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.