack of independence. It took six people to transfer me from my bed to a wheel chair. Eventually I would learn to make that transfer myself using a sliding board, one end placed on the edge of the bed and the other placed on the seat of the wheel chair allowing me to inch my way across the short distance between the two. But at this point I was still too weak. So a squad of nurses and aides arrived bright and early in my room that Saturday morning to transfer me to my chair and then help roll me down to the dining room for breakfast. Down the hall, I could see a locked door to the outside world. I would not be allowed to roll my chair past that door without a therapist or nurse escorting me. Anyone who came to visit, had to be approved for admittance and then rung in.
As we rolled into the activity area/dining hall, the room was full of people needing various levels of assistance with feeding themselves. I began to feel that I was not in a hospital but a nursing home. Was I really in that bad a state?
After breakfast, therapy sessions began for most patients. I was left sitting in the hallway. No one had given the weekend staff any orders for a program of therapy for me. Out of curiosity, and after about an hour of wondering what was going on, I rolled myself down the hall and into the small gym used for therapy.
It was a busy, noisy and active spot. Therapists were working individually with different patients. This part of Rio Vista was called the Brain/Neuro Ward. Each patient on this floor had some form and degree of neurological problem. Many of the patients were older – the victims of strokes. There was a young adult man who had sustained a serious head injury in an automobile accident. There was another young man who had been shot in the head in a drive-by shooting. Tony was a 11 year old boy whose leg had been crushed in a serious accident and had suffered major nerve damage in his leg. Each of them were laying on mats or were situated in some other kind of apparatus, performing exercises as directed by their therapist. Some were throwing large plastic balls. Others were struggling to manipulate small wooden blocks around a board. It was all fascinating and just a little scary. What would they have me doing? As easy as I had once considered such tasks, they now looked daunting and fearful.
I sat there observing for some time. No one seemed to be aware of my presence. Finally I asked one of the therapists if there wasn’t something I should be doing. Looking at me rather strangely, she finally got out a large box of metal plumbing pipes and pipe joints, each with threaded fittings that could be screwed together. She said, “Here put these all together in any shape you want. Then take them apart and put them away.” Off she went.
For an hour I struggled with those small sections of pipe. I could barely lift them, let alone twist them into place. Finally, exhausted, I got them back in their box. Still, no one was paying any attention to me, so I decided I would wheel myself back to my room.
I had not seen the inside of a bathroom for nearly 6 weeks. I wheeled myself in and tried to get situated under the sink. I couldn’t get very close because my wheel chair was partially reclined with my feet elevated. I had also been fitted with a strange device called a metal fixator. Four 12” carbon fiber rods were connected by titanium brackets. The entire apparatus had been screwed into my hips in order to secure my crushed pelvis from further damage. This apparatus stuck out in front of my body making it even more precarious to maneuver in tight spaces.
With great effort, I found the small set of personal items that had been given to me. I couldn’t wait to brush my teeth myself; shave a two day old stubble of whisker, and maybe even wash my hair. Picking up the razor and the shaving cream I began to attempt to shave my scraggly beard. I made a mess. Water was everywhere. I cut myself and was trying to stop the bleeding when a nurse walked in. “Mr. Davis, what are you doing? You should never do anything like this by yourself again.” There it was. I felt my life was really no longer my own.
Everything I had taken for granted – every daily routine, every bodily function, every moment of freedom and independent life – was gone. I was as psychologically crushed as my body had been under the bus. When they put me back in my bed, I sank into a period of depression. “Why, God?” The wrestling match continued.
As time went by, some of those feelings dissipated. Yet each day brought another realization that my life was to be unalterably different. Deo, a young African-American aide came to my room one day. “Mr. Davis, I am here to take you for a shower.” Whoa, that’s great. How will that work though? You know I am unable to stand or walk, don’t you?”
“No problem” He wheeled in a different looking gurney that was covered with a large, plastic basin. One side folded down and he brought it next to my bed. I was slid, with some effort, to the rolling wash tub, the side was raised and off we went down the hall to the shower room specifically designed for showering patients in the supine position. There I lay, totally naked, completely helpless, dependent on another person to give me a shower. “Why, God?”
Every day, we spent time in the activity room with a recreational therapist. Knowing that I had been somewhat depressed during the first week, she had asked a former patient to come in and play checkers with me. He was a man in his thirties who had been in a motorcycle accident five years earlier and was a paraplegic. He came by regularly to talk with other spinal cord injury patients. I have to admit he really knew how to handle a wheel chair. He could go up steps, do wheelies, turn on a dime and my guess is he had the world land speed record for a wheelchair. It took me about an hour before I figured out that he was there to show me that a person could live a fairly normal life in a wheel chair and that I should begin to consider accepting that as a real possibility. It wasn’t the end of the world…or so he said. I felt like a ton of bricks had just fallen on me. Was that the message I was supposed to be hearing? I left the room, more depressed and afraid that I might spend the rest of my life in a chair. That was the first time I really had even thought about that. “Why God?” The wrestling match continued.
Gradually I too became fairly proficient with a wheel chair. I could turn on a dime, go up over curbs, and ascend steep ramps. Yet I still was unwilling to acknowledge I might have to do this the rest of my life. I figured I might as well work at it now. I was getting pretty tired of my room. And once I could transfer myself, I wanted to get out in the hall or the gym as much as I could endure. It wasn’t much. By the time I finished 4 hours of exercise each day, I was pretty exhausted. “Why God?” I pondered as I continued to struggle.
Those days weren’t all bad. They were filled with enjoyable visits from friends who made the effort to drive from Las Cruces to El Paso, a 45 minute drive under good conditions. I was overwhelmed with the support and affection. Blake brought me picture of the two of us doing a skit at the previous year’s all-church retreat. Someone snuck in a secret stash of Oreo cookies and hid them in a closet. Ben brought me some super-hot salsa, something I hadn’t had for over 2 months. DeVon always brought a cooler with Sprite and lots of ice because he knew how much I loved the icy cold, carbonation and the way it felt on my tight, dry throat. Scott and Kayla brought me a Vente sized cup of good strong, Starbucks coffee (quite a contrast from the bland, translucent "coffee" the hospital serverd)the first I had tasted in a long time. There were stacks of cards everyday – from people in our new church in Washington; from friends and relatives; even from people we didn’t know.
Even all this love and attention played into my wrestling match. I always wondered why I was so surrounded with support when many of the other patients I had come to know languished day after day without a visit from anyone. I felt I wasn’t deserving. “Why God?”
One hot summer evening, on their daily visit., Judy and Melissa brought my dog Brandon to visit also. He practically drug Melissa across the courtyard as he excitedly bounded to my side. We had been constant companions for 6 years. He was my running companion. Now I knew he and I would never run in the desert again; maybe never even walk side by side. “Why God?”
Each day brought new challenges and dredged up new feelings. Judy brought a laptop computer and modem so I could be connected to the internet and read emails. I didn’t really want to. She was concerned. Further tests and therapeutic procedures revealed that I was not regaining any nerve function in my lower legs. Walking was still a huge question mark. I was still discouraged and afraid. “Why, God?”
Because I had been confined in bed or a wheel chair so long, my therapists decided they needed to start preparing me for attempts at standing upright. The body adjusts to its environment. Mine had adjusted to a prone position. Standing vertically would be a shock to my system and my blood pressure could suddenly drop. Each day, a tilt board, a padded cot like apparatus, was brought in. I was securely strapped to it and it was gradually inclined; 30* the first couple of times, 45* after that. Eventually it was raised to 90* and for the first time I was able to view the world from an upright position, even if I was strapped in this contraption. The first few times I almost passed out. I wondered if I would ever be able to stand independently.
With my daily regimen of therapy – 2 hours of physical therapy in the morning and 2 hours of occupational therapy in the afternoon, strength and movement began to return. With the assistance of Gina, a woman roughly half my size standing close by to support me and/or catch me if I began to fall, I would be wheeled in between standing rails and with considerable effort, pull myself to a standing position. Because of the severity of the injury to my right hip, I was not allowed to bear any weight on that side. When I stood, I had to keep that foot on a telephone directory so there would be no temptation to bear down. The first day, I stood for 10 minutes. Within a few weeks I was standing for 30 minutes at a time. It was boring to just stand there. Yet there was a sense of exhilaration as well. Perhaps someday, I could, with the aid of braces or crutches, walk again. The wrestling went on though. “Why Lord? What purpose do you have for me in all this?”
Friday, August 1st, just less than three months after the accident occurred, I was released to go home. Initially, Doctors had prepared us to think in terms of six months to a year of hospitalization and rehabilitation. Now, almost miraculously, it appeared as if things might return to a degree of normalcy. We could begin to plan for and schedule our move to the Northwest. I couldn’t return to work right away, but I could begin meeting new people, establishing my presence as the pastor and sharing thanks with the people who prayed for and encouraged us long distance. What an exciting day.
On the way home, we stopped at the Mesilla Valley Mall where I rolled my wheel chair into the Dillards Store like a child who had just mastered a two-wheeled bicycle. We went, me rolling, Judy walking beside, directly to the women’s accessories department where our daughter Melissa was working. We had a joyful, tearful reunion.
The following Sunday, we returned to church at Northminster Church – the sight of the accident and, more importantly, of 13 plus happy, productive years of ministry. Sitting in a wheel chair, I preached again for the first time since May 3rd. It was exhilarating. The congregation welcomed us back like long lost relatives. They even held a potluck dinner to celebrate the occasion. By the time we returned home, I was exhausted and hurting.
Over the next three months, there were times of triumph and progress- taking my first assisted steps with a walker; stuggling up the steps of our two story home to our Master Bedroom for the first time; going out with our whole family to The Hacienda, our favorite Mexican restaurant; being able to drive the car alone after hand controls had been installed; going to Evangelical Ministerial Association again, preaching at several area churches and telling my story; and most importantly being home with Judy and being able to begin making plans for the future.
Those times were tempered with frustrations as well. It was easier to focus on the things I couldn’t do than the things I could. I got so tired. Even sitting up for long periods of time was draining. I took lots of naps. I continued to wonder “why.” The wrestling went on.
Those are still questions I ask. Now, 10 years later, I have added a few questions; the most troubling one being, “Why, with the severity of my spinal injury, have I been allowed to recover as well as I have? Why am I not in a wheel chair or even dead when people who have suffered similar or even lesser injury have not had as good an outcome? It doesn’t always make sense to me. I struggle with feelings of guilt whenever I see another, more seriously disabled person than me. Somehow I feel I should be the one in the chair.
In the fall of 1999, Darrell Green, the star cornerback for the Kansas City Chiefs, was playing in a game against the Jacksonville Jaguars. He made a tackle – the kind of tackle he had made hundreds of times before – hard, clean, efficient. This particular tackle was different though. Somehow, the way his helmet hit the opposing player, caused his head to snap. His neck was broken and he crumpled to the ground, completely paralyzed. After a long cautious examination, field doctors asked for the ambulance and he was driven onto the field and he was immediately transported to a nearby Level 1 trauma hospital that specialized in treating severe spinal cord injuries. There, the news reports said, Doctors had determined he had broken his neck at the cervical spine level between number 5 and number 6; the very same place my injury occurred.
The same, standard course of treatment was given him immediately. Steroids were introduced to abate the swelling and pressure on the spinal cord, he was placed in a Stryker Frame and tongs were attached to his head so that weights could be hung in traction and the damage minimized. I followed his case via the internet with almost compulsive interest; reliving the nightmare he was going through.
I found an address for the hospital and wrote to him, telling him and his family that if they ever needed the ear or the support of someone who had been through something akin to what they were going through, Judy and I would be willing to correspond and talk with them. We never heard back.
It was just a few days later, we heard that a different and silent killer took his life. A pulmonary embolism; a blood clot had broken free from his immobile legs and had traveled back to his lungs and killed him instantaneously.
This was one of the dangers they had warned us about. Taking every precaution known, my Doctors did everything possible to see that such a clot did not form. I am sure Mr. Green’s doctors had followed the exact same protocol. Why did he die of a blood clot and not me? I sustained essentially the same injury. It is a question I keep asking but never seem to be able to hear an answer. I wrestle with God about that.
I have always been drawn to the character Jacob in the Old Testament. Jacob was a man chosen and loved by God. He was by no means perfect. In fact at times he was devious, conniving and stubbornly resistant to God. I think that is why I identify with him. I sometimes feel much the same way. I know I have feet of clay and am by no means a spiritual giant.
My paternal grandfather was named Jacob and my father’s middle name was Jacob: another reason why I feel a kinship to the Old Testament patriarch.
For another, more personal reason, Jacob has become my model. In spite of his imperfections, he refused to let go of God. As he returned to his home land to reconcile with his brother Esau, he sent his family and servants ahead. He camped under the starlit, desert skies. In the middle of the night he encountered a man (some feel an angel, others, the pre-incarnate Christ). A wrestling match ensued. The two struggled through the night, neither willing to let go or concede. Finally morning came and the stranger finally realized he was not going to overpower Jacob. In the course of the battle, though, he had touched the socket of Jacob’s hip so that it was severely sprained or dislocated. Jacob still would not let go. His grip was tenacious.
The man even pleaded with Jacob to free him. Jacob refused until the man gave him a blessing. “Your name will no longer be Jacob but Israel because you have struggled with God and with men and have overcome.”
Jacob then realized that the one against whom his struggle had been was God, so he named the place Peniel, saying, “I saw God face to face and yet my life was spared.” As he left the place, he did so limping because of the injury to his hip.
Over the last 8 years, as I have asked God “why?” I have also been struck with the reality that in my encounter with a yellow school bus, I saw God face to face and my life was spared. I may not know why nor do I always feel warm and fuzzy about the fact. As I have been on this odyssey, I have seen God face to face in so many different ways.
I have even found that most of the time, I am happy about the limp that is my constant companion. Because my legs were in traction for 4 weeks before I was well enough for surgery to be performed on my pelvis, it had begun to heal, only in a twisted position. I was left with a 2” discrepancy in the length of my legs. I have to wear a built up shoe on my left leg to equalize this problem. In addition, because of persistent nerve damage, my feet are still partially paralyzed, leaving me with an unusual walking gait; a limp.
I have learned that I have to think about every step I take. If I become careless or unaware of what is around me, I will catch the toes of my right foot and stumble. Often the momentum of a 225 pound body is enough to send me sprawling face first onto a sidewalk, parking lot, downtown intersection or church stair (just some of the places I have fallen). I wonder if people who don’t know me think I am just clumsy or if they are laughing at me. If anyone asks, I simply reply, “Yeah, it happens all the time. It’s no big deal. I was run over by a bus, and I am lucky to be up and walking – a little fall doesn’t bother me.” The limp, the stumbles, the falls, the awkward gait are all reminders to me that I wrestled with God and am still alive to talk about it. God was there with me everyday. He still is.
I will never let go. I may continue to ask questions. I very likely will struggle to understand and to accept God’s providential ways in my life. But I know that every time I have asked why, I have been reassured that the why is not as important as the Who; knowing that I have encountered the God of Jacob.
Longbranch, Washington -
August 2006
“I wrestle with these questions which do not have logical answers, wrestle with mysteries, much as Jacob wrestled with the angel. How do we even attempt to understand the meaning of tempest and tragedy, love and hate, violence and peace?”
-Madeliene L’Engle A Stone for a Pillow
It seems like a lifetime ago now - a different time, a different place, a different set of circumstances. But it's all real life; all part of the story. Here we are sitting aboard our boat MV Providence, hailing port Enumclaw, Washington. We are bobbing lazily up and down with the gentle breeze and occasional wake left by another boat leaving their mooring in Filucy Bay. I am staring out the window at Mt. Rainier to the east. Grinding accidents, hospital Emergency Rooms, Stryker Frames, Intensive Care, hospital food, physical and occupational therapy, surgeries, and traction all seem surreal and haunting. At times I hardly am able to remember that this was all part of what happened in our lives.
I am now 9 years removed from all those experiences. They were life changing to be sure. Trying to process my thoughts and feelings today seems to be a mix between post-traumatic stress syndrome, and complete gratitude to God. Life seems normal once again - no, better than normal. Life is good. I can't shake the haunting memories though and that is part of my gratitude.
What’s it like to wrestle with God? Is it possible to contend against the almighty and not be completely destroyed or consumed? Does it betray a person’s confession of faith to cry out to God and ask “why?” While I was hospitalized – 28 days in intensive care, 10 days on the 6th floor orthopedic ward, and then 8 weeks at Rio Vista Rehabilitation Hospital in El Paso – there were numerous times when I felt I was wrestling with God.
Yes, there were times when I did feel an utter and complete serenity about all that had happened. In fact those times were more the rule than the exception. I had forgiven Bob (my friend who was behind the wheel of the bus). It was an accident and under different circumstances, the situation might have been reversed.
I didn’t know what the future held or what physical outcomes I could expect –would I ever walk again, would I live a life in constant pain, would I be able to continue in my ministry as a pastor? However, I knew God was good and that I could trust him for whatever the days and years ahead might hold. I can’t remember even a fleeting thought of lasting resentment towards God. I trusted him – and do trust him still – implicitly.
I am human though and I asked the same questions that most people ask? I still do! “Why me, God?” Did I do something bad for which I am being punished? What if I had left the parking lot that day one minute earlier and not been there to meet the men who wanted to buy the bus? What are you trying to teach me? What do I need to learn through this?”
After the initial critical hours were past, I began to heal. Laying immobile in a bed for 4 weeks gives a person a lot of time to reflect. As I recuperated, I also wrestled with God regarding some of the other changes and losses that were to come my way. I remember the first day I arrived in my room at Rio Vista Rehabilitation Hospital. It was Friday, June 13th (that had an ominous ring to it). As part of a course of standard admission examinations and consultations, I was beset by a steady stream of Doctors, Nurses, Physical, Speech and Occupational Therapists, Social Workers and Counselors. They all asked the same questions. They all checked the same things for signs of reflex, range of motion, strength, ability to chew and swallow, and speech. Judy thought they might also be concerned about my mental acuity and whether I had sustained any brain damage. Often they would talk to her or ask her questions instead of asking me those same questions.
One of these interviews was different though and very disturbing. A therapist came to talk to me (us) about bathroom function. With spinal cord injuries that occur higher up in the spine more of the person’s body is affected. A very common problem is incontinence of both the bowels and the bladder. The thought had never even crossed my mind. We (Judy was in the room with me and, once again, the things I experienced became her experiences as well) were stunned and devastated. Up to this point, I had assumed that all the assistive medical procedures and personnel were just helping with this as a course of my initial recovery. Eventually, it would pose no problems.
She wanted us to watch a computerized video program so we would be fully informed. Then we could ask her questions and she could arrange for counseling to help us deal with this humbling news.
We couldn’t watch the video. Maybe later; maybe some day; but not then. We set it aside in silence and refused to consider that option. To watch it suggested a tacit acceptance of something we didn't want to think about. Denial is one of the initial stages of grief and we were definitely in denial.
Other realizations presented themselves as well. The next day, Saturday, I began to realize how different my life was going to be, beginning with my total lack of independence. It took six people to transfer me from my bed to a wheel chair. Eventually I would learn to make that transfer myself using a sliding board, one end placed on the edge of the bed and the other placed on the seat of the wheel chair allowing me to inch my way across the short distance between the two. But at this point I was still too weak. So a squad of nurses and aides arrived bright and early in my room that Saturday morning to transfer me to my chair and then help roll me down to the dining room for breakfast. Down the hall, I could see a locked door to the outside world. I would not be allowed to roll my chair past that door without a therapist or nurse escorting me. Anyone who came to visit, had to be approved for admittance and then rung in.
As we rolled into the activity area/dining hall, the room was full of people needing various levels of assistance with feeding themselves. I began to feel that I was not in a hospital but a nursing home. Was I really in that bad a state?
After breakfast, therapy sessions began for most patients. I was left sitting in the hallway. No one had given the weekend staff any orders for a program of therapy for me. Out of curiosity, and after about an hour of wondering what was going on, I rolled myself down the hall and into the small gym used for therapy.
It was a busy, noisy and active spot. Therapists were working individually with different patients. This part of Rio Vista was called the Brain/Neuro Ward. Each patient on this floor had some form and degree of neurological problem. Many of the patients were older – the victims of strokes. There was a young adult man who had sustained a serious head injury in an automobile accident. There was another young man who had been shot in the head in a drive-by shooting. Tony was a 11 year old boy whose leg had been crushed in a serious accident and had suffered major nerve damage in his leg. Each of them were laying on mats or were situated in some other kind of apparatus, performing exercises as directed by their therapist. Some were throwing large plastic balls. Others were struggling to manipulate small wooden blocks around a board. It was all fascinating and just a little scary. What would they have me doing? As easy as I had once considered such tasks, they now looked daunting and fearful.
I sat there observing for some time. No one seemed to be aware of my presence. Finally I asked one of the therapists if there wasn’t something I should be doing. Looking at me rather strangely, she finally got out a large box of metal plumbing pipes and pipe joints, each with threaded fittings that could be screwed together. She said, “Here put these all together in any shape you want. Then take them apart and put them away.” Off she went.
For an hour I struggled with those small sections of pipe. I could barely lift them, let alone twist them into place. Finally, exhausted, I got them back in their box. Still, no one was paying any attention to me, so I decided I would wheel myself back to my room.
I had not seen the inside of a bathroom for nearly 6 weeks. I wheeled myself in and tried to get situated under the sink. I couldn’t get very close because my wheel chair was partially reclined with my feet elevated. I had also been fitted with a strange device called a metal fixator. Four 12” carbon fiber rods were connected by titanium brackets. The entire apparatus had been screwed into my hips in order to secure my crushed pelvis from further damage. This apparatus stuck out in front of my body making it even more precarious to maneuver in tight spaces.
With great effort, I found the small set of personal items that had been given to me. I couldn’t wait to brush my teeth myself; shave a two day old stubble of whisker, and maybe even wash my hair. Picking up the razor and the shaving cream I began to attempt to shave my scraggly beard. I made a mess. Water was everywhere. I cut myself and was trying to stop the bleeding when a nurse walked in. “Mr. Davis, what are you doing? You should never do anything like this by yourself again.” There it was. I felt my life was really no longer my own.
Everything I had taken for granted – every daily routine, every bodily function, every moment of freedom and independent life – was gone. I was as psychologically crushed as my body had been under the bus. When they put me back in my bed, I sank into a period of depression. “Why, God?” The wrestling match continued.
As time went by, some of those feelings dissipated. Yet each day brought another realization that my life was to be unalterably different. Deo, a young African-American aide came to my room one day. “Mr. Davis, I am here to take you for a shower.” Whoa, that’s great. How will that work though? You know I am unable to stand or walk, don’t you?”
“No problem” He wheeled in a different looking gurney that was covered with a large, plastic basin. One side folded down and he brought it next to my bed. I was slid, with some effort, to the rolling wash tub, the side was raised and off we went down the hall to the shower room specifically designed for showering patients in the supine position. There I lay, totally naked, completely helpless, dependent on another person to give me a shower. “Why, God?”
Every day, we spent time in the activity room with a recreational therapist. Knowing that I had been somewhat depressed during the first week, she had asked a former patient to come in and play checkers with me. He was a man in his thirties who had been in a motorcycle accident five years earlier and was a paraplegic. He came by regularly to talk with other spinal cord injury patients. I have to admit he really knew how to handle a wheel chair. He could go up steps, do wheelies, turn on a dime and my guess is he had the world land speed record for a wheelchair. It took me about an hour before I figured out that he was there to show me that a person could live a fairly normal life in a wheel chair and that I should begin to consider accepting that as a real possibility. It wasn’t the end of the world…or so he said. I felt like a ton of bricks had just fallen on me. Was that the message I was supposed to be hearing? I left the room, more depressed and afraid that I might spend the rest of my life in a chair. That was the first time I really had even thought about that. “Why God?” The wrestling match continued.
Gradually I too became fairly proficient with a wheel chair. I could turn on a dime, go up over curbs, and ascend steep ramps. Yet I still was unwilling to acknowledge I might have to do this the rest of my life. I figured I might as well work at it now. I was getting pretty tired of my room. And once I could transfer myself, I wanted to get out in the hall or the gym as much as I could endure. It wasn’t much. By the time I finished 4 hours of exercise each day, I was pretty exhausted. “Why God?” I pondered as I continued to struggle.
Those days weren’t all bad. They were filled with enjoyable visits from friends who made the effort to drive from Las Cruces to El Paso, a 45 minute drive under good conditions. I was overwhelmed with the support and affection. Blake brought me picture of the two of us doing a skit at the previous year’s all-church retreat. Someone snuck in a secret stash of Oreo cookies and hid them in a closet. Ben brought me some super-hot salsa, something I hadn’t had for over 2 months. DeVon always brought a cooler with Sprite and lots of ice because he knew how much I loved the icy cold, carbonation and the way it felt on my tight, dry throat. Scott and Kayla brought me a Vente sized cup of good strong, Starbucks coffee (quite a contrast from the bland, translucent "coffee" the hospital serverd)the first I had tasted in a long time. There were stacks of cards everyday – from people in our new church in Washington; from friends and relatives; even from people we didn’t know.
Even all this love and attention played into my wrestling match. I always wondered why I was so surrounded with support when many of the other patients I had come to know languished day after day without a visit from anyone. I felt I wasn’t deserving. “Why God?”
One hot summer evening, on their daily visit., Judy and Melissa brought my dog Brandon to visit also. He practically drug Melissa across the courtyard as he excitedly bounded to my side. We had been constant companions for 6 years. He was my running companion. Now I knew he and I would never run in the desert again; maybe never even walk side by side. “Why God?”
Each day brought new challenges and dredged up new feelings. Judy brought a laptop computer and modem so I could be connected to the internet and read emails. I didn’t really want to. She was concerned. Further tests and therapeutic procedures revealed that I was not regaining any nerve function in my lower legs. Walking was still a huge question mark. I was still discouraged and afraid. “Why, God?”
Because I had been confined in bed or a wheel chair so long, my therapists decided they needed to start preparing me for attempts at standing upright. The body adjusts to its environment. Mine had adjusted to a prone position. Standing vertically would be a shock to my system and my blood pressure could suddenly drop. Each day, a tilt board, a padded cot like apparatus, was brought in. I was securely strapped to it and it was gradually inclined; 30* the first couple of times, 45* after that. Eventually it was raised to 90* and for the first time I was able to view the world from an upright position, even if I was strapped in this contraption. The first few times I almost passed out. I wondered if I would ever be able to stand independently.
With my daily regimen of therapy – 2 hours of physical therapy in the morning and 2 hours of occupational therapy in the afternoon, strength and movement began to return. With the assistance of Gina, a woman roughly half my size standing close by to support me and/or catch me if I began to fall, I would be wheeled in between standing rails and with considerable effort, pull myself to a standing position. Because of the severity of the injury to my right hip, I was not allowed to bear any weight on that side. When I stood, I had to keep that foot on a telephone directory so there would be no temptation to bear down. The first day, I stood for 10 minutes. Within a few weeks I was standing for 30 minutes at a time. It was boring to just stand there. Yet there was a sense of exhilaration as well. Perhaps someday, I could, with the aid of braces or crutches, walk again. The wrestling went on though. “Why Lord? What purpose do you have for me in all this?”
Friday, August 1st, just less than three months after the accident occurred, I was released to go home. Initially, Doctors had prepared us to think in terms of six months to a year of hospitalization and rehabilitation. Now, almost miraculously, it appeared as if things might return to a degree of normalcy. We could begin to plan for and schedule our move to the Northwest. I couldn’t return to work right away, but I could begin meeting new people, establishing my presence as the pastor and sharing thanks with the people who prayed for and encouraged us long distance. What an exciting day.
On the way home, we stopped at the Mesilla Valley Mall where I rolled my wheel chair into the Dillards Store like a child who had just mastered a two-wheeled bicycle. We went, me rolling, Judy walking beside, directly to the women’s accessories department where our daughter Melissa was working. We had a joyful, tearful reunion.
The following Sunday, we returned to church at Northminster Church – the sight of the accident and, more importantly, of 13 plus happy, productive years of ministry. Sitting in a wheel chair, I preached again for the first time since May 3rd. It was exhilarating. The congregation welcomed us back like long lost relatives. They even held a potluck dinner to celebrate the occasion. By the time we returned home, I was exhausted and hurting.
Over the next three months, there were times of triumph and progress- taking my first assisted steps with a walker; stuggling up the steps of our two story home to our Master Bedroom for the first time; going out with our whole family to The Hacienda, our favorite Mexican restaurant; being able to drive the car alone after hand controls had been installed; going to Evangelical Ministerial Association again, preaching at several area churches and telling my story; and most importantly being home with Judy and being able to begin making plans for the future.
Those times were tempered with frustrations as well. It was easier to focus on the things I couldn’t do than the things I could. I got so tired. Even sitting up for long periods of time was draining. I took lots of naps. I continued to wonder “why.” The wrestling went on.
Those are still questions I ask. Now, 10 years later, I have added a few questions; the most troubling one being, “Why, with the severity of my spinal injury, have I been allowed to recover as well as I have? Why am I not in a wheel chair or even dead when people who have suffered similar or even lesser injury have not had as good an outcome? It doesn’t always make sense to me. I struggle with feelings of guilt whenever I see another, more seriously disabled person than me. Somehow I feel I should be the one in the chair.
In the fall of 1999, Darrell Green, the star cornerback for the Kansas City Chiefs, was playing in a game against the Jacksonville Jaguars. He made a tackle – the kind of tackle he had made hundreds of times before – hard, clean, efficient. This particular tackle was different though. Somehow, the way his helmet hit the opposing player, caused his head to snap. His neck was broken and he crumpled to the ground, completely paralyzed. After a long cautious examination, field doctors asked for the ambulance and he was driven onto the field and he was immediately transported to a nearby Level 1 trauma hospital that specialized in treating severe spinal cord injuries. There, the news reports said, Doctors had determined he had broken his neck at the cervical spine level between number 5 and number 6; the very same place my injury occurred.
The same, standard course of treatment was given him immediately. Steroids were introduced to abate the swelling and pressure on the spinal cord, he was placed in a Stryker Frame and tongs were attached to his head so that weights could be hung in traction and the damage minimized. I followed his case via the internet with almost compulsive interest; reliving the nightmare he was going through.
I found an address for the hospital and wrote to him, telling him and his family that if they ever needed the ear or the support of someone who had been through something akin to what they were going through, Judy and I would be willing to correspond and talk with them. We never heard back.
It was just a few days later, we heard that a different and silent killer took his life. A pulmonary embolism; a blood clot had broken free from his immobile legs and had traveled back to his lungs and killed him instantaneously.
This was one of the dangers they had warned us about. Taking every precaution known, my Doctors did everything possible to see that such a clot did not form. I am sure Mr. Green’s doctors had followed the exact same protocol. Why did he die of a blood clot and not me? I sustained essentially the same injury. It is a question I keep asking but never seem to be able to hear an answer. I wrestle with God about that.
I have always been drawn to the character Jacob in the Old Testament. Jacob was a man chosen and loved by God. He was by no means perfect. In fact at times he was devious, conniving and stubbornly resistant to God. I think that is why I identify with him. I sometimes feel much the same way. I know I have feet of clay and am by no means a spiritual giant.
My paternal grandfather was named Jacob and my father’s middle name was Jacob: another reason why I feel a kinship to the Old Testament patriarch.
For another, more personal reason, Jacob has become my model. In spite of his imperfections, he refused to let go of God. As he returned to his home land to reconcile with his brother Esau, he sent his family and servants ahead. He camped under the starlit, desert skies. In the middle of the night he encountered a man (some feel an angel, others, the pre-incarnate Christ). A wrestling match ensued. The two struggled through the night, neither willing to let go or concede. Finally morning came and the stranger finally realized he was not going to overpower Jacob. In the course of the battle, though, he had touched the socket of Jacob’s hip so that it was severely sprained or dislocated. Jacob still would not let go. His grip was tenacious.
The man even pleaded with Jacob to free him. Jacob refused until the man gave him a blessing. “Your name will no longer be Jacob but Israel because you have struggled with God and with men and have overcome.”
Jacob then realized that the one against whom his struggle had been was God, so he named the place Peniel, saying, “I saw God face to face and yet my life was spared.” As he left the place, he did so limping because of the injury to his hip.
Over the last 8 years, as I have asked God “why?” I have also been struck with the reality that in my encounter with a yellow school bus, I saw God face to face and my life was spared. I may not know why nor do I always feel warm and fuzzy about the fact. As I have been on this odyssey, I have seen God face to face in so many different ways.
I have even found that most of the time, I am happy about the limp that is my constant companion. Because my legs were in traction for 4 weeks before I was well enough for surgery to be performed on my pelvis, it had begun to heal, only in a twisted position. I was left with a 2” discrepancy in the length of my legs. I have to wear a built up shoe on my left leg to equalize this problem. In addition, because of persistent nerve damage, my feet are still partially paralyzed, leaving me with an unusual walking gait; a limp.
I have learned that I have to think about every step I take. If I become careless or unaware of what is around me, I will catch the toes of my right foot and stumble. Often the momentum of a 225 pound body is enough to send me sprawling face first onto a sidewalk, parking lot, downtown intersection or church stair (just some of the places I have fallen). I wonder if people who don’t know me think I am just clumsy or if they are laughing at me. If anyone asks, I simply reply, “Yeah, it happens all the time. It’s no big deal. I was run over by a bus, and I am lucky to be up and walking – a little fall doesn’t bother me.” The limp, the stumbles, the falls, the awkward gait are all reminders to me that I wrestled with God and am still alive to talk about it. God was there with me everyday. He still is.
I will never let go. I may continue to ask questions. I very likely will struggle to understand and to accept God’s providential ways in my life. But I know that every time I have asked why, I have been reassured that the why is not as important as the Who; knowing that I have encountered the God of Jacob.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
AS GOOD AS IT GETS
August 31, 1997 - March, 2010
Las Cruces, NM - Enumclaw, WA
Much to the surprise of all my Doctors, nurses, therapists and prayer warriors, I was up and walking much sooner than anyone had thought or predicted. In fact, I had left the rehab hospital in El Paso around the 15th of August. At the time I had not been cleared to bear weight on my right hip so I was still confined to a wheel chair. By the end of August, x-rays showed the pelvis and hip had healed sufficiently for me to begin some weight bearing. With help from my friend Karen who owned her own PT clinic in Las Cruces, and my regular therapist Greg at CORE (center of rehabilitation excellence) we were seeing daily improvement in upper body strength, and gradual strengthening of hamstrings and quads. I would come home each morning from 2 hours of exertion and I would be drained. Once in the house, I would immediately transfer from my "chair" to my favorite recliner which had been brought downstairs. No sooner than I would have gotten settled and had a few drinks of what had become my favorite beverage - Sprite on ice - I would be out like a light for a couple of hours. Sweet reverie filled with hopes and dreams of walking, skiing, and running just like things had been before.
Afternoons were usually filled with visits from friends and weekly readings of the Calvary Caller newsletter and the Enumclaw Courier Herald. Plans were on track to move to Washington. We'd missed my July 1 starting date but were hoping to move in the fall if my rehab had progressed enough.
Since I couldn't yet go up steps, a hospital bed had been rented and placed in a downstairs bedroom. At the SW corner of the house, there was usually an evening breeze. If we weren't out on our patio, we were in that room talking with the lights out - making plans, dreaming of the future, and enjoying a life we weren't sure we would ever have again. It was sacred time.
August 18
Dr. Miguel Pirella-Cruz' office
Dr. Cruz had been the orhopedist who had supervised the fractures in my pelvis and hips. I'll never forget that day for two reasons. First, it always seemed very strange to me that the most difficult place to navigate a wheel chair was the Dr. in charge of getting me out of the chair. There was no ramp up to the sidewalk which was rough and broken. The doors were heavy and had no handi-cap button to push to open the doors automatically. But once inside, he determined that there had been sufficient healing for my external fixator to come off. He disappeared from the exam room and came back a few minutes later with a crescent wrench, a screwdriver, and a pair of pliers. With those mechanics tools, he proceeded to unscrew the 4 inch stainless steel screws that held the fixator device in place. I closed my eyes and cringed thinking there would be excruciating pain as he twisted out the metal from my pelvic crest bones. I felt nothing but a little odd pressure and before I knew it he was done. Instead of the fixator being a permanent attachment to the features of my mid-section, I was now holding it triumphantly like a prize fighter holds the championship belt after winning the title. It was a great moment. I still had to use the chair for a couple more weeks but I felt invigorated and ever more hopeful.
We went out to dinner that night to celebrate the great victory which really wasn't mine or ours but God's. Even Dr. Sunshine had to admit that the progress was much faster and promising than he ever thought possible. I think he was beginning to recognize what Judy had told him two months earlier: "You do what you can and we are trusting God to do the rest."
Once I got the clearance to begin bearing weight, I began working with my therapists to build more strength and balance. One day - August, 31 - to be exact, I came home from Karen's rehab clinic with a huge surprise. Judy didn't know it but for 3 or 4 days I had been practicing walking with the help of a walker. Even though I didn't have complete feeling or motion in my lower legs, things seemed to work all right from the knees up on both legs and so I found I could walk slowly, being careful to pick up my feet with each step far enough that my drop-foot would clear the floor.
Judy came home and I had a beaming grin on my face. Karen had sent the walker home with me. I told Judy to wait in the kitchen because I wanted to show her something. She was the one who just about fell over when I came plodding out of my bedroom, standing upright and under my own power.
Life was filled with small victories during that time. Kresta was home from Oregon that weekend to work on wedding plans. We decided to go out to eat as a family. Being able to walk into the "Hacienda" our favorite Mexican restaurant and have "Tony's Special" their unique salsa and the lightest, fluffiest Sopapillas in the state was freeing and exhilarating. Life seemed good. I thought to myself, if things never get any better and this is as good as my recovery gets, I am content.
That night, since it was such an eventful night anyway, I further shocked and terrified Judy, Melissa and Kresta when I decided to try going up stairs for the first time. Judy quickly stepped in behind me and grabbed me by a belt loop. I don't think she had considered what would have happened if I had lost my balance and fallen backward. We both might have ended up in the hospital again. We didn't. It took a long time and I was exhausted but I made it upstairs to the loft where the computer and tv were and where Judy's and my master bedroom that we had designed was. I had despaired ever seeing it again or sleeping in our bed again. When I got to the top of the stairs, someone had brought the walker up and I made my way into the bedroom and flopped into the bed, sobbing like a child. I was so thankful at that moment for the healing - even if it were not complete - that God had given. At that moment, at that time, surrounded by the three most important people in my life, it truly was as good as it gets.
Over the next three months there were numerous moments like that; each one a first; each one a dazzling thrill as something I hadn't expected to be able to do; some mountain was conquered.
- Pushing the lawnmower around the backyard over a two day period;
- Riding in a golf cart watching my friend Brian and his dad play golf; getting out and actually swinging a putter;
- Preaching once again in my former church - Northminster Presbyterian
- Driving through a McDonalds Drive-Thru the day the hand controls had been put on our car;
- pulling away from Las Cruces to make our way north - stopping in Colorado to see my mother and my sister;
- driving through the beautiful Colorado Rockies which I had grown up loving, exploring and marveling at;
- Getting out of the car in Nampa Idaho and walking without a crutch to hug Kresta as we arrived for her wedding; walking her down the aisle to marry Ryan;
- arriving in Enumclaw and sitting on the beautiful deck overlooking Lake Sawyer at the cabin where our friends the Gramanns had so graciously said we could stay until we found our own house;
- Walking into Calvary on November 1 to surprise the congregation that had called me to be their pastor.
- Preaching my first sermon there; meeting people about whom I had read in the church newsletter and whose pictures I had studied for weeks;
-Traveling back to Las Cruces to walk Melissa down the aisle and perform her wedding to Jerry in the church I had pastored for 13 years; watching Dr. San Fillippo (aka Dr. Sunshine) crane his neck to watch in amazement as this feat was performed;
- Finding a home with the help of Sarah, our realtor and fellow church-member;
- Adopting a new Golden Retriever - Kirk - a dropout (oops - career change dog) from the local guide dog program;
- Showing up at the storage unit the day we were to move into our new home and seeing the parking lot packed with over 30 people ready to haul boxes and furniture, set up computers, stock refrigerators and pantries, etc.;
-Starting up a new exercise and therapy regime with Stuart, a new Physical Therapist;
-Finally discarding forearm crutches, canes and other assistive devices;
- Walking around Deep Lake with my new "best friend" Kirk and thinking so vividly to myself, "if this is as good as it gets, I am content."
So much of what we do in life, we take for granted. When the threat of losing those little normalities confronted me, I was surprised to realize that God had given me a new perspective on life and on abilities. When I was a runner, a short walk wasn't anything I could appreciate. It didn't compare with running 5 miles. Skiing Black Diamond runs and moguls made the bunny hill seem foolish. Standing in the pulpit to preach every week was something I didn't think about.
Now those small accomplishments seem much larger to me, even though they probably don't mean as much to other "able-bodied" friends who run marathons, ski the back country runs at Crystal, and play sports effortlessly. I am pretty content with the things I can do. For the most part - especially in light of what could have been for me and what often is for others whose spinal cord injuries are much worse - I feel like life now is as good as it gets.
Postscript
March 11, 2010
Last night, a small group Bible Study I lead met at a local pub for our discussion of the "deadly sin of anger." I watched with joy and amazement as my friend Jim who was injured in a motorcycle accident last summer, wheeled in and transferred from his "chair" up to the tall stool at the tables we occupied. He lost his left leg 4" above the knee and his right leg echoes the same kind of neural damage and lack of feeling as my legs do. Jim's attitude is amazing. His experience and his outlook are very similar to my experience - especially during the early months after my injury.
I hear him say almost every time we talk, "Life is good. I am so blessed." It may sound strange for some to hear but I get it completely. Our lives are different because of what we have experienced. We can't do all the same things others do and take for granted. But in perspective, compared to what could have been, it is a blessing to enjoy simple things and see the goodness of the Lord and to be content in whatever circumstances we find ourselves. Thanks for reminding me Jim and thanks for keeping me mindful of this lesson.
Las Cruces, NM - Enumclaw, WA
Much to the surprise of all my Doctors, nurses, therapists and prayer warriors, I was up and walking much sooner than anyone had thought or predicted. In fact, I had left the rehab hospital in El Paso around the 15th of August. At the time I had not been cleared to bear weight on my right hip so I was still confined to a wheel chair. By the end of August, x-rays showed the pelvis and hip had healed sufficiently for me to begin some weight bearing. With help from my friend Karen who owned her own PT clinic in Las Cruces, and my regular therapist Greg at CORE (center of rehabilitation excellence) we were seeing daily improvement in upper body strength, and gradual strengthening of hamstrings and quads. I would come home each morning from 2 hours of exertion and I would be drained. Once in the house, I would immediately transfer from my "chair" to my favorite recliner which had been brought downstairs. No sooner than I would have gotten settled and had a few drinks of what had become my favorite beverage - Sprite on ice - I would be out like a light for a couple of hours. Sweet reverie filled with hopes and dreams of walking, skiing, and running just like things had been before.
Afternoons were usually filled with visits from friends and weekly readings of the Calvary Caller newsletter and the Enumclaw Courier Herald. Plans were on track to move to Washington. We'd missed my July 1 starting date but were hoping to move in the fall if my rehab had progressed enough.
Since I couldn't yet go up steps, a hospital bed had been rented and placed in a downstairs bedroom. At the SW corner of the house, there was usually an evening breeze. If we weren't out on our patio, we were in that room talking with the lights out - making plans, dreaming of the future, and enjoying a life we weren't sure we would ever have again. It was sacred time.
August 18
Dr. Miguel Pirella-Cruz' office
Dr. Cruz had been the orhopedist who had supervised the fractures in my pelvis and hips. I'll never forget that day for two reasons. First, it always seemed very strange to me that the most difficult place to navigate a wheel chair was the Dr. in charge of getting me out of the chair. There was no ramp up to the sidewalk which was rough and broken. The doors were heavy and had no handi-cap button to push to open the doors automatically. But once inside, he determined that there had been sufficient healing for my external fixator to come off. He disappeared from the exam room and came back a few minutes later with a crescent wrench, a screwdriver, and a pair of pliers. With those mechanics tools, he proceeded to unscrew the 4 inch stainless steel screws that held the fixator device in place. I closed my eyes and cringed thinking there would be excruciating pain as he twisted out the metal from my pelvic crest bones. I felt nothing but a little odd pressure and before I knew it he was done. Instead of the fixator being a permanent attachment to the features of my mid-section, I was now holding it triumphantly like a prize fighter holds the championship belt after winning the title. It was a great moment. I still had to use the chair for a couple more weeks but I felt invigorated and ever more hopeful.
We went out to dinner that night to celebrate the great victory which really wasn't mine or ours but God's. Even Dr. Sunshine had to admit that the progress was much faster and promising than he ever thought possible. I think he was beginning to recognize what Judy had told him two months earlier: "You do what you can and we are trusting God to do the rest."
Once I got the clearance to begin bearing weight, I began working with my therapists to build more strength and balance. One day - August, 31 - to be exact, I came home from Karen's rehab clinic with a huge surprise. Judy didn't know it but for 3 or 4 days I had been practicing walking with the help of a walker. Even though I didn't have complete feeling or motion in my lower legs, things seemed to work all right from the knees up on both legs and so I found I could walk slowly, being careful to pick up my feet with each step far enough that my drop-foot would clear the floor.
Judy came home and I had a beaming grin on my face. Karen had sent the walker home with me. I told Judy to wait in the kitchen because I wanted to show her something. She was the one who just about fell over when I came plodding out of my bedroom, standing upright and under my own power.
Life was filled with small victories during that time. Kresta was home from Oregon that weekend to work on wedding plans. We decided to go out to eat as a family. Being able to walk into the "Hacienda" our favorite Mexican restaurant and have "Tony's Special" their unique salsa and the lightest, fluffiest Sopapillas in the state was freeing and exhilarating. Life seemed good. I thought to myself, if things never get any better and this is as good as my recovery gets, I am content.
That night, since it was such an eventful night anyway, I further shocked and terrified Judy, Melissa and Kresta when I decided to try going up stairs for the first time. Judy quickly stepped in behind me and grabbed me by a belt loop. I don't think she had considered what would have happened if I had lost my balance and fallen backward. We both might have ended up in the hospital again. We didn't. It took a long time and I was exhausted but I made it upstairs to the loft where the computer and tv were and where Judy's and my master bedroom that we had designed was. I had despaired ever seeing it again or sleeping in our bed again. When I got to the top of the stairs, someone had brought the walker up and I made my way into the bedroom and flopped into the bed, sobbing like a child. I was so thankful at that moment for the healing - even if it were not complete - that God had given. At that moment, at that time, surrounded by the three most important people in my life, it truly was as good as it gets.
Over the next three months there were numerous moments like that; each one a first; each one a dazzling thrill as something I hadn't expected to be able to do; some mountain was conquered.
- Pushing the lawnmower around the backyard over a two day period;
- Riding in a golf cart watching my friend Brian and his dad play golf; getting out and actually swinging a putter;
- Preaching once again in my former church - Northminster Presbyterian
- Driving through a McDonalds Drive-Thru the day the hand controls had been put on our car;
- pulling away from Las Cruces to make our way north - stopping in Colorado to see my mother and my sister;
- driving through the beautiful Colorado Rockies which I had grown up loving, exploring and marveling at;
- Getting out of the car in Nampa Idaho and walking without a crutch to hug Kresta as we arrived for her wedding; walking her down the aisle to marry Ryan;
- arriving in Enumclaw and sitting on the beautiful deck overlooking Lake Sawyer at the cabin where our friends the Gramanns had so graciously said we could stay until we found our own house;
- Walking into Calvary on November 1 to surprise the congregation that had called me to be their pastor.
- Preaching my first sermon there; meeting people about whom I had read in the church newsletter and whose pictures I had studied for weeks;
-Traveling back to Las Cruces to walk Melissa down the aisle and perform her wedding to Jerry in the church I had pastored for 13 years; watching Dr. San Fillippo (aka Dr. Sunshine) crane his neck to watch in amazement as this feat was performed;
- Finding a home with the help of Sarah, our realtor and fellow church-member;
- Adopting a new Golden Retriever - Kirk - a dropout (oops - career change dog) from the local guide dog program;
- Showing up at the storage unit the day we were to move into our new home and seeing the parking lot packed with over 30 people ready to haul boxes and furniture, set up computers, stock refrigerators and pantries, etc.;
-Starting up a new exercise and therapy regime with Stuart, a new Physical Therapist;
-Finally discarding forearm crutches, canes and other assistive devices;
- Walking around Deep Lake with my new "best friend" Kirk and thinking so vividly to myself, "if this is as good as it gets, I am content."
So much of what we do in life, we take for granted. When the threat of losing those little normalities confronted me, I was surprised to realize that God had given me a new perspective on life and on abilities. When I was a runner, a short walk wasn't anything I could appreciate. It didn't compare with running 5 miles. Skiing Black Diamond runs and moguls made the bunny hill seem foolish. Standing in the pulpit to preach every week was something I didn't think about.
Now those small accomplishments seem much larger to me, even though they probably don't mean as much to other "able-bodied" friends who run marathons, ski the back country runs at Crystal, and play sports effortlessly. I am pretty content with the things I can do. For the most part - especially in light of what could have been for me and what often is for others whose spinal cord injuries are much worse - I feel like life now is as good as it gets.
Postscript
March 11, 2010
Last night, a small group Bible Study I lead met at a local pub for our discussion of the "deadly sin of anger." I watched with joy and amazement as my friend Jim who was injured in a motorcycle accident last summer, wheeled in and transferred from his "chair" up to the tall stool at the tables we occupied. He lost his left leg 4" above the knee and his right leg echoes the same kind of neural damage and lack of feeling as my legs do. Jim's attitude is amazing. His experience and his outlook are very similar to my experience - especially during the early months after my injury.
I hear him say almost every time we talk, "Life is good. I am so blessed." It may sound strange for some to hear but I get it completely. Our lives are different because of what we have experienced. We can't do all the same things others do and take for granted. But in perspective, compared to what could have been, it is a blessing to enjoy simple things and see the goodness of the Lord and to be content in whatever circumstances we find ourselves. Thanks for reminding me Jim and thanks for keeping me mindful of this lesson.
Friday, March 5, 2010
BUILDING ON THE FOUNDATION
Chapter 7, (part 2)
"Nevertheless, God's solid foundation stands firm sealed with this inscription: 'The Lord knows those who are his....'" (The Apostle Paul, 2 Timothy 2:19 NIV)
It was during these times of reflection - when I could do little else but lay in bed and wait and wonder - I became acutely aware that on that foundation of faith in Christ, had been built several other key foundations. It is sad that we don't always think about what we have until we run the risk of losing it. Laying in that hospital bed gave me the opportunity to clearly understand this.
The second foundational strength in my life had become my family. I had been raised in a Christian family where love was freely expressed and where an emphasis was always placed on togetherness and faith. Growing up in Englewood, Colorado our family never missed being in church unless we were out of town. I was blessed with parents who supported and encouraged my two sisters in every way. We took great family vacations together, built wonderful holiday traditions, enjoyed playing cards and other table games, having picnics in the nearby Rocky Mountains, and participating in each other’s events and accomplishments.
Judy and I began dating in 1968. She still says that she fell in love with my family before she fell in love with me. One more reason to be thankful for a great family. So, when Judy and I were married in 1972, we decided that we wanted to make the same kind of commitment to family. Church participation, family vacations, special events, support of our daughters' interests and activities, and most importantly family devotions and prayer marked this commitment.
When our daughters came along, I was in Seminary, studying to receive my Master of Divinity. I had a great job working part-time as a youth pastor at the church in which I had been raised - Corona Presbyterian Church in Denver. I got to take Junior and Senior High Students on backpacking trips, bicycle treks, bowling nights, swimming parties, and all the other stuff youth pastors do as “work.” Every week we had Bible study and discipleship training. We even formed a small youth choir. I hung out with a bunch of guys, playing basketball on the asphalt court located in the church’s parking lot. Several kids off the streets would come around and play pick up games with us and eventually several of those guys trusted Christ and became active in our youth program.
During the first year and one half of my seminary studies Judy and I managed a small 22 unit apartment building. This enabled Judy to stay home with the kids. She did most of the paper work and managerial duties from our small two bedroom corner apartment. Even though she had always felt God’s calling in her life to be a teacher, she put that dream on hold for the sake of providing that early, all-important nurture to our two babies. When I would come home in the evenings, I would water the grass, tend the flower beds, tend to people’s broken garbage disposals, cabinet hinges or running toilets.
As Kresta and Melissa began to grow, they became a central part of our lives. We took them on visits to the zoo, picnics in the mountains, overnight camping trips (kids that age go through too many clothes to make camping any longer than one or two nights impractical).
As they grew older, we spent time every night reading Bible stories, praying together and then ending the day with a family back tickling session. They were happy days even though we didn’t have much. It was also great during those formative days for the girls to be in close proximity to both sets of grandparents and their cousins, the children of my sister Barbara and her husband Dennis. We all grew close to and appreciated this extended family.
That same commitment to our family carried forward when, after graduation from Seminary, I was called to be the Associate Pastor at First Presbyterian Church in Renton, Washington. We would go ride the ferry boat between downtown Seattle and Bainbridge Island, go on picnics in the mountains, play together in the park at the end of our street and explore the beauty and grandeur of the Pacific Northwest. Once again, extended family became important as my sister Jean and her husband Jeff began to have children. Jeff was the Program director at a nearby Christian Camp and we often went to SAMBICA (Sammamish Bible Camp) to spend time by the lake, play on the spacious grounds and share meals and pinochle games together.
Those times of closeness have carried our family through many interesting adventures and helped us all survive the shock of moving from Renton to the desert of southern New Mexico. When we arrived there, much to Melissa’s delight, we purchased a home with a swimming pool. The day we arrived, even though it was late October, she jumped in the frigid and unkempt, green water of that pool just because she could. As Kresta and she became teenagers, that pool and our home became a haven for great numbers of teenagers. I helped coach the Mustangs – a girls fastpich softball team. Judy took them to piano lessons and school activities. Between the two of us, we attended every recital, program, assembly and game the girls ever were a part of. In turn, the girls were with us at church, Sunday School and youth group. I would like to think that it was because they wanted to be there. We always told them that we didn’t do these things together simply because I was a pastor but because we were believers and we felt it important to share that part of our lives together.
The same year the new church building was completed, 1991, Judy’s father was tragically killed in an accident while working under his car in his driveway. Edith, Judy’s mom came to live with us in New Mexico. There was never any question about it. Our family was close and families take care of each other.
That commitment to family was, without my having realized it, one of the foundational supports that helped carry me through my accident and recovery. Judy, Kresta and Melissa were there for me, encouraging me, praying for me, keeping my spirits up through the whole thing. We continue to be there for each other even though separated by miles today. That foundation is solid and secure.
When I reached my mid-thirties I also realized a greater need to strive for physical fitness. This was rapidly becoming the third foundation of my life. I had always been involved in some sort of organized sports. Now I needed new motivation to stay fit. In addition to swimming, I lifted weights, worked in the yard and jogged several miles every day or went on a bike ride through the pecan orchards. A day didn’t seem complete if I had not done some sort of physical workout. Not only did it make me feel better, it kept a middle aged spread from expanding around my waistline; a problem that many people with sedentary jobs face.
Keeping physically fit was also the key to keeping emotionally and spiritually strong as well. A pastor is an administrator, counselor, preacher and teacher, comforter and shepherd through the times of grief and hardship in people’s lives. Trying to minister to all those needs can be wearing. Members of each congregation have strong opinions and difficult relationships. Dealing with all the issues a pastor deals with, I found that if I put in a vigorous workout, that stubborn committee person or trying parishioner didn’t get to me quite as much. Pounding the desert paths, while trying to do an 8 minute mile for 40 minutes, did wonders for my outlook on life and ministry. My wife and daughters could attest to the fact that I was always more pleasant to be around when I had kept my daily regimen.
Of course the most important reason for any cardio vascular exercise is to strengthen the heart muscle and the lungs. I had gotten my resting heart rate down to a meager 45 – 50 beats per minute which, according to the self-checking pulse and blood pressure machine at the local Smith’s grocery store, was that of an athlete. That vitalized heart and expanded lungs would serve me well in a way I could not have planned for. More than one person attributed my survival of the initial injuries to the fact that I was in excellent shape. I was glad that fitness had become a foundational support in my life.
Another foundation that we had unknowingly been building was fellowship. From the earliest days in our marriage, we found that the disciplines of worshiping corporately with a church family, participating in activities with other couples and being a part of a small support and accountability group were important vitamins for our spiritual health. They also produced lasting friendships and intellectual stimulation as, in a group, we would not only share ideas about life and faith, we would also listen to and be fed by the experience of the others. The richness of these experiences was deepened by the knowledge that these brothers and sisters were faithful prayer partners as well.
In small groups, we learned to be able to trust others enough to share our weaknesses and doubts. We did so knowing that those concerns were being borne on the shoulders of the members of our group. They promised to be praying for us daily, even as we promised to pray for them.
In Denver, we enjoyed such group fellowship with Ken and Kay, Quen and Judy, Scott and Leslie, Mike and Susie. In Renton, our fellowship was with Ron and Gwen, Jay and Mary, Don and LoAnn and Janet.
When we arrived in Las Cruces, it took some time for small group ministry to develop. Steve and Juli became our earliest, closest confidants and prayer partners. They remain so to this day. Steve took a job in a different part of the state. We would see each other two or three times a year. Each time, it was as if they had never left. That close fellowship, understanding, support and laughter picked up right where it had left off the last visit. Eventually we found ourselves in deep fellowship with Dan and Anne, Bob and Vivian, Bob and Barb. Later, our group expanded to include Mark and Tina, Thelma, Lynn, Bruce and Laurie, Brenda. It was this group that was together the night before my accident talking with and supporting Lyn as she pondered the possibility of God’s calling her to ministry.
That night was a meaningful one as we sat on our covered patio, enjoying a warm, dry breeze and watching the sun set far off on the western horizon. After concluding with prayer, we shared homemade ice cream and parted company, totally unaware of how that group had provided the strength we would need the next day. That foundation was an integral, vital link for the trial we were about to face.
Finally, we have found that having friendships – not always with church people – have been helpful in expanding our world view, getting us out into the world where our life and witness might be salt for someone else’s life. Judy had developed two very close friendships. One was with Anne, a member of our small group. Anne lived close enough that she and Judy could go on long walks together, discussing the trials and tribulations of raising adolescents, of being married to men who weren’t always as sensitive as they should have been and questions of faith. Judy and Anne have maintained this friendship through the marvel of email since Anne now lives in southern California and we live in Washington.
The other close friend in Las Cruces was Betty, a colleague of Judy’s at work, a nurse and a sister in Christ. She was there in the ER with Judy during the first traumatic and scary hours, offering reassurance, interpreting medical terminology and just being present to hold a hand, offer a Kleenex or simply share the quiet tension of the moment.
As for me, I had many whom I considered friends; very few could I call close friends. I am not sure if it true of all pastors but I felt it was difficult to develop a strong friendship – the kind of friend that Jonathan was to David – with one person. So many people demanded my time and interest. Maybe men in general have a more difficult time sharing such deep friendships as women.
But I did try to cultivate friendships outside the church. David, a friend who gave the Charge to the Pastor at my installation service in Enumclaw challenged me to develop friendships outside the church. It is sound advice. And so I had numerous friends, some within the church family, some from other churches and some friends through Rotary. Most of these men I probably didn’t value and understand as much as I should have. There was David, the local Campus Pastor; Daryl, the Associate Pastor at the other Presbyterian Church in town; Gil, the former Youth Pastor at the same church and then a teacher in El Paso; the fellow pastors of the Evangelical Ministerial Fellowship and the Las Cruces Ministerial Association; fellow Rotarians, Charlie and DeVon, the guys that I spent numerous late nights with along the shores of Elephant Butte Resevoir, fishing for white bass and Charlie, with whom we had gotten acquainted through Young Life Committee. We had also become good friends with a few neighbors with whom we shared backyard barbecues, chile roasting parties and other social get togethers.
Sometimes a person only comes to realize who their true friends are when the chips are down and they really need the support and care of a close friend to stick by their side. This became evident to us both – and to Kresta and Melissa whose own circles of friends supported them through this difficult trial as well. Friends became as strong a foundation for us as any rebar reinforced concrete might be to a large building. How we appreciated those friends.
All five of these factors came to be tested and stretched during the tumultuous events that began the day of my accident. Each of them proved to be solid foundations on which we could rest and find strength.
In February of 2000, Seattle experienced a 6.9 earthquake, centered along the Nisqually fault line some 90 miles south east of Seattle. Even though the degree of magnitude as strong, we were told it was a deep, rolling earthquake; the kind that doesn’t produce nearly as much percussive shock as other, surface quakes. Even so, many structures – bridges, houses, factories and downtown skyscrapers shook and rattled, sending frightened inhabitants out into the streets. Buildings whose designers had planned for earthquake remained in tact. Many older buildings did not fare as well and many suffered damage ranging from moderate to severe.
I learned that not only does a building need to rest on a solid foundation, it also needs to be designed with the capacity to endure the forces of twisting and stretching. That is true in life as well. Foundations are important like the foundations I mentioned earlier. But there is also a need in life to be able to flex and twist; to go with the flow as it were. Trusting in the sovereignty of God and in divine providence was helpful reassurance in the days following my accident. Each one of the five foundational pillars – faith, family, fitness, fellowship and friends stood the test. They were rock solid and we rested on them heavily.
When an accident happens, it is always unplanned and unexpected. We discovered this. In a period of just a few moments, our life and plans were thrown into complete disarray and uncertainty. Some people have their lives turned around through a longer course of devastating illness or inconsolable grief. Ours happened in the period of less than ten minutes. At 4:00, our lives were pretty well mapped out. By 4:30 that afternoon, nothing was certain any longer. We had to learn to “take it one step at a time.”
At one point along the way of hospitalization, surgery and rehabilitation, someone handed me a little booklet entitled "Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff" (and its all small stuff. That book’s title spoke volumes to us. The content of the booklet was short and somewhat bland, making it marketable to a reading audience that doesn’t like things that are difficult. We had to learn that in the grand scheme of things, almost everything that we ever worried about or stressed over was pretty small stuff compared to the struggle for life in which we were now embroiled. By virtue of circumstances beyond our control, we had to learn to flex and twist or else be shattered.
Strangely enough, just a few short months prior to May 8th, I had gone to Reformed Seminary’s Orlando Campus to audit a week long Doctor of Ministry course on Divine Providence, taught by renowned scholar and author Dr. R.C. Sproul. After reading books by Jonathan Edwards, Martin Luther and others, and sitting in on the lectures, I left with the absolute conviction that “there is not a maverick atom in the universe.” (Dr. Sproul’s phrase) In other words, nothing that happens in this universe or in our own private world happens outside the watchful, providential eye of an all-knowing beneficent God. By his decretive will (that is those things which come to pass just as God has decreed or spoken) and God’s permissive will (those things that are allowed to happen in our lives to strengthen us and not destroy us) God is always at work in the believer’s life to accomplish his overarching, pre-ordained plan for our lives.
We may not always know or be able to identify what that purpose’s long term implications or specifics might be. But we can rest in the knowledge that nothing can separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus (Romans 8:38) and that God is at work within us to do and to act according to his good purpose. (Philippians 2:13) The Psalmist averred that not one of our days passes without his knowledge and that before any of those days came to pass, they were ordained for us (Psalm 139:16 my paraphrase) We are God’s workmanship, created for good works that he has planned for us that we should walk in them.” (Ephesians 2:10)
Armed with such conviction, we found that, like the Apostle Paul, we were “hard-pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed but not in despair; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body.” (II Corinthians 4:8–10). Further more, we found that “His grace was sufficient for us, his power is made perfect in weakness.” (II Corinthians 12:8)
That is not to say that there weren’t hard times; times of doubt, frustration, impatience, anger and sometimes resentment. As I live with partial paralysis in both legs due to this accident, there are still times when I wonder why God allowed this to happen. Perhaps I will never know the full answer to that question. It could be that someone reading these pages is encouraged or strengthened through some trial of their own that God’s purpose for me is fulfilled. Yet, I may never know if what we have experienced has helped someone else.
I do know that when the foundations were tested, they held solid. They permitted us to bend and flex with the circumstances, knowing that God would never allow anything to happen that was not part of his perfect plan for our lives.
"Nevertheless, God's solid foundation stands firm sealed with this inscription: 'The Lord knows those who are his....'" (The Apostle Paul, 2 Timothy 2:19 NIV)
It was during these times of reflection - when I could do little else but lay in bed and wait and wonder - I became acutely aware that on that foundation of faith in Christ, had been built several other key foundations. It is sad that we don't always think about what we have until we run the risk of losing it. Laying in that hospital bed gave me the opportunity to clearly understand this.
The second foundational strength in my life had become my family. I had been raised in a Christian family where love was freely expressed and where an emphasis was always placed on togetherness and faith. Growing up in Englewood, Colorado our family never missed being in church unless we were out of town. I was blessed with parents who supported and encouraged my two sisters in every way. We took great family vacations together, built wonderful holiday traditions, enjoyed playing cards and other table games, having picnics in the nearby Rocky Mountains, and participating in each other’s events and accomplishments.
Judy and I began dating in 1968. She still says that she fell in love with my family before she fell in love with me. One more reason to be thankful for a great family. So, when Judy and I were married in 1972, we decided that we wanted to make the same kind of commitment to family. Church participation, family vacations, special events, support of our daughters' interests and activities, and most importantly family devotions and prayer marked this commitment.
When our daughters came along, I was in Seminary, studying to receive my Master of Divinity. I had a great job working part-time as a youth pastor at the church in which I had been raised - Corona Presbyterian Church in Denver. I got to take Junior and Senior High Students on backpacking trips, bicycle treks, bowling nights, swimming parties, and all the other stuff youth pastors do as “work.” Every week we had Bible study and discipleship training. We even formed a small youth choir. I hung out with a bunch of guys, playing basketball on the asphalt court located in the church’s parking lot. Several kids off the streets would come around and play pick up games with us and eventually several of those guys trusted Christ and became active in our youth program.
During the first year and one half of my seminary studies Judy and I managed a small 22 unit apartment building. This enabled Judy to stay home with the kids. She did most of the paper work and managerial duties from our small two bedroom corner apartment. Even though she had always felt God’s calling in her life to be a teacher, she put that dream on hold for the sake of providing that early, all-important nurture to our two babies. When I would come home in the evenings, I would water the grass, tend the flower beds, tend to people’s broken garbage disposals, cabinet hinges or running toilets.
As Kresta and Melissa began to grow, they became a central part of our lives. We took them on visits to the zoo, picnics in the mountains, overnight camping trips (kids that age go through too many clothes to make camping any longer than one or two nights impractical).
As they grew older, we spent time every night reading Bible stories, praying together and then ending the day with a family back tickling session. They were happy days even though we didn’t have much. It was also great during those formative days for the girls to be in close proximity to both sets of grandparents and their cousins, the children of my sister Barbara and her husband Dennis. We all grew close to and appreciated this extended family.
That same commitment to our family carried forward when, after graduation from Seminary, I was called to be the Associate Pastor at First Presbyterian Church in Renton, Washington. We would go ride the ferry boat between downtown Seattle and Bainbridge Island, go on picnics in the mountains, play together in the park at the end of our street and explore the beauty and grandeur of the Pacific Northwest. Once again, extended family became important as my sister Jean and her husband Jeff began to have children. Jeff was the Program director at a nearby Christian Camp and we often went to SAMBICA (Sammamish Bible Camp) to spend time by the lake, play on the spacious grounds and share meals and pinochle games together.
Those times of closeness have carried our family through many interesting adventures and helped us all survive the shock of moving from Renton to the desert of southern New Mexico. When we arrived there, much to Melissa’s delight, we purchased a home with a swimming pool. The day we arrived, even though it was late October, she jumped in the frigid and unkempt, green water of that pool just because she could. As Kresta and she became teenagers, that pool and our home became a haven for great numbers of teenagers. I helped coach the Mustangs – a girls fastpich softball team. Judy took them to piano lessons and school activities. Between the two of us, we attended every recital, program, assembly and game the girls ever were a part of. In turn, the girls were with us at church, Sunday School and youth group. I would like to think that it was because they wanted to be there. We always told them that we didn’t do these things together simply because I was a pastor but because we were believers and we felt it important to share that part of our lives together.
The same year the new church building was completed, 1991, Judy’s father was tragically killed in an accident while working under his car in his driveway. Edith, Judy’s mom came to live with us in New Mexico. There was never any question about it. Our family was close and families take care of each other.
That commitment to family was, without my having realized it, one of the foundational supports that helped carry me through my accident and recovery. Judy, Kresta and Melissa were there for me, encouraging me, praying for me, keeping my spirits up through the whole thing. We continue to be there for each other even though separated by miles today. That foundation is solid and secure.
When I reached my mid-thirties I also realized a greater need to strive for physical fitness. This was rapidly becoming the third foundation of my life. I had always been involved in some sort of organized sports. Now I needed new motivation to stay fit. In addition to swimming, I lifted weights, worked in the yard and jogged several miles every day or went on a bike ride through the pecan orchards. A day didn’t seem complete if I had not done some sort of physical workout. Not only did it make me feel better, it kept a middle aged spread from expanding around my waistline; a problem that many people with sedentary jobs face.
Keeping physically fit was also the key to keeping emotionally and spiritually strong as well. A pastor is an administrator, counselor, preacher and teacher, comforter and shepherd through the times of grief and hardship in people’s lives. Trying to minister to all those needs can be wearing. Members of each congregation have strong opinions and difficult relationships. Dealing with all the issues a pastor deals with, I found that if I put in a vigorous workout, that stubborn committee person or trying parishioner didn’t get to me quite as much. Pounding the desert paths, while trying to do an 8 minute mile for 40 minutes, did wonders for my outlook on life and ministry. My wife and daughters could attest to the fact that I was always more pleasant to be around when I had kept my daily regimen.
Of course the most important reason for any cardio vascular exercise is to strengthen the heart muscle and the lungs. I had gotten my resting heart rate down to a meager 45 – 50 beats per minute which, according to the self-checking pulse and blood pressure machine at the local Smith’s grocery store, was that of an athlete. That vitalized heart and expanded lungs would serve me well in a way I could not have planned for. More than one person attributed my survival of the initial injuries to the fact that I was in excellent shape. I was glad that fitness had become a foundational support in my life.
Another foundation that we had unknowingly been building was fellowship. From the earliest days in our marriage, we found that the disciplines of worshiping corporately with a church family, participating in activities with other couples and being a part of a small support and accountability group were important vitamins for our spiritual health. They also produced lasting friendships and intellectual stimulation as, in a group, we would not only share ideas about life and faith, we would also listen to and be fed by the experience of the others. The richness of these experiences was deepened by the knowledge that these brothers and sisters were faithful prayer partners as well.
In small groups, we learned to be able to trust others enough to share our weaknesses and doubts. We did so knowing that those concerns were being borne on the shoulders of the members of our group. They promised to be praying for us daily, even as we promised to pray for them.
In Denver, we enjoyed such group fellowship with Ken and Kay, Quen and Judy, Scott and Leslie, Mike and Susie. In Renton, our fellowship was with Ron and Gwen, Jay and Mary, Don and LoAnn and Janet.
When we arrived in Las Cruces, it took some time for small group ministry to develop. Steve and Juli became our earliest, closest confidants and prayer partners. They remain so to this day. Steve took a job in a different part of the state. We would see each other two or three times a year. Each time, it was as if they had never left. That close fellowship, understanding, support and laughter picked up right where it had left off the last visit. Eventually we found ourselves in deep fellowship with Dan and Anne, Bob and Vivian, Bob and Barb. Later, our group expanded to include Mark and Tina, Thelma, Lynn, Bruce and Laurie, Brenda. It was this group that was together the night before my accident talking with and supporting Lyn as she pondered the possibility of God’s calling her to ministry.
That night was a meaningful one as we sat on our covered patio, enjoying a warm, dry breeze and watching the sun set far off on the western horizon. After concluding with prayer, we shared homemade ice cream and parted company, totally unaware of how that group had provided the strength we would need the next day. That foundation was an integral, vital link for the trial we were about to face.
Finally, we have found that having friendships – not always with church people – have been helpful in expanding our world view, getting us out into the world where our life and witness might be salt for someone else’s life. Judy had developed two very close friendships. One was with Anne, a member of our small group. Anne lived close enough that she and Judy could go on long walks together, discussing the trials and tribulations of raising adolescents, of being married to men who weren’t always as sensitive as they should have been and questions of faith. Judy and Anne have maintained this friendship through the marvel of email since Anne now lives in southern California and we live in Washington.
The other close friend in Las Cruces was Betty, a colleague of Judy’s at work, a nurse and a sister in Christ. She was there in the ER with Judy during the first traumatic and scary hours, offering reassurance, interpreting medical terminology and just being present to hold a hand, offer a Kleenex or simply share the quiet tension of the moment.
As for me, I had many whom I considered friends; very few could I call close friends. I am not sure if it true of all pastors but I felt it was difficult to develop a strong friendship – the kind of friend that Jonathan was to David – with one person. So many people demanded my time and interest. Maybe men in general have a more difficult time sharing such deep friendships as women.
But I did try to cultivate friendships outside the church. David, a friend who gave the Charge to the Pastor at my installation service in Enumclaw challenged me to develop friendships outside the church. It is sound advice. And so I had numerous friends, some within the church family, some from other churches and some friends through Rotary. Most of these men I probably didn’t value and understand as much as I should have. There was David, the local Campus Pastor; Daryl, the Associate Pastor at the other Presbyterian Church in town; Gil, the former Youth Pastor at the same church and then a teacher in El Paso; the fellow pastors of the Evangelical Ministerial Fellowship and the Las Cruces Ministerial Association; fellow Rotarians, Charlie and DeVon, the guys that I spent numerous late nights with along the shores of Elephant Butte Resevoir, fishing for white bass and Charlie, with whom we had gotten acquainted through Young Life Committee. We had also become good friends with a few neighbors with whom we shared backyard barbecues, chile roasting parties and other social get togethers.
Sometimes a person only comes to realize who their true friends are when the chips are down and they really need the support and care of a close friend to stick by their side. This became evident to us both – and to Kresta and Melissa whose own circles of friends supported them through this difficult trial as well. Friends became as strong a foundation for us as any rebar reinforced concrete might be to a large building. How we appreciated those friends.
All five of these factors came to be tested and stretched during the tumultuous events that began the day of my accident. Each of them proved to be solid foundations on which we could rest and find strength.
In February of 2000, Seattle experienced a 6.9 earthquake, centered along the Nisqually fault line some 90 miles south east of Seattle. Even though the degree of magnitude as strong, we were told it was a deep, rolling earthquake; the kind that doesn’t produce nearly as much percussive shock as other, surface quakes. Even so, many structures – bridges, houses, factories and downtown skyscrapers shook and rattled, sending frightened inhabitants out into the streets. Buildings whose designers had planned for earthquake remained in tact. Many older buildings did not fare as well and many suffered damage ranging from moderate to severe.
I learned that not only does a building need to rest on a solid foundation, it also needs to be designed with the capacity to endure the forces of twisting and stretching. That is true in life as well. Foundations are important like the foundations I mentioned earlier. But there is also a need in life to be able to flex and twist; to go with the flow as it were. Trusting in the sovereignty of God and in divine providence was helpful reassurance in the days following my accident. Each one of the five foundational pillars – faith, family, fitness, fellowship and friends stood the test. They were rock solid and we rested on them heavily.
When an accident happens, it is always unplanned and unexpected. We discovered this. In a period of just a few moments, our life and plans were thrown into complete disarray and uncertainty. Some people have their lives turned around through a longer course of devastating illness or inconsolable grief. Ours happened in the period of less than ten minutes. At 4:00, our lives were pretty well mapped out. By 4:30 that afternoon, nothing was certain any longer. We had to learn to “take it one step at a time.”
At one point along the way of hospitalization, surgery and rehabilitation, someone handed me a little booklet entitled "Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff" (and its all small stuff. That book’s title spoke volumes to us. The content of the booklet was short and somewhat bland, making it marketable to a reading audience that doesn’t like things that are difficult. We had to learn that in the grand scheme of things, almost everything that we ever worried about or stressed over was pretty small stuff compared to the struggle for life in which we were now embroiled. By virtue of circumstances beyond our control, we had to learn to flex and twist or else be shattered.
Strangely enough, just a few short months prior to May 8th, I had gone to Reformed Seminary’s Orlando Campus to audit a week long Doctor of Ministry course on Divine Providence, taught by renowned scholar and author Dr. R.C. Sproul. After reading books by Jonathan Edwards, Martin Luther and others, and sitting in on the lectures, I left with the absolute conviction that “there is not a maverick atom in the universe.” (Dr. Sproul’s phrase) In other words, nothing that happens in this universe or in our own private world happens outside the watchful, providential eye of an all-knowing beneficent God. By his decretive will (that is those things which come to pass just as God has decreed or spoken) and God’s permissive will (those things that are allowed to happen in our lives to strengthen us and not destroy us) God is always at work in the believer’s life to accomplish his overarching, pre-ordained plan for our lives.
We may not always know or be able to identify what that purpose’s long term implications or specifics might be. But we can rest in the knowledge that nothing can separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus (Romans 8:38) and that God is at work within us to do and to act according to his good purpose. (Philippians 2:13) The Psalmist averred that not one of our days passes without his knowledge and that before any of those days came to pass, they were ordained for us (Psalm 139:16 my paraphrase) We are God’s workmanship, created for good works that he has planned for us that we should walk in them.” (Ephesians 2:10)
Armed with such conviction, we found that, like the Apostle Paul, we were “hard-pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed but not in despair; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body.” (II Corinthians 4:8–10). Further more, we found that “His grace was sufficient for us, his power is made perfect in weakness.” (II Corinthians 12:8)
That is not to say that there weren’t hard times; times of doubt, frustration, impatience, anger and sometimes resentment. As I live with partial paralysis in both legs due to this accident, there are still times when I wonder why God allowed this to happen. Perhaps I will never know the full answer to that question. It could be that someone reading these pages is encouraged or strengthened through some trial of their own that God’s purpose for me is fulfilled. Yet, I may never know if what we have experienced has helped someone else.
I do know that when the foundations were tested, they held solid. They permitted us to bend and flex with the circumstances, knowing that God would never allow anything to happen that was not part of his perfect plan for our lives.
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