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.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
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.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
HOW FIRM A FOUNDATION
CHAPTER 7
June 15th, 1997
El Paso Texas
Sierra Vista Rehabilitation Hospital
“He is no fool to give up what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose.” Jim Elliot
“Whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will save it.” Jesus of Nazareth
"What more can He say than to you He hath said, to you who for refuge to Jesus have fled? (from the Traditional American Hymn "How Firm A Foundation")
As the ambulance drove the 40 or so miles down I-25 between Las Cruces, NM and El Paso, TX, I began pondering a question that continues to haunt me to this day. "How firm are the foundations on which my life is resting?" Like so many questions that go unconsidered, I had blithely lived 47 years of life, with few real tests to the stability of my life's support structure.
Facing yet another huge change in life, I was now being forced to ask myself that question. When I had been taken to the hospital and was faced with the spectre of life and death, I was hardly concerned with such philisophical query. In my 28 days of residence in room #14 of the ICU at Memorial Medical Center, I was too heavily drugged to give the thought much consideration. When I was moved up to the 6th floor with the rest of the "normal" orthopaedic patients, I was too preoccupied with such things as sitting up or lifting two pound dumbbells or visiting with the countless entourage of visitors who so faithfully came to encourage me and pray with me.
Now, I was well enough to be moved to a rehabilitation hospital - a place Dr. Sunshine thought could be my home for 6 months to a year. I didn't know what to expect. I felt afraid of the unknown and apprehensive about the task ahead; rehabilitation, and perhaps walking again. I didn't know anyone in El Paso really. It was a strange place away - though not far - from my family and friends. Could I cope? Would it be too much for me? Was my life stable and secure on strong foundations. Those were my thoughts that day as the American Medical Response team drove me to my next challenge (this time at a much saner speed than its first race to the hospital the day of the accident). Those are still the questions I ask myself regularly.
It occurred to me that I had lived out a powerful metaphor during the years prior to my accident; a metaphor that taught me a great deal about foundations.
Two of the happiest days in the life of a New Church Development Pastor are the day the congregation has grown enough that they are ready and willing to enter into a building program and the day the building is finally done. August 7, 1990 was the first happy day for Northminster Presbyterian Church. August 31, 1991 was the second.
The Presbytery of Sierra Blanca is an immense, desolate piece of geography comprised of 20 churches, one campus ministry and a few specialized ministries to the poor. In 1980, the leaders of the Presbytery, assisted by folks from First Presbyterian Church conducted a survey among people living along the rapidly growing Elks Club neighborhood of Las Cruces, New Mexico. The question they asked, as they went door to door was, “How would you feel about a Presbyterian Church being planted somewhere in this area?” The response was overwhelmingly positive. “Yes, we would be fine with that. Go ahead.”
A piece of prime real estate was purchased along US Highway 70, about one half mile east of Elks Drive and Interstate 25. It was the area city planners said would grow with the greatest projected population. The Presbytery secured the services of the Reverend George Fry to come and do the development work of starting a new Presbyterian Church. The small fellowship of original members began by meeting in one family’s living room. Before long they were overcrowding that room. Another family had redone their garage area to accommodate this small worshiping group of committed believers. College professors, farmers, NASA engineers, homemakers, students, car salesmen and retirees were all part of this initial “church fellowship” known as North Valley Presbyterian Fellowship. The foundation of a new congregation, made up of “living stones” had been laid for future growth and ministry to take place.
The numbers continued to grow; not just with people living in the immediate neighborhood but with folks from throughout the Mesilla Valley, so named for the small town that was the original settlement along the Rio Grande River. Even though Mesilla dated back as far as 1543, Las Cruces was where the railroad came therefore it became the primary population center of the valley. It is an area rich in history and culture; celebrating the diverse blending of Native American, Spanish and Anglo heritages.
In addition to the stunning scenery of the Organ Mountains and the haunting, mysterious wilds of the surrounding deserts, the valley itself is verdant with year round crops of onions, chiles, cotton, and pecans. Hot Air balloons dot the sky in the cool autumn mornings. Each year, “The Whole Enchilada Fiesta” creates the world’s largest enchilada and provides an opportunity for town residents to gather together and celebrate the area's culture and cuisine. Every September, the air is filled with the pungent, unmistakable aroma of green chiles being roasted. New Mexico is the "Land of Enchantment" and Las Cruces is a unique and special place.
New Mexico State University, a school with an excellent reputation for its Research, Engineering and Agricultural programs attracts approximately 14,000 undergrad students each year and provides many opportunities for sports, economic and cultural activities for the enjoyment and enrichment for the community.
People were now coming to the fledgling church in such numbers that a decision had to be made. Should a building be built on the newly purchased property? Or, should the Presbytery purchase an existing piece of property on Valley Drive? A simple 4,000 square foot building that had been used by another church already existed there. It was comprised of four separate Sunday School rooms and a larger room, that occupied approximately half the building’s usable floor space. That room had served as a worship center for the previous congregation and would be adequate for this new church’s current needs as well. The building was located on a 4 acre parcel right in the heart of the valley and conveniently located on a major road that made it accessible for people driving from any direction. That was the choice.
Financing was secured and the move was made. The property provided plenty of space for growth and development. What’s more, it had been built to blend in with many of the older, adobe, territorial style houses and buildings of the area.
By March of 1981, there were 49 adults who signed a petition asking the Presbytery for permission to charter as a congregation within the Presbyterian Church (USA). A strong foundation had been laid. A new church was well underway.
The initial enthusiasm began to wane some and after a slower than expected rate of growth, Reverend Fry felt his leadership had taken the church as far as it could and so he moved on to start another congregation further south in Dona Ana County, near the borders of El Paso Texas and Juarez, Mexico. The Reverend Richard Schlater was called to be an interim Pastor while a Pastor Nominating Committee was formed and the search for a new pastor began. In September of 1984 the congregation voted to call me as their first full-time called Pastor. Judy and I and our daughters plunged in with eager enthusiasm. Making a commitment to children’s and youth ministry, the church began to grow once again and by 1989, the little sanctuary was filled to near capacity for two services every Sunday.
Thus, the decision was made in January of 1990 to go ahead and begin plans for a new building addition that would give us a new Sanctuary, Offices and Christian Education Space. In August of that year, we broke ground and construction began early the next year.
Watching the work progress right outside my study window, I soon realized how important a strong, physical foundation is for the long term stability of a building. Because the soil in this river valley was heavily comprised of clay – the same kind of clay the locals had used for centuries to make the adobe bricks for their homes – the entire site needed to be excavated to a depth of six feet so that fresh, “engineered soil” could be brought in, andtamped down to form the basis for a strong foundation.
Adobe clay, while possessing many good qualities, is a poor soil foundation to build on because it contracts and expands with the extreme temperature swings of this desert area. In the winter snow can fly and night time temperatures can reach down to below freezing. In the summer time, temperatures can easily reach 105 – 110 degrees. Any building built on this adobe clay would quickly incur structural stress and cracking. The clay had to go. Only when this excavation had been done and had passed numerous tests as to its suitability could the concrete footings and slab be poured. Eventually the foundation was laid. That was a momentous day.
After several agonizing months of slow progress, a building began to take shape with framed walls, arched windows and a very authentic territorial design. Later, when the building was nearing completion, the 70’ long clerestory was framed and completed. It was time to roof the new Sanctuary. I remember driving up one day to see that the large bales of shingles and the rolls of roofing materials had already been transferred to the roof structure and the roofers were ready to begin.
There was an obvious, major problem. The weight of this roof structure, some 35 feet high, was too great for the wall supports that had originally been designed and it was sagging like an old, sway-backed horse. I visited the foreman, Brian, in the construction trailer and pointed out this deficiency. After several days of contemplation and re-engineering, a solution was mutually agreed upon. On both sides of the clerestory, five upright, steel I-beams, each anchored to the main structure of the building would supplement the 2x4 studs that had proven inadequate. Once the solution was decided upon and implemented, work resumed and the new Sanctuary really took on a sense of worshipful reverence. Again, I had realized from this experience the importance of strong foundations. A building that isn’t adequately anchored to a solid foundation risks serious danger.
Without ever having verbalized it in such terms, I had come to realize that one’s personal life also needed to be structured upon strong, foundational support. During the days of recovery and rehabilitation following my accident, I pondered the foundations at the root of my life. Were they adequate?
Clearly, at the base of my life were two identifiable foundations: My faith in Jesus Christ, which, though it had been present in some form for as long as I could remember, had really begun to grow and take on substance during my freshman year in college. It was then that I not only had re-dedicated my life to Jesus Christ, it was also the time when I felt God clearly place a call to ministry upon my life. Since that night in a dorm room at Colorado State College in February of 1969, I had made following Christ as his disciple my number one priority. Wherever it might lead me, I was committed to following Christ. Since Judy and I had just begun dating, she was the first to know of this new sense of purpose and direction in my life; one she has shared and nurtured every step along the way.
My faith story had really been a journey not a fete accomple. Over the years my faith has ebbed and flowed like the continual tidal flows of the ocean. It has known great moments of victory and moments of real discouragement and doubt. I have struggled at times to be faithful and have often battled temptations and selfish, willful desires. In spite of my unfaithfulness, God had always proven to be completely faithful. Even if I was like shifting sand, God was a rock; THE ROCK of my salvation and I could depend on God to never let me slip too far away.
About three months after the accident, I was in Rio Vista Rehabilitation Hospital in El Paso. Each day was a grueling struggle as I worked so hard to rebuild muscles that had long since grown dormant; learn to use a wheel chair and adapt to a new, uncertain way of life. A group of men from our new church in Washington – Calvary Presbyterian - came to visit with us while I was in rehab. I think they wanted assurance that I might some day be able to come and pastor their church as much as they wanted to visit and encourage us. However, their presence was a huge boost to our morale. John, Keith and Charlie came and visited me in my room, and also endured watching me sweat through vigorous sessions of Physical and Occupational Therapy. As they watched me struggle to simply move my legs, let alone use them for walking, I am sure they wondered if I could function effectively as their pastor. One morning, Keith said to me, “Fred, you must have remarkable faith to have come as far as you have through this ordeal.” My reply (and I don’t know where it came from but it seemed right at the time) was, “No, I don’t have remarkable faith. I have tiny faith but it is in a huge God.” I still believe that.
Faith is strong not because of the person who possesses it but in the one in whom it is anchored. For faith to be a strong foundation in a person’s life does not require that that person be a spiritual giant or celebrity. All it needs is to be focused in the great God who created the universe and who rules all things by his omnipotent and loving hand.
I found my strength and my faith waned during this ordeal. But God never did. God was always sufficient; no, even abundant in grace and strength for each moment. Was it my faith that helped me survive? No. It was God on whom my faith rested in its entirety. That was the foundation.
The familiar old hymn dating back to the late 1700s resonates through my heart and mind whenever I wonder whether my foundation is secure.
"The Soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose, I will not, I will not desert to his foes. The soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake, I'll never, no never, no never forsake!"
June 15th, 1997
El Paso Texas
Sierra Vista Rehabilitation Hospital
“He is no fool to give up what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose.” Jim Elliot
“Whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will save it.” Jesus of Nazareth
"What more can He say than to you He hath said, to you who for refuge to Jesus have fled? (from the Traditional American Hymn "How Firm A Foundation")
As the ambulance drove the 40 or so miles down I-25 between Las Cruces, NM and El Paso, TX, I began pondering a question that continues to haunt me to this day. "How firm are the foundations on which my life is resting?" Like so many questions that go unconsidered, I had blithely lived 47 years of life, with few real tests to the stability of my life's support structure.
Facing yet another huge change in life, I was now being forced to ask myself that question. When I had been taken to the hospital and was faced with the spectre of life and death, I was hardly concerned with such philisophical query. In my 28 days of residence in room #14 of the ICU at Memorial Medical Center, I was too heavily drugged to give the thought much consideration. When I was moved up to the 6th floor with the rest of the "normal" orthopaedic patients, I was too preoccupied with such things as sitting up or lifting two pound dumbbells or visiting with the countless entourage of visitors who so faithfully came to encourage me and pray with me.
Now, I was well enough to be moved to a rehabilitation hospital - a place Dr. Sunshine thought could be my home for 6 months to a year. I didn't know what to expect. I felt afraid of the unknown and apprehensive about the task ahead; rehabilitation, and perhaps walking again. I didn't know anyone in El Paso really. It was a strange place away - though not far - from my family and friends. Could I cope? Would it be too much for me? Was my life stable and secure on strong foundations. Those were my thoughts that day as the American Medical Response team drove me to my next challenge (this time at a much saner speed than its first race to the hospital the day of the accident). Those are still the questions I ask myself regularly.
It occurred to me that I had lived out a powerful metaphor during the years prior to my accident; a metaphor that taught me a great deal about foundations.
Two of the happiest days in the life of a New Church Development Pastor are the day the congregation has grown enough that they are ready and willing to enter into a building program and the day the building is finally done. August 7, 1990 was the first happy day for Northminster Presbyterian Church. August 31, 1991 was the second.
The Presbytery of Sierra Blanca is an immense, desolate piece of geography comprised of 20 churches, one campus ministry and a few specialized ministries to the poor. In 1980, the leaders of the Presbytery, assisted by folks from First Presbyterian Church conducted a survey among people living along the rapidly growing Elks Club neighborhood of Las Cruces, New Mexico. The question they asked, as they went door to door was, “How would you feel about a Presbyterian Church being planted somewhere in this area?” The response was overwhelmingly positive. “Yes, we would be fine with that. Go ahead.”
A piece of prime real estate was purchased along US Highway 70, about one half mile east of Elks Drive and Interstate 25. It was the area city planners said would grow with the greatest projected population. The Presbytery secured the services of the Reverend George Fry to come and do the development work of starting a new Presbyterian Church. The small fellowship of original members began by meeting in one family’s living room. Before long they were overcrowding that room. Another family had redone their garage area to accommodate this small worshiping group of committed believers. College professors, farmers, NASA engineers, homemakers, students, car salesmen and retirees were all part of this initial “church fellowship” known as North Valley Presbyterian Fellowship. The foundation of a new congregation, made up of “living stones” had been laid for future growth and ministry to take place.
The numbers continued to grow; not just with people living in the immediate neighborhood but with folks from throughout the Mesilla Valley, so named for the small town that was the original settlement along the Rio Grande River. Even though Mesilla dated back as far as 1543, Las Cruces was where the railroad came therefore it became the primary population center of the valley. It is an area rich in history and culture; celebrating the diverse blending of Native American, Spanish and Anglo heritages.
In addition to the stunning scenery of the Organ Mountains and the haunting, mysterious wilds of the surrounding deserts, the valley itself is verdant with year round crops of onions, chiles, cotton, and pecans. Hot Air balloons dot the sky in the cool autumn mornings. Each year, “The Whole Enchilada Fiesta” creates the world’s largest enchilada and provides an opportunity for town residents to gather together and celebrate the area's culture and cuisine. Every September, the air is filled with the pungent, unmistakable aroma of green chiles being roasted. New Mexico is the "Land of Enchantment" and Las Cruces is a unique and special place.
New Mexico State University, a school with an excellent reputation for its Research, Engineering and Agricultural programs attracts approximately 14,000 undergrad students each year and provides many opportunities for sports, economic and cultural activities for the enjoyment and enrichment for the community.
People were now coming to the fledgling church in such numbers that a decision had to be made. Should a building be built on the newly purchased property? Or, should the Presbytery purchase an existing piece of property on Valley Drive? A simple 4,000 square foot building that had been used by another church already existed there. It was comprised of four separate Sunday School rooms and a larger room, that occupied approximately half the building’s usable floor space. That room had served as a worship center for the previous congregation and would be adequate for this new church’s current needs as well. The building was located on a 4 acre parcel right in the heart of the valley and conveniently located on a major road that made it accessible for people driving from any direction. That was the choice.
Financing was secured and the move was made. The property provided plenty of space for growth and development. What’s more, it had been built to blend in with many of the older, adobe, territorial style houses and buildings of the area.
By March of 1981, there were 49 adults who signed a petition asking the Presbytery for permission to charter as a congregation within the Presbyterian Church (USA). A strong foundation had been laid. A new church was well underway.
The initial enthusiasm began to wane some and after a slower than expected rate of growth, Reverend Fry felt his leadership had taken the church as far as it could and so he moved on to start another congregation further south in Dona Ana County, near the borders of El Paso Texas and Juarez, Mexico. The Reverend Richard Schlater was called to be an interim Pastor while a Pastor Nominating Committee was formed and the search for a new pastor began. In September of 1984 the congregation voted to call me as their first full-time called Pastor. Judy and I and our daughters plunged in with eager enthusiasm. Making a commitment to children’s and youth ministry, the church began to grow once again and by 1989, the little sanctuary was filled to near capacity for two services every Sunday.
Thus, the decision was made in January of 1990 to go ahead and begin plans for a new building addition that would give us a new Sanctuary, Offices and Christian Education Space. In August of that year, we broke ground and construction began early the next year.
Watching the work progress right outside my study window, I soon realized how important a strong, physical foundation is for the long term stability of a building. Because the soil in this river valley was heavily comprised of clay – the same kind of clay the locals had used for centuries to make the adobe bricks for their homes – the entire site needed to be excavated to a depth of six feet so that fresh, “engineered soil” could be brought in, andtamped down to form the basis for a strong foundation.
Adobe clay, while possessing many good qualities, is a poor soil foundation to build on because it contracts and expands with the extreme temperature swings of this desert area. In the winter snow can fly and night time temperatures can reach down to below freezing. In the summer time, temperatures can easily reach 105 – 110 degrees. Any building built on this adobe clay would quickly incur structural stress and cracking. The clay had to go. Only when this excavation had been done and had passed numerous tests as to its suitability could the concrete footings and slab be poured. Eventually the foundation was laid. That was a momentous day.
After several agonizing months of slow progress, a building began to take shape with framed walls, arched windows and a very authentic territorial design. Later, when the building was nearing completion, the 70’ long clerestory was framed and completed. It was time to roof the new Sanctuary. I remember driving up one day to see that the large bales of shingles and the rolls of roofing materials had already been transferred to the roof structure and the roofers were ready to begin.
There was an obvious, major problem. The weight of this roof structure, some 35 feet high, was too great for the wall supports that had originally been designed and it was sagging like an old, sway-backed horse. I visited the foreman, Brian, in the construction trailer and pointed out this deficiency. After several days of contemplation and re-engineering, a solution was mutually agreed upon. On both sides of the clerestory, five upright, steel I-beams, each anchored to the main structure of the building would supplement the 2x4 studs that had proven inadequate. Once the solution was decided upon and implemented, work resumed and the new Sanctuary really took on a sense of worshipful reverence. Again, I had realized from this experience the importance of strong foundations. A building that isn’t adequately anchored to a solid foundation risks serious danger.
Without ever having verbalized it in such terms, I had come to realize that one’s personal life also needed to be structured upon strong, foundational support. During the days of recovery and rehabilitation following my accident, I pondered the foundations at the root of my life. Were they adequate?
Clearly, at the base of my life were two identifiable foundations: My faith in Jesus Christ, which, though it had been present in some form for as long as I could remember, had really begun to grow and take on substance during my freshman year in college. It was then that I not only had re-dedicated my life to Jesus Christ, it was also the time when I felt God clearly place a call to ministry upon my life. Since that night in a dorm room at Colorado State College in February of 1969, I had made following Christ as his disciple my number one priority. Wherever it might lead me, I was committed to following Christ. Since Judy and I had just begun dating, she was the first to know of this new sense of purpose and direction in my life; one she has shared and nurtured every step along the way.
My faith story had really been a journey not a fete accomple. Over the years my faith has ebbed and flowed like the continual tidal flows of the ocean. It has known great moments of victory and moments of real discouragement and doubt. I have struggled at times to be faithful and have often battled temptations and selfish, willful desires. In spite of my unfaithfulness, God had always proven to be completely faithful. Even if I was like shifting sand, God was a rock; THE ROCK of my salvation and I could depend on God to never let me slip too far away.
About three months after the accident, I was in Rio Vista Rehabilitation Hospital in El Paso. Each day was a grueling struggle as I worked so hard to rebuild muscles that had long since grown dormant; learn to use a wheel chair and adapt to a new, uncertain way of life. A group of men from our new church in Washington – Calvary Presbyterian - came to visit with us while I was in rehab. I think they wanted assurance that I might some day be able to come and pastor their church as much as they wanted to visit and encourage us. However, their presence was a huge boost to our morale. John, Keith and Charlie came and visited me in my room, and also endured watching me sweat through vigorous sessions of Physical and Occupational Therapy. As they watched me struggle to simply move my legs, let alone use them for walking, I am sure they wondered if I could function effectively as their pastor. One morning, Keith said to me, “Fred, you must have remarkable faith to have come as far as you have through this ordeal.” My reply (and I don’t know where it came from but it seemed right at the time) was, “No, I don’t have remarkable faith. I have tiny faith but it is in a huge God.” I still believe that.
Faith is strong not because of the person who possesses it but in the one in whom it is anchored. For faith to be a strong foundation in a person’s life does not require that that person be a spiritual giant or celebrity. All it needs is to be focused in the great God who created the universe and who rules all things by his omnipotent and loving hand.
I found my strength and my faith waned during this ordeal. But God never did. God was always sufficient; no, even abundant in grace and strength for each moment. Was it my faith that helped me survive? No. It was God on whom my faith rested in its entirety. That was the foundation.
The familiar old hymn dating back to the late 1700s resonates through my heart and mind whenever I wonder whether my foundation is secure.
"The Soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose, I will not, I will not desert to his foes. The soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake, I'll never, no never, no never forsake!"
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
A Companion in Suffering
CHAPTER 7
May 17, 1997
sometime in the middle of the night
I fully perceived at that moment that it was Jesus, both God and man, who suffered for me, for I now knew it directly without anyone telling me ...I was astonished that our God who is to be feared and revered would be so intimate with a sinful creature such as I." Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love
Hospital Intensive Care Units are busy places. There are beeping machines, bright lights, Doctors and nurses writing in charts and consulting with each other on individual patients. They exist in that environment 24 hours a day, like an all night convenience store. Patient’s vital signs are monitored frequently - from remote monitors at the main nurses desk, and in hourly, personal, hands on checks. Medications are given and treatment is performed on a regular basis; almost like clockwork.
Some patients are there as an intermediary care station following surgery. Some have had major problems such as heart attacks or cancer. Still others are there because of accidents or some other traumatic event in their life. Because of the dire condition of most patients, the cries of pain can be heard echoing up and down the corridor. Distraught family members, eyes swollen and red from lack of sleep and tears, make a steady parade as they take turns entering the unit while others keep constant vigil in nearby waiting rooms, drinking stale coffee and pretending to be interested in old issues of “Sports Illustrated,” “Modern Science” or “Home and Garden.”
The medical staff seems to always be on the verge of overwork. Each nurse in the unit that was my home for 28 days was assigned to only two or three patients. The level of care required by each patient provided more than enough work for the shift. Often, each patient needed some care at the same time as the others. It can be frantic at times. We noticed that ICU staff was rotated to other assignments in the hospital on a regular basis. When we asked, one nurse told us that very few were able to deal with the emotional and physical strains of working so close to life and death cases on a daily basis. Answering call buttons, responding to beeping monitors, changing IV bags, answering phones, listening to Doctor’s orders and trying to give reassuring words to patients and family create an atmosphere of high pressure. Their work station almost hummed with activity 24 hours a day, seven days a week.
From a visitor’s standpoint things have changed immensely. It used to be that hospitals were very restrictive about who could and could not enter and visit patients in an ICU. Usually, it was only two immediate family members at a time; perhaps the patient’s minister. That was about it.
In more recent days however, the medical community has begun to realize that patients who are visited more often and by more people seem to do better and recover more quickly. The restorative power of support, prayer, love and presence cannot be minimized. At Memorial Medical Center at least, the policy was to allow a fairly steady stream of visitors. This manifestation of love and support was not missed by us, and, for the most part, was welcomed. It also took its toll. There were times when Judy had to put a sign outside the door asking people to sign a notebook but not come in.
Looking back through that notebook of who had come to visit each day, I continue to be amazed at the number of people who came to visit me – or really Judy Melissa and Kresta. I was pretty well sedated with morphine. In addition to saying really crazy things, I have very few lucid memories of the different people who were there to visit. When the morphine began to lose its edge against the shrieking pain, I was more mentally alert and knew who was there. But at those moments, I was also more consumed with the pain than with appreciation for any visitors. And for some strange reason, I had a difficult time, if I were lucid at the moment, of taking off my “pastor hat” and thinking I had to minister to them. It is said you can take a preacher out of the parish, but you can’t take the parish out of the preacher. I found that to be true.
The people I do remember and am forever grateful to were the ones who volunteered to stay with me through the long hours of the night. This gave Judy a chance to go home and rest – something she needed desperately but was often unable to do because of worry and stress. Nonetheless, any break from the intensity of my condition and the constant regimen of medical attention was welcome to her
For me, the nights were the worst. What few memories I do have seem to be concentrated during the long night hours. Often I was more awake and in need of conversation then than at any other time during the 28 days the ICU was my home.
Bill read the sermons of his brother and father to me. They were both Presbyterian ministers. Bob shared the cross in his pocket – a token reminder of Christ’s constant presence. Our church had given them out to each member during a Spiritual Renewal Weekend just a few weeks prior. It had meant a great deal to him but he felt I might need it more.
Vic paced the main corridor, bugging nurses to increase my pain medication. Daryl shared some of his favorite Celtic Music CDs and the latest box scores from my favorite Major League Baseball team, the Colorado Rockies. Even our church organist Barbara stayed a night just visiting, trying to keep my spirits up; catching a nap during the times I was able to doze off.
Our daughter Melissa read some of her college literature papers. Under the best of circumstances they were deep and beyond my ability to comprehend. With the assistance of drugs, I had no idea what she was reading to me. But her presence there was a great comfort. Those times were special as we were bonded closely.
Our daughter Kresta was also able to leave her job at the Cannon Beach Christian Conference Center to come visit for several days. I know that it was tough on her to see her dad in such misery knowing there was little she could do. Her fiancé Ryan came up from Phoenix as well. There was someone different each night and though I can’t remember every one, I know their presence by my side was a great help.
The “Roto-rest” bed, while being a marvel of modern medical technology, is somewhat akin to a medieval torture rack. Until I was past the most critical point as far as infections and the function of my vital organs, surgery to fuse my cervical spine had to be postponed. To prevent further damage to the spinal cord, I had to be kept completely immobile. This was the bed to do just that. With my head held rigidly in place by the Gardner-Wells tongs and stabilized by 20 pounds of traction, the best I could do was side to side glances with my eyes.
Because of the damage to my hips and pelvis, both legs were kept in traction as well. There would be no movement there. To prevent any movement of my arms or torso, heavy foam pads were placed around and between my legs, between my torso and arms and around my outside form. These were then strapped down. What little movement I had regained in my hands and arms from the injury itself was now completely restricted. At times I felt like a mummy. My constant obsession whenever I was awake was to get up out of the bed. If there was someone there to listen to me – anyone – I would harass them with “Won’t you please let me get up for just a few moments? I promise I will be good.” There was nothing I wanted more than the freedom of movement and to be upright.
Deep inside, I knew my legs were still paralyzed and that trying to stand would be disastrous. But that didn’t matter. I was desperate to get out of that contraption; to go jogging, or to head over to the office to catch up on some study, or to go visit one of my parishioners.
The Doctors and nurses always won that battle. So did Judy. And so there I remained: a prisoner in a bed that was designed for patients just like me. In addition to its capacity to restrain (entomb) a person, the bed also rotated from side to side to a position of 45 degrees on each side. Because of such immobility, there are numerous possible complications that can set in. One is blood clots. Many of my injuries were to very vascular areas of the body. Without mobility, blood clots could easily form. One of the leading causes of death to spinal cord patients is pulmonary embolism, not the spinal injury itself. Another danger is bed sores. The elasticity and health of a person’s skin begins to break down. The bed I was in was designed to minimize the development of those sores and inhibit the formation of blood clots in my legs.
The bed had one other interesting feature as well. Panels could be removed from the underside of the bed so that treatment of the open lacerations and infections on my back could be cleaned and dressed several times a day. Once again, nighttimes seemed to be the hours I was most aware of this excruciating procedure. No matter how gentle the attending nurse was, it was extremely painful.
I am told that burn patients experience the greatest pain because of the constant treatment of the burns they have to endure. One of the nurses told me that they were treating my back in much the same manner they would a person whose back had been covered with serious burns.
I was aware of suffering in a way I never knew could be experienced. I also experienced a different awareness that was every bit as real to me as the pain. I don’t know when exactly I had this epiphany. I didn’t see a bright light or have an angelic visitation. Somewhere in the recesses of my heart and mind, the Lord gave me the calm assurance that I was not alone in my sufferings – that Jesus had suffered also. In some mysterious and profound way, I considered myself privileged to be sharing with Christ in his sufferings. Besides the constant bedside support of family and friends, there was someone else in ICU #14. Christ was there in Spirit with me. He was my companion through the long, tiresome days and the lonely painful nights.
I am not a super spiritual person. That may sound strange to you. I have lived a Christian life for many years. I grew up going to church at Corona Presbyterian Church in Denver, Colorado. Whenever the doors of the church were open, my family was there participating at some level. In high school I participated in Youth For Christ, singing in a group that traveled around doing High School Assemblies and ministering in churches.
In college, I began ministering to runaways and drug users in the Old Town section of Chicago through Wheaton College’s student ministry program. Later, both Judy and I became Campus Life Club leaders. In the three years following our marriage – from 1972 – 1975, Judy and I worked full time with Youth For Christ/Campus Life clubs. Our first assignment was in Wheaton, Illinois, and then Bellevue Washington.
In January of 1975, we moved back to Denver with our 1 year old daughter Kresta and our yet to be born daughter Melissa firmly growing in Judy’s womb and waiting to be born in July of that year. I enrolled in Denver Conservative Baptist Seminary where I crammed a 3 year M.Div. program into 4 years while we managed apartments and I worked full time at the church where I had been raised.
Those were busy days filled with fruitful ministry and happy memories. After my graduation in 1979, I was called to be Associate Pastor at First Presbyterian Church in Renton where I served for 5 years. In August of 1984 I accepted the call of Northminster Presbyterian Church in Las Cruces.
During all those years in ministry, I had tended to other’s spiritual and emotional needs. I had preached – faithfully I hope – the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I had written and taught Vacation Bible School Curriculum, Adult Studies and small group programs. I have known and walked with Christ through all those times. I had never felt the Lord's presence as profoundly as I did nowl right there in that Roto-rest bed; in the painful agony of broken ribs, tender,lacerated skin and throbbing pelvic fractures.
In Youth For Christ, one of the lessons we taught young people was the importance of living a “balanced life.” Based on Luke 2:52, where it says “And Jesus grew in wisdom and in stature and in favor with God and man," we encouraged young people to live lives that kept the physical, mental, social and spiritual dimensions of their life in balance. I was determined in my life and ministry to keep that balance as well.
Consequently, my life has never been a sequestered one, devoted only to faith and to ministry. I pursued other interests such as skiing, running, bicycling, reading, word games, photography, working outdoors and going to movies. I felt it was always important to be an active part of the community. I joined Rotary Club where I met weekly with other professional people; not all of them Christians. We tried to cultivate relationships with our neighbors. I have always tried to serve the communities in which we lived in some way.
My life has never measured up to that of a spiritual giant. But my faith in Christ was a real part of the overall picture. And my theological convictions were solidly founded upon the Sovereignty of God. God was in control. God had not caused this accident to happen to me, but I knew and was comforted by the fact that he had allowed it; had miraculously spared me from death; and that he had some clear purpose resulting from this experience. When I was at a point of having lost everything, possibly even my very life, I realized in a new and powerful way that Jesus was really all that I had. And he was there with me. And I felt a deep sense of being united with Christ in his sufferings.
I tried to share that message with anyone who might listen. One long, lonesome night, a new nurse had been assigned to the ICU unit on a temporary basis. She had been given the assignment of tilting my bed up to 45 degrees on one side, removing the back panels and treating my festering, scarred back.
Since she had not treated me prior to this time, she wanted to know what had happened to me. How had I come to be in such seriously ill condition? As I related the details of my accident (I think I was able to relate them pretty clearly) she began to sob uncontrollably. I apologized if I had shared too much detail and I asked her what was wrong. She related to me that her husband had been killed in a one car automobile accident two weeks before.
The accident had occurred on a deserted stretch of Interstate 10 between Las Cruces and Deming. It was late at night when he had lost control of the car, hit a guard rail, and slid across a median. The car rolled numerous times and he was ejected. Because it was late and it had happened in a desolate place, no one had seen the accident and he was not discovered until the next morning. The State Patrolman had told her that they were sure his death had been quick and he had not suffered long. But her fears and questions persisted. She had been tormented as she thought about what he might have felt and thought as he lay there alone, dying.
I was able to share more of my experience. When I had been lying face down on the concrete slab where the bus had finally deposited me, I was at absolute peace. I knew with certainty that Christ was there with me. He truly was the good shepherd who walks with people through the valley of the shadow of death. I told her that I had experienced the reality and the peace of God at that moment more so than at any other time in my life and I was sure her husband, had he not died instantly experienced the same blessed assurance.
This nurse, who was now a new friend, thanked me for helping her. I told her that one reason God had allowed me to go through this ordeal and live, was to be able to comfort and reassure people just like her. I asked if I could pray with her. She said “yes, please.”
I never saw her again. But the next day, a day I was scheduled to have surgery to stabilize my hips and pelvis, I couldn’t wait to see Judy. The moment she walked in the room I blurted out, “I know why God allowed me to go through this honey.” And then I related the previous midnight conversation and prayer. I am not sure Judy understood it in quite those terms.
What she did do each day was put up verses of scripture on the orthopedic bar that ran overhead from the head of my bed to the foot. Each day, there was a fresh reminder of God’s unfailing love. Since I couldn’t move, as I stared upwards, all I could focus on were those verses of Scripture and an array of family pictures that were also changed regularly. Those Scriptures and pictures kept my hope alive and my faith centered.
I was also kept during those long nighttime hours by the verses of Scripture I had memorized – some of them had stayed with me from my childhood. Others were ones I had just recently committed to memory.
Whenever I was on a long bike ride, a friend had taught me to put a verse of scripture in the map pocket of my handlebar bag. Instead of focusing on the steepness of a hill or the tiredness in my legs, I learned to focus on that one verse and commit it to memory. I learned a lot of Scripture that way.
I also applied the same technique to my daily runs in the desert. Broken only by the occasional appearance of an owl, quail or coyote, or a call to my running companion, my Golden Retriever Brandon, the deserts of Southern New Mexico had provided a wonderfully quiet place to memorize Scripture.
I think it was when I had been confirmed in faith and had joined the church at age 12 that I learned several verses from Psalm 119. One that stood out was: “How does a young man keep his way pure? By keeping it according to thy word, O Lord. Thy Word have I hid in my heart. I seek you with all my heart: do not let me stray from your commands.” (Psalm 119: 9, 10)
God’s Word is like the rains sent down from heaven to water the earth and bring forth crops. It does not return void but accomplishes the very thing for which God sent it forth. I learned that all that time memorizing was fulfilling a great purpose: keeping my mind focused on the Lord and not despairing over my situation.
For some reason, the book of Philippians became the foundation for my assurance during those days and nights in ICU. As if on automatic cue, important verses from Paul’s letter flooded my mind just when I needed them most. At first, it was chapter 1:21. “For me to live is Christ and to die is gain.” That kept me going during the earliest days when Doctors were saying my condition was so critical I might not even make it to surgery to repair the spine. That was all right. The thought of leaving Judy and the girls behind was a sad one, but the thought of being complete in Christ was one that gave me peace.
Later on, the night before my spinal surgery, when the pain and the sense of confinement were at their worst, I was reminded of chapter 3, verses 10 and 11. “I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead.”
That same night, a group of Elders from our church had come to anoint me with oil and pray over me with the laying on of hands. This was a practice that had become a very meaningful part of our church’s worship life. Each Communion Sunday, we had established a time at the end of the service for any person seeking healing for some area of their life to come forward and meet with the Elders. Those were precious times of faith and fellowship. We saw God do some miraculous things through those prayers.
It was a very natural thing then, for those same Elders to march in, en masse, to the ICU to hold a service for healing prayer in my room. Others from the church joined in as well. The room was so full that people were standing shoulder to shoulder. One lady, Margaret Short, for whose husband we had prayed for a few months earlier, couldn’t find room inside, so she was outside the first floor room with her hands pressed against the window. The spirit of Christ was also present.
Several of the Elders offered words of encouragement or shared verses of Scripture. I asked if I could say a few words. I shared with the group an old joke. “Did you hear about the Calvinist pastor who fell down the stairs and broke his leg? He calmly said, “Well I am glad that’s over.” Only in this instance I said, “Did you hear about the Presbyterian Minister who was run over by the bus? I am glad that’s over.” Then I went on to share (probably at some length as I was never one to preach short sermons) how this verse had meant so much to me.I was buoyed by the conviction that through this I was sharing in the fellowship of Christ’s sufferings and that was a privilege not a burden.
They anointed me with oil and prayed and then we sang the song with which we closed each Sunday’s service. Joining hands, our voices intoned “Bind us together, Lord, Bind us together in chords that cannot be broken. There is only one God. There is only one Lord. There is only one King, that is why I sing. Bind us together Lord, Bind us together in chords that cannot be broken.”
It was a sacred moment; for me, for Judy, and for all who were there. After I had finally returned home from the Rehabilitation Hospital, I wanted to go visit those nurses in ICU who had become so special to me. As we visited, one of them remarked about that prayer service. She was not a religious person, she said, but something strange and very holy seemed to happen that night. The busy, noisy activity of a full ICU seemed to stand still in time and a quiet peace enveloped the entire unit as a small group of believers prayed and sang and trusted God in that room.
Yes, the nights were the most difficult and lonesome times. But on this night in particular, a hospital room became a sanctuary. Just as God used a manger’s stall and a plain wooden cross to show the world his love and mercy, he had shown himself once again in a very unlikely spot to a person – no, a group of people – who really needed it.
To this day, I still find that night times are the times when, after Judy has gone to bed, in the lonely quiet of our family room or den, I find myself aware once again, that I am never really alone, Christ has been and is always there sharing life’s journey with me.
May 17, 1997
sometime in the middle of the night
I fully perceived at that moment that it was Jesus, both God and man, who suffered for me, for I now knew it directly without anyone telling me ...I was astonished that our God who is to be feared and revered would be so intimate with a sinful creature such as I." Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love
Hospital Intensive Care Units are busy places. There are beeping machines, bright lights, Doctors and nurses writing in charts and consulting with each other on individual patients. They exist in that environment 24 hours a day, like an all night convenience store. Patient’s vital signs are monitored frequently - from remote monitors at the main nurses desk, and in hourly, personal, hands on checks. Medications are given and treatment is performed on a regular basis; almost like clockwork.
Some patients are there as an intermediary care station following surgery. Some have had major problems such as heart attacks or cancer. Still others are there because of accidents or some other traumatic event in their life. Because of the dire condition of most patients, the cries of pain can be heard echoing up and down the corridor. Distraught family members, eyes swollen and red from lack of sleep and tears, make a steady parade as they take turns entering the unit while others keep constant vigil in nearby waiting rooms, drinking stale coffee and pretending to be interested in old issues of “Sports Illustrated,” “Modern Science” or “Home and Garden.”
The medical staff seems to always be on the verge of overwork. Each nurse in the unit that was my home for 28 days was assigned to only two or three patients. The level of care required by each patient provided more than enough work for the shift. Often, each patient needed some care at the same time as the others. It can be frantic at times. We noticed that ICU staff was rotated to other assignments in the hospital on a regular basis. When we asked, one nurse told us that very few were able to deal with the emotional and physical strains of working so close to life and death cases on a daily basis. Answering call buttons, responding to beeping monitors, changing IV bags, answering phones, listening to Doctor’s orders and trying to give reassuring words to patients and family create an atmosphere of high pressure. Their work station almost hummed with activity 24 hours a day, seven days a week.
From a visitor’s standpoint things have changed immensely. It used to be that hospitals were very restrictive about who could and could not enter and visit patients in an ICU. Usually, it was only two immediate family members at a time; perhaps the patient’s minister. That was about it.
In more recent days however, the medical community has begun to realize that patients who are visited more often and by more people seem to do better and recover more quickly. The restorative power of support, prayer, love and presence cannot be minimized. At Memorial Medical Center at least, the policy was to allow a fairly steady stream of visitors. This manifestation of love and support was not missed by us, and, for the most part, was welcomed. It also took its toll. There were times when Judy had to put a sign outside the door asking people to sign a notebook but not come in.
Looking back through that notebook of who had come to visit each day, I continue to be amazed at the number of people who came to visit me – or really Judy Melissa and Kresta. I was pretty well sedated with morphine. In addition to saying really crazy things, I have very few lucid memories of the different people who were there to visit. When the morphine began to lose its edge against the shrieking pain, I was more mentally alert and knew who was there. But at those moments, I was also more consumed with the pain than with appreciation for any visitors. And for some strange reason, I had a difficult time, if I were lucid at the moment, of taking off my “pastor hat” and thinking I had to minister to them. It is said you can take a preacher out of the parish, but you can’t take the parish out of the preacher. I found that to be true.
The people I do remember and am forever grateful to were the ones who volunteered to stay with me through the long hours of the night. This gave Judy a chance to go home and rest – something she needed desperately but was often unable to do because of worry and stress. Nonetheless, any break from the intensity of my condition and the constant regimen of medical attention was welcome to her
For me, the nights were the worst. What few memories I do have seem to be concentrated during the long night hours. Often I was more awake and in need of conversation then than at any other time during the 28 days the ICU was my home.
Bill read the sermons of his brother and father to me. They were both Presbyterian ministers. Bob shared the cross in his pocket – a token reminder of Christ’s constant presence. Our church had given them out to each member during a Spiritual Renewal Weekend just a few weeks prior. It had meant a great deal to him but he felt I might need it more.
Vic paced the main corridor, bugging nurses to increase my pain medication. Daryl shared some of his favorite Celtic Music CDs and the latest box scores from my favorite Major League Baseball team, the Colorado Rockies. Even our church organist Barbara stayed a night just visiting, trying to keep my spirits up; catching a nap during the times I was able to doze off.
Our daughter Melissa read some of her college literature papers. Under the best of circumstances they were deep and beyond my ability to comprehend. With the assistance of drugs, I had no idea what she was reading to me. But her presence there was a great comfort. Those times were special as we were bonded closely.
Our daughter Kresta was also able to leave her job at the Cannon Beach Christian Conference Center to come visit for several days. I know that it was tough on her to see her dad in such misery knowing there was little she could do. Her fiancé Ryan came up from Phoenix as well. There was someone different each night and though I can’t remember every one, I know their presence by my side was a great help.
The “Roto-rest” bed, while being a marvel of modern medical technology, is somewhat akin to a medieval torture rack. Until I was past the most critical point as far as infections and the function of my vital organs, surgery to fuse my cervical spine had to be postponed. To prevent further damage to the spinal cord, I had to be kept completely immobile. This was the bed to do just that. With my head held rigidly in place by the Gardner-Wells tongs and stabilized by 20 pounds of traction, the best I could do was side to side glances with my eyes.
Because of the damage to my hips and pelvis, both legs were kept in traction as well. There would be no movement there. To prevent any movement of my arms or torso, heavy foam pads were placed around and between my legs, between my torso and arms and around my outside form. These were then strapped down. What little movement I had regained in my hands and arms from the injury itself was now completely restricted. At times I felt like a mummy. My constant obsession whenever I was awake was to get up out of the bed. If there was someone there to listen to me – anyone – I would harass them with “Won’t you please let me get up for just a few moments? I promise I will be good.” There was nothing I wanted more than the freedom of movement and to be upright.
Deep inside, I knew my legs were still paralyzed and that trying to stand would be disastrous. But that didn’t matter. I was desperate to get out of that contraption; to go jogging, or to head over to the office to catch up on some study, or to go visit one of my parishioners.
The Doctors and nurses always won that battle. So did Judy. And so there I remained: a prisoner in a bed that was designed for patients just like me. In addition to its capacity to restrain (entomb) a person, the bed also rotated from side to side to a position of 45 degrees on each side. Because of such immobility, there are numerous possible complications that can set in. One is blood clots. Many of my injuries were to very vascular areas of the body. Without mobility, blood clots could easily form. One of the leading causes of death to spinal cord patients is pulmonary embolism, not the spinal injury itself. Another danger is bed sores. The elasticity and health of a person’s skin begins to break down. The bed I was in was designed to minimize the development of those sores and inhibit the formation of blood clots in my legs.
The bed had one other interesting feature as well. Panels could be removed from the underside of the bed so that treatment of the open lacerations and infections on my back could be cleaned and dressed several times a day. Once again, nighttimes seemed to be the hours I was most aware of this excruciating procedure. No matter how gentle the attending nurse was, it was extremely painful.
I am told that burn patients experience the greatest pain because of the constant treatment of the burns they have to endure. One of the nurses told me that they were treating my back in much the same manner they would a person whose back had been covered with serious burns.
I was aware of suffering in a way I never knew could be experienced. I also experienced a different awareness that was every bit as real to me as the pain. I don’t know when exactly I had this epiphany. I didn’t see a bright light or have an angelic visitation. Somewhere in the recesses of my heart and mind, the Lord gave me the calm assurance that I was not alone in my sufferings – that Jesus had suffered also. In some mysterious and profound way, I considered myself privileged to be sharing with Christ in his sufferings. Besides the constant bedside support of family and friends, there was someone else in ICU #14. Christ was there in Spirit with me. He was my companion through the long, tiresome days and the lonely painful nights.
I am not a super spiritual person. That may sound strange to you. I have lived a Christian life for many years. I grew up going to church at Corona Presbyterian Church in Denver, Colorado. Whenever the doors of the church were open, my family was there participating at some level. In high school I participated in Youth For Christ, singing in a group that traveled around doing High School Assemblies and ministering in churches.
In college, I began ministering to runaways and drug users in the Old Town section of Chicago through Wheaton College’s student ministry program. Later, both Judy and I became Campus Life Club leaders. In the three years following our marriage – from 1972 – 1975, Judy and I worked full time with Youth For Christ/Campus Life clubs. Our first assignment was in Wheaton, Illinois, and then Bellevue Washington.
In January of 1975, we moved back to Denver with our 1 year old daughter Kresta and our yet to be born daughter Melissa firmly growing in Judy’s womb and waiting to be born in July of that year. I enrolled in Denver Conservative Baptist Seminary where I crammed a 3 year M.Div. program into 4 years while we managed apartments and I worked full time at the church where I had been raised.
Those were busy days filled with fruitful ministry and happy memories. After my graduation in 1979, I was called to be Associate Pastor at First Presbyterian Church in Renton where I served for 5 years. In August of 1984 I accepted the call of Northminster Presbyterian Church in Las Cruces.
During all those years in ministry, I had tended to other’s spiritual and emotional needs. I had preached – faithfully I hope – the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I had written and taught Vacation Bible School Curriculum, Adult Studies and small group programs. I have known and walked with Christ through all those times. I had never felt the Lord's presence as profoundly as I did nowl right there in that Roto-rest bed; in the painful agony of broken ribs, tender,lacerated skin and throbbing pelvic fractures.
In Youth For Christ, one of the lessons we taught young people was the importance of living a “balanced life.” Based on Luke 2:52, where it says “And Jesus grew in wisdom and in stature and in favor with God and man," we encouraged young people to live lives that kept the physical, mental, social and spiritual dimensions of their life in balance. I was determined in my life and ministry to keep that balance as well.
Consequently, my life has never been a sequestered one, devoted only to faith and to ministry. I pursued other interests such as skiing, running, bicycling, reading, word games, photography, working outdoors and going to movies. I felt it was always important to be an active part of the community. I joined Rotary Club where I met weekly with other professional people; not all of them Christians. We tried to cultivate relationships with our neighbors. I have always tried to serve the communities in which we lived in some way.
My life has never measured up to that of a spiritual giant. But my faith in Christ was a real part of the overall picture. And my theological convictions were solidly founded upon the Sovereignty of God. God was in control. God had not caused this accident to happen to me, but I knew and was comforted by the fact that he had allowed it; had miraculously spared me from death; and that he had some clear purpose resulting from this experience. When I was at a point of having lost everything, possibly even my very life, I realized in a new and powerful way that Jesus was really all that I had. And he was there with me. And I felt a deep sense of being united with Christ in his sufferings.
I tried to share that message with anyone who might listen. One long, lonesome night, a new nurse had been assigned to the ICU unit on a temporary basis. She had been given the assignment of tilting my bed up to 45 degrees on one side, removing the back panels and treating my festering, scarred back.
Since she had not treated me prior to this time, she wanted to know what had happened to me. How had I come to be in such seriously ill condition? As I related the details of my accident (I think I was able to relate them pretty clearly) she began to sob uncontrollably. I apologized if I had shared too much detail and I asked her what was wrong. She related to me that her husband had been killed in a one car automobile accident two weeks before.
The accident had occurred on a deserted stretch of Interstate 10 between Las Cruces and Deming. It was late at night when he had lost control of the car, hit a guard rail, and slid across a median. The car rolled numerous times and he was ejected. Because it was late and it had happened in a desolate place, no one had seen the accident and he was not discovered until the next morning. The State Patrolman had told her that they were sure his death had been quick and he had not suffered long. But her fears and questions persisted. She had been tormented as she thought about what he might have felt and thought as he lay there alone, dying.
I was able to share more of my experience. When I had been lying face down on the concrete slab where the bus had finally deposited me, I was at absolute peace. I knew with certainty that Christ was there with me. He truly was the good shepherd who walks with people through the valley of the shadow of death. I told her that I had experienced the reality and the peace of God at that moment more so than at any other time in my life and I was sure her husband, had he not died instantly experienced the same blessed assurance.
This nurse, who was now a new friend, thanked me for helping her. I told her that one reason God had allowed me to go through this ordeal and live, was to be able to comfort and reassure people just like her. I asked if I could pray with her. She said “yes, please.”
I never saw her again. But the next day, a day I was scheduled to have surgery to stabilize my hips and pelvis, I couldn’t wait to see Judy. The moment she walked in the room I blurted out, “I know why God allowed me to go through this honey.” And then I related the previous midnight conversation and prayer. I am not sure Judy understood it in quite those terms.
What she did do each day was put up verses of scripture on the orthopedic bar that ran overhead from the head of my bed to the foot. Each day, there was a fresh reminder of God’s unfailing love. Since I couldn’t move, as I stared upwards, all I could focus on were those verses of Scripture and an array of family pictures that were also changed regularly. Those Scriptures and pictures kept my hope alive and my faith centered.
I was also kept during those long nighttime hours by the verses of Scripture I had memorized – some of them had stayed with me from my childhood. Others were ones I had just recently committed to memory.
Whenever I was on a long bike ride, a friend had taught me to put a verse of scripture in the map pocket of my handlebar bag. Instead of focusing on the steepness of a hill or the tiredness in my legs, I learned to focus on that one verse and commit it to memory. I learned a lot of Scripture that way.
I also applied the same technique to my daily runs in the desert. Broken only by the occasional appearance of an owl, quail or coyote, or a call to my running companion, my Golden Retriever Brandon, the deserts of Southern New Mexico had provided a wonderfully quiet place to memorize Scripture.
I think it was when I had been confirmed in faith and had joined the church at age 12 that I learned several verses from Psalm 119. One that stood out was: “How does a young man keep his way pure? By keeping it according to thy word, O Lord. Thy Word have I hid in my heart. I seek you with all my heart: do not let me stray from your commands.” (Psalm 119: 9, 10)
God’s Word is like the rains sent down from heaven to water the earth and bring forth crops. It does not return void but accomplishes the very thing for which God sent it forth. I learned that all that time memorizing was fulfilling a great purpose: keeping my mind focused on the Lord and not despairing over my situation.
For some reason, the book of Philippians became the foundation for my assurance during those days and nights in ICU. As if on automatic cue, important verses from Paul’s letter flooded my mind just when I needed them most. At first, it was chapter 1:21. “For me to live is Christ and to die is gain.” That kept me going during the earliest days when Doctors were saying my condition was so critical I might not even make it to surgery to repair the spine. That was all right. The thought of leaving Judy and the girls behind was a sad one, but the thought of being complete in Christ was one that gave me peace.
Later on, the night before my spinal surgery, when the pain and the sense of confinement were at their worst, I was reminded of chapter 3, verses 10 and 11. “I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead.”
That same night, a group of Elders from our church had come to anoint me with oil and pray over me with the laying on of hands. This was a practice that had become a very meaningful part of our church’s worship life. Each Communion Sunday, we had established a time at the end of the service for any person seeking healing for some area of their life to come forward and meet with the Elders. Those were precious times of faith and fellowship. We saw God do some miraculous things through those prayers.
It was a very natural thing then, for those same Elders to march in, en masse, to the ICU to hold a service for healing prayer in my room. Others from the church joined in as well. The room was so full that people were standing shoulder to shoulder. One lady, Margaret Short, for whose husband we had prayed for a few months earlier, couldn’t find room inside, so she was outside the first floor room with her hands pressed against the window. The spirit of Christ was also present.
Several of the Elders offered words of encouragement or shared verses of Scripture. I asked if I could say a few words. I shared with the group an old joke. “Did you hear about the Calvinist pastor who fell down the stairs and broke his leg? He calmly said, “Well I am glad that’s over.” Only in this instance I said, “Did you hear about the Presbyterian Minister who was run over by the bus? I am glad that’s over.” Then I went on to share (probably at some length as I was never one to preach short sermons) how this verse had meant so much to me.I was buoyed by the conviction that through this I was sharing in the fellowship of Christ’s sufferings and that was a privilege not a burden.
They anointed me with oil and prayed and then we sang the song with which we closed each Sunday’s service. Joining hands, our voices intoned “Bind us together, Lord, Bind us together in chords that cannot be broken. There is only one God. There is only one Lord. There is only one King, that is why I sing. Bind us together Lord, Bind us together in chords that cannot be broken.”
It was a sacred moment; for me, for Judy, and for all who were there. After I had finally returned home from the Rehabilitation Hospital, I wanted to go visit those nurses in ICU who had become so special to me. As we visited, one of them remarked about that prayer service. She was not a religious person, she said, but something strange and very holy seemed to happen that night. The busy, noisy activity of a full ICU seemed to stand still in time and a quiet peace enveloped the entire unit as a small group of believers prayed and sang and trusted God in that room.
Yes, the nights were the most difficult and lonesome times. But on this night in particular, a hospital room became a sanctuary. Just as God used a manger’s stall and a plain wooden cross to show the world his love and mercy, he had shown himself once again in a very unlikely spot to a person – no, a group of people – who really needed it.
To this day, I still find that night times are the times when, after Judy has gone to bed, in the lonely quiet of our family room or den, I find myself aware once again, that I am never really alone, Christ has been and is always there sharing life’s journey with me.
Friday, January 15, 2010
God with Skin
CHAPTER 6
Tuesday, May 13
17:00 pm
Las Cruces, NM
"Jesus might have said, 'I became man for you. If you do not become God for me, you wrong me.'" Meister Eckhart
"Christ has no hands but our hands to do His work today
He has no feet but our feet to lead men in the way
He has no tongue but our tongue to tell men how He died
He has no help but our help to bring them to His side.
- Annie Johnston Flint"
"Where two or more of you are gathered in my name, there I am in your midst." - Jesus of Nazareth (Matthew 18:20 NIV)
Fred tells a familiar, “chicken-soup-for-for-the-soul” kind of story about a young girl who had been tucked into bed, said her prayers with her mom and dad when a thunder and lightning storm struck with bone-chilling force and window rattling sound.Her mom and dad sensing her fright told her that she need not be afraid, “God is always with you.” They made sure her night light was on and closed the door. The thunder and lightening increased in its furiousness. After an especially loud clap of thunder the little girl bounded out of bed and ran to her parents. They held her close and reminded her that she didn’t need to be afraid, God was always with her. To that she replied, “I know that, but sometimes I just need God with skin on.”
It was about 5:00 in the afternoon several days after Fred’s accident. I had spent hours that day beside his bed in ICU. I was feeling a little light headed and hungry. I didn’t want to go to a restaurant or the hospital cafeteria so I decided to drive home. Fortunately, our home was only about 3 miles from the hospital. As I drove through our neighborhood on this sunny afternoon I started to ponder, “I wonder what I should to be feeling right now? You would think that someone who has had a relationship with God for most to her life, a pastor’s wife notwithstanding, would be feeling very close to God. She would be overwhelmed with his presence and peace. As the car curved around the street I admitted to myself I felt none of these things. Instead I felt incredibly sad, very tired, and just plain empty.
I know that our walk of faith is not one that is to be based on feelings but I love those times when feelings line up with what you know to be true; when you can literally feel the presence of God, you know he is as real as the furniture in the room or the clothes on your back. This would often be the case for me during the singing of worship and praise songs or on a hike on a beautiful day in the mountains where the magnificence of creation would shout, “I AM!” I wished for that reassurance on my ride home. I longed to see and feel Jesus. I wanted God with skin on.
I was about a half block from our home when I saw him. I pulled over to the side of the road and watched. I saw him coming out of our home with a mop and a bucket, with a broom and a dust pan. Recently I found an open letter that I wrote to our Northminster congregation during this time.
May 18, 1997
What a week this has been. I’m not sure what I thought I would feel – you know, being a Christian facing the trial of a lifetime. To be honest there were not a lot of warm fuzzy moments in which I felt a supernatural surge of God’s power. My cry to God was that I felt weak and so brokenhearted that I didn’t think I could stand it. It would tear my heart out to hear Fred cry out in pain and not be able to do anything. When I would go home and see Fred’s tennis shoes, Brandon wagging his tail expectantly, or even see the TV that should be tuned to a sports station with Fred eating chips and salsa in front of it, all I could do was cry. I love Fred so much, I can’t imagine life without him.
It was in the midst of this weakness and sadness, however, that I did see Jesus. I saw him leaving my house after cleaning it one afternoon. He left fresh bread on my counter and food in my refrigerator. He even replenished my favorite flavored coffee creamer. He held my hand when I needed to cry, wrote me notes, and sent me flowers. He stayed all night with Fred so that I could go home and rest peacefully. He mowed my lawn, fixed the cooler, and saved seats for us at Melissa’s graduation. He prayed with me and for me.
Thank you for being God with skin this past week.Judy
God with skin on is what Christ has called us to be here on this earth. If that was how we acted, if that is what was on display to the world, it is my guess people would flock to the Church. Instead of that, the stories that make the headlines are of misuse of funds by a church leader, or that a pastor or church leader has had an affair with a church member or even worse molested a young person. If that is what I thought being a part of a Christian church was all about, I too would turn the other direction.
If you have had the wonderful privilege of being part of a caring family of believers - usually that means a part of a local church family - you know that there are a thousand other stories that could and should be told about how Christians care for one another. Ours is one of those stories that never made the news but should be told.
From the first minute of the night of the accident when Melissa and I were led to the small, private waiting room we were not alone. Dave Sallee, a colleague and friend of Fred’s was there with his wife Nancy from the beginning of the night to the end. He would go to the larger waiting room and give updates to those that had come to the hospital. God with skin on.
Our church was home to a Montessori Preschool. Some of the little children were being picked up when the accident happened. Several of the families with young children were the first to come to the hospital and begin a vigil of prayer and support. During the evening, someone counted 70 people that had come to the hospital. They spilled out from the Emergency Waiting Room, to the Hospital Lobby, to the Prayer Chapel. Some would go home, others would arrive as the news spread through the community. College students mingled with the concerned elderly. God with skin on.
I had developed a wonderful friendship with a colleague from the Head Start program that I directed. She was a gift to me. Betty was also married to a pastor but had maintained her own career throughout their time of ministry. She was a nurse who had spent time in public health prior to joining the Head Start staff. We had long talks and could gracefully move from talking about children and families in our program to our own personal lives. This interchange was sprinkled with times of prayer.
Betty sat beside me in the small waiting room, holding my hand and explaining the implications of the reports that the doctors and nurses would give us. She was a calming, reassuring presence. It was Betty who took Melissa aside and said, “if your mom is having a bad day, just give me a call. I’ll come as soon as I can.” Kresta, who arrived two days later, and Melissa took her up on that offer just a couple of days later. God with skin on.
At one point a man threw open the door to the small waiting room to extend his support and tell me the people at his church were praying for Fred. “And who are you?” He explained he knew Fred from Rotary. It was then that I realized the news of Fred’s accident was spreading like wild fire. The base of support was reaching far beyond our close friends and church members. God with skin on.
When Fred was moved to ICU where he would spend the next 28 days, there was a constant flow of people to sit beside me, touch me, encourage me and even laugh with me. Morphine masks not only the pain but the brain! Fred said some of the most hilarious things in his attempts to talk people into helping him get out of the bed that was so restrictive.
“Get me out of bed. I need to get the megaphone for the line dance.”
“Get me out of bed. I need to go see the Soup Natzi (from a Seinfeld episode)”
When those didn’t work, he turned to a more spiritual argument.
“Get me out of bed. I need to process the paperwork for the conversions from last night.”
We started keeping a notebook for people to sign, leave messages, and also funny things that Fred said. God with skin was there every day.
It was Sunday morning, three days after the accident, and I was alone in ICU with Fred. I couldn’t emotionally face going to church that morning and seeing someone else in the pulpit.
The quiet of the morning, however, allowed me an opportunity to talk with Dr. San Filippo. I asked him in the typical American, instant everything manner, “So, are you going to do surgery on his neck tomorrow or the next day?” His answer startled me. He said, “It’s not when he gets to surgery, it’s if he gets to surgery.”
Dr. San Filippo then explained to me what I turned into the Big Four. He said that due to the number of bones that were broken, there was a risk of developing blood clots. These clots could break loose and move to his heart, lungs or brain. Pneumonia could set in because of Fred’s immobility. His external wounds could become infected and his wounded internal organs could develop internal bleeding. Each of these things would be addressed medically but there were no guarantees.
Fred’s rotating bed would promote circulation and help reduce the chances of pneumonia, they would put in a vena cava filter to help catch blood clots, they would clean and monitor his wounds and his vital organ signs. But he reiterated again, there were no guarantees. Each of these things could take Fred’s life before surgery. He gave and example of a young man who had had pelvic injuries just a few weeks prior and had died of a blood clot.
I’m sure it is necessary for doctors to give the worst case scenarios and to not give false hope to patients and their families, but wow, hearing this news felt like a bucket of cold water had been poured over me. At that moment, I sarcastically nicknamed Dr. San Filippo, Dr. Sunshine!
As I gained my composure, I told Dr. San Filippo that I knew there were people in the hospital right now who believed in God and were praying for recovery but, due to the seriousness of their conditions, were going to die. That is what we do. We are born, we live, we die. Many times death comes when we yearn for longer life, more time with our families, more time to do things that are undone, to see places we have not seen.
"But," I continued. "I believe that God is able to intervene in areas that are out of our control." So, I would be praying that God would be the attendant of the “Big Four,” that he would take care of the things that were out of our control. “You do your job, Dr. San Filippo, and we will leave the rest to God.”
Prayer was another area where there was real and overwhelming support. God was in skin by Fred’s bedside when colleagues from the Ministerial Fellowship would stop by and tearfully share Scripture and prayer. God was the Episcopal Priest who made the sign of the cross on Fred’s forehead each time he visited and told how his congregation had said prayers for us. God was incarnated in the presence of the Elders who came to the Trauma room the first night to anoint Fred with oil and pray for divine healing. God was there in the lives of those who came, and without saying a word out loud, put their arms around my shoulders. I knew their loving presence was a cry out to God on our behalf. And though not visible to us, there were thousands of people across the country and around the world, who, when Fred’s injuries reached their respective ears, fervently prayed for him and for me.
Having always believed in the power of prayer, this new outpouring for us was both humbling and powerful. Prayer became something more than a routine function; it became our lifeline to God’s healing grace and sustaining strength. And it was all because of the promise Jesus had once made: “Wherever two or more are gathered in my name, there I am in their midst.” (Matthew 18:20)
Sometimes we do need a God with skin! Knowing Jesus was with me in such precious, tangible ways was an absolutely life-giving source of grace and strength that helped calm the stormy seas and give the courage and peace to make it through this part of my life’s journey.
Tuesday, May 13
17:00 pm
Las Cruces, NM
"Jesus might have said, 'I became man for you. If you do not become God for me, you wrong me.'" Meister Eckhart
"Christ has no hands but our hands to do His work today
He has no feet but our feet to lead men in the way
He has no tongue but our tongue to tell men how He died
He has no help but our help to bring them to His side.
- Annie Johnston Flint"
"Where two or more of you are gathered in my name, there I am in your midst." - Jesus of Nazareth (Matthew 18:20 NIV)
Fred tells a familiar, “chicken-soup-for-for-the-soul” kind of story about a young girl who had been tucked into bed, said her prayers with her mom and dad when a thunder and lightning storm struck with bone-chilling force and window rattling sound.Her mom and dad sensing her fright told her that she need not be afraid, “God is always with you.” They made sure her night light was on and closed the door. The thunder and lightening increased in its furiousness. After an especially loud clap of thunder the little girl bounded out of bed and ran to her parents. They held her close and reminded her that she didn’t need to be afraid, God was always with her. To that she replied, “I know that, but sometimes I just need God with skin on.”
It was about 5:00 in the afternoon several days after Fred’s accident. I had spent hours that day beside his bed in ICU. I was feeling a little light headed and hungry. I didn’t want to go to a restaurant or the hospital cafeteria so I decided to drive home. Fortunately, our home was only about 3 miles from the hospital. As I drove through our neighborhood on this sunny afternoon I started to ponder, “I wonder what I should to be feeling right now? You would think that someone who has had a relationship with God for most to her life, a pastor’s wife notwithstanding, would be feeling very close to God. She would be overwhelmed with his presence and peace. As the car curved around the street I admitted to myself I felt none of these things. Instead I felt incredibly sad, very tired, and just plain empty.
I know that our walk of faith is not one that is to be based on feelings but I love those times when feelings line up with what you know to be true; when you can literally feel the presence of God, you know he is as real as the furniture in the room or the clothes on your back. This would often be the case for me during the singing of worship and praise songs or on a hike on a beautiful day in the mountains where the magnificence of creation would shout, “I AM!” I wished for that reassurance on my ride home. I longed to see and feel Jesus. I wanted God with skin on.
I was about a half block from our home when I saw him. I pulled over to the side of the road and watched. I saw him coming out of our home with a mop and a bucket, with a broom and a dust pan. Recently I found an open letter that I wrote to our Northminster congregation during this time.
May 18, 1997
What a week this has been. I’m not sure what I thought I would feel – you know, being a Christian facing the trial of a lifetime. To be honest there were not a lot of warm fuzzy moments in which I felt a supernatural surge of God’s power. My cry to God was that I felt weak and so brokenhearted that I didn’t think I could stand it. It would tear my heart out to hear Fred cry out in pain and not be able to do anything. When I would go home and see Fred’s tennis shoes, Brandon wagging his tail expectantly, or even see the TV that should be tuned to a sports station with Fred eating chips and salsa in front of it, all I could do was cry. I love Fred so much, I can’t imagine life without him.
It was in the midst of this weakness and sadness, however, that I did see Jesus. I saw him leaving my house after cleaning it one afternoon. He left fresh bread on my counter and food in my refrigerator. He even replenished my favorite flavored coffee creamer. He held my hand when I needed to cry, wrote me notes, and sent me flowers. He stayed all night with Fred so that I could go home and rest peacefully. He mowed my lawn, fixed the cooler, and saved seats for us at Melissa’s graduation. He prayed with me and for me.
Thank you for being God with skin this past week.Judy
God with skin on is what Christ has called us to be here on this earth. If that was how we acted, if that is what was on display to the world, it is my guess people would flock to the Church. Instead of that, the stories that make the headlines are of misuse of funds by a church leader, or that a pastor or church leader has had an affair with a church member or even worse molested a young person. If that is what I thought being a part of a Christian church was all about, I too would turn the other direction.
If you have had the wonderful privilege of being part of a caring family of believers - usually that means a part of a local church family - you know that there are a thousand other stories that could and should be told about how Christians care for one another. Ours is one of those stories that never made the news but should be told.
From the first minute of the night of the accident when Melissa and I were led to the small, private waiting room we were not alone. Dave Sallee, a colleague and friend of Fred’s was there with his wife Nancy from the beginning of the night to the end. He would go to the larger waiting room and give updates to those that had come to the hospital. God with skin on.
Our church was home to a Montessori Preschool. Some of the little children were being picked up when the accident happened. Several of the families with young children were the first to come to the hospital and begin a vigil of prayer and support. During the evening, someone counted 70 people that had come to the hospital. They spilled out from the Emergency Waiting Room, to the Hospital Lobby, to the Prayer Chapel. Some would go home, others would arrive as the news spread through the community. College students mingled with the concerned elderly. God with skin on.
I had developed a wonderful friendship with a colleague from the Head Start program that I directed. She was a gift to me. Betty was also married to a pastor but had maintained her own career throughout their time of ministry. She was a nurse who had spent time in public health prior to joining the Head Start staff. We had long talks and could gracefully move from talking about children and families in our program to our own personal lives. This interchange was sprinkled with times of prayer.
Betty sat beside me in the small waiting room, holding my hand and explaining the implications of the reports that the doctors and nurses would give us. She was a calming, reassuring presence. It was Betty who took Melissa aside and said, “if your mom is having a bad day, just give me a call. I’ll come as soon as I can.” Kresta, who arrived two days later, and Melissa took her up on that offer just a couple of days later. God with skin on.
At one point a man threw open the door to the small waiting room to extend his support and tell me the people at his church were praying for Fred. “And who are you?” He explained he knew Fred from Rotary. It was then that I realized the news of Fred’s accident was spreading like wild fire. The base of support was reaching far beyond our close friends and church members. God with skin on.
When Fred was moved to ICU where he would spend the next 28 days, there was a constant flow of people to sit beside me, touch me, encourage me and even laugh with me. Morphine masks not only the pain but the brain! Fred said some of the most hilarious things in his attempts to talk people into helping him get out of the bed that was so restrictive.
“Get me out of bed. I need to get the megaphone for the line dance.”
“Get me out of bed. I need to go see the Soup Natzi (from a Seinfeld episode)”
When those didn’t work, he turned to a more spiritual argument.
“Get me out of bed. I need to process the paperwork for the conversions from last night.”
We started keeping a notebook for people to sign, leave messages, and also funny things that Fred said. God with skin was there every day.
It was Sunday morning, three days after the accident, and I was alone in ICU with Fred. I couldn’t emotionally face going to church that morning and seeing someone else in the pulpit.
The quiet of the morning, however, allowed me an opportunity to talk with Dr. San Filippo. I asked him in the typical American, instant everything manner, “So, are you going to do surgery on his neck tomorrow or the next day?” His answer startled me. He said, “It’s not when he gets to surgery, it’s if he gets to surgery.”
Dr. San Filippo then explained to me what I turned into the Big Four. He said that due to the number of bones that were broken, there was a risk of developing blood clots. These clots could break loose and move to his heart, lungs or brain. Pneumonia could set in because of Fred’s immobility. His external wounds could become infected and his wounded internal organs could develop internal bleeding. Each of these things would be addressed medically but there were no guarantees.
Fred’s rotating bed would promote circulation and help reduce the chances of pneumonia, they would put in a vena cava filter to help catch blood clots, they would clean and monitor his wounds and his vital organ signs. But he reiterated again, there were no guarantees. Each of these things could take Fred’s life before surgery. He gave and example of a young man who had had pelvic injuries just a few weeks prior and had died of a blood clot.
I’m sure it is necessary for doctors to give the worst case scenarios and to not give false hope to patients and their families, but wow, hearing this news felt like a bucket of cold water had been poured over me. At that moment, I sarcastically nicknamed Dr. San Filippo, Dr. Sunshine!
As I gained my composure, I told Dr. San Filippo that I knew there were people in the hospital right now who believed in God and were praying for recovery but, due to the seriousness of their conditions, were going to die. That is what we do. We are born, we live, we die. Many times death comes when we yearn for longer life, more time with our families, more time to do things that are undone, to see places we have not seen.
"But," I continued. "I believe that God is able to intervene in areas that are out of our control." So, I would be praying that God would be the attendant of the “Big Four,” that he would take care of the things that were out of our control. “You do your job, Dr. San Filippo, and we will leave the rest to God.”
Prayer was another area where there was real and overwhelming support. God was in skin by Fred’s bedside when colleagues from the Ministerial Fellowship would stop by and tearfully share Scripture and prayer. God was the Episcopal Priest who made the sign of the cross on Fred’s forehead each time he visited and told how his congregation had said prayers for us. God was incarnated in the presence of the Elders who came to the Trauma room the first night to anoint Fred with oil and pray for divine healing. God was there in the lives of those who came, and without saying a word out loud, put their arms around my shoulders. I knew their loving presence was a cry out to God on our behalf. And though not visible to us, there were thousands of people across the country and around the world, who, when Fred’s injuries reached their respective ears, fervently prayed for him and for me.
Having always believed in the power of prayer, this new outpouring for us was both humbling and powerful. Prayer became something more than a routine function; it became our lifeline to God’s healing grace and sustaining strength. And it was all because of the promise Jesus had once made: “Wherever two or more are gathered in my name, there I am in their midst.” (Matthew 18:20)
Sometimes we do need a God with skin! Knowing Jesus was with me in such precious, tangible ways was an absolutely life-giving source of grace and strength that helped calm the stormy seas and give the courage and peace to make it through this part of my life’s journey.
Friday, January 8, 2010
A Day Just Like Every Other Day
CHAPTER 5
05:15 am MDT
May 8, 2010
Las Cruces, NM
“There exists only the present instant... a Now which always and without end is itself new. There is no yesterday nor any tomorrow, but only Now, as it was a thousand years ago and as it will be a thousand years hence.” Meister Eckhart
“Do exactly what you would do if you felt most secure.” Meister Eckhart
“Life is what happens to you while making other plans.” John Lennon
Thursday, that fateful day in May began for me just like any other day. I had awakened early – around 5:00 a.m. The first light of day was beginning to dawn with subtle orange and pastel pink hues. The light filtered into our bedroom window through the blinds on the French doors that led to our viewing balcony.
Brandon, my Golden Retriever was by my side as I went downstairs to start the morning coffee. For the 4 years we had been together we had become attached at the hip. He went to the office with me; faithfully followed me every step of the way as I mowed our lawn; curled up by the recliner in the evening as I watched TV and liked going anywhere with me in the car. We sometimes joked that Brandon was the son we never had. While the rest of the family slept, Brandon's and my daily, morning schedule followed a closely prescribed routine. It was pretty much the same every day.
That morning, as soon as I opened the front door, Brandon shot past me like a bolt. Like he had some secret, urgent mission to accomplish upon which someone’s life depended, he made several frantic circles around the front yard before focusing his radar on daily copy of the El Paso Times. As quickly as his morning mission to relieve himself had begun, once he had refocused and now was locked onto his ultimate target. He was possessed by a different set of instincts; retrieving. He scooped up the paper in his gentle mouth and proudly brought it to me, sitting down by my side to let me take it from him.
Once inside, he lay impatiently my side. Like a coiled spring he was ready to unwind completely but he knew the routine. Years of daily routine fed his brain the fact that it wouldn’t be long before we headed out the door and up to the end of our cul de sac, Cloudcroft Circle, to venture out into the East Mesa desert for our daily 5 mile run.
For now he had to content himself by thinking of all the rabbits and quail he would soon be chasing. As he stretched out on the tile floor, he would let out an occasional muffled yelp and his legs would twitch as he dreamed of the chase. Only occasionally was he lucky enough or stealthy enough to catch such a prize. And when he did, he never killed. It was on more than one occasion that some poor stunned animal, playing dead, and covered with the foamy saliva of his captor, was laid at my feet. With eyes that seemed to say “aren’t you proud of me? Look what I brought you!” and his entire body convulsing in a tail-wag gone mad, he would bound off for the next adventure in the desert. Now in his semi-conscious sleep, he dreamed of the chase.
My routine during this time was to read the paper, particularly the sports section. Then I finished the Crossword Puzzle and the other word games. I had only to fold up the paper for Brandon’s normally bent ears to perk up. Jumping to attention, he looked at me with the same expectant eyes a child might have towards a parent just before going on a ride at an amusement park. This was his favorite part of the day. It was mine also.
After putting on my running shorts and lacing my Brooks Beast running shoes, I downed the last remaining swallow of morning coffee, set the cup in the sink and made for the door. We were ready to go. Brandon knew just what to do. He went to the laundry room, grabbed his leash from its customary hook and, with leash in mouth, began his joyous prance of anticipation.
This was our daily routine. During the winter months, when the temperatures were milder, we sometimes ran in the afternoon. In mid-May it was best to get out early. The temperature would undoubtedly climb into the high 90s or low 100s by late afternoon. Heavy physical exertion could be dangerous for dogs and humans. Besides, we both preferred the early morning solitude of the desert.
The sun was just beginning to filter its brilliant gold radiance over the jagged peaks of the Organ Mountains. These mountains are so named because their towering cliffs and rocky crags resemble the pipe organ of a great cathedral. The desert was alive with the sights and sounds of wildlife.
There was a gap in the rock wall at the east end our street. This man-made space was to allow the rare, but torrential waters of summer thunderstorms to pass through and find their way into the storm drains. It also allowed a person on foot or mountain bike admission to the desert’s mysterious and haunting beauty. As we passed through that break and I removed Brandon’s leash, a lizard scurried to find cover under one of the many Creosote plants.
Large desert jackrabbits were also out in abundance. Chasing these rabbits was Brandon’s main reason for living. Simply mentioning the word ‘rabbit’ sent him off on a frenzied dash through the rocky, cactus strewn hillsides – only to be seen again in a half mile or so. One day, he had seen a coyote off in the distance and off he bounded only to come charging back with his tail between his legs as he realized the coyote he had seen was accompanied by 2 or 3 friends who shrewdly waited for him to approach and then reversed the chase.
If I ran five miles, Brandon must have run 8 or 9 on these daily jaunts. He was lean and athletic. He was born to run and run he did, with carefree abandon and enthusiasm. His joyful exuberance somehow seemed to buoy my flagging spirits and tired muscles.
For me, these morning runs were my time for prayer, reflection and spiritual renewal. The fresh sweet air was scented with the fragrance of morning dew on Creosote, Cholla, Ocotillo and Prickly Pear cactus, all of which were in bloom. I was invigorated with each step. Very seldom did we encounter other runners or walkers although I always followed a path that had obviously formed from years of such use by others. That morning we were all alone and it was wonderfully refreshing. It was the kind of morning that made you think “It’s a gift to be alive.”
As we neared the completion our usual route, it was time to get Brandon’s leash back on him and cover the last half mile or so through the neighborhoods of High Point – the general name for this subdivision of stuccoed, southwestern homes. Signs of life were just beginning in those homes as families rose, ate their breakfast, and prepared for work, school and the other activities with which suburban families fill their days.
We arrived home to our two story, Mediterranean style home and came in through the decorative wrought iron gate that led to the back yard. This was the home Judy and I called our dream home. We had it built just three years earlier thinking we would be staying in Las Cruces for many more years to come. Facing south and sitting on a hill, the living room had a high, majestic ceiling with large arched windows that looked out across the neighborhood. With little effort, a glance to the right afforded a view of the Rio Grande Valley to the west. It was a verdant green at this time of year with budding pecan trees, and acres of green chile fields. To the left was a view of the Organ Mountains.
Brandon headed off to get a drink of water and find a shady spot to rest and relive his morning adventure. He would spend the rest of his day snoozing and dreaming about catching one of those elusive rabbits and keeping watch over the house. I went back to the kitchen and poured another cup of coffee, peeled open a fruit and granola bar and turned on the small TV that sat by the breakfast bar. The morning news was on but not much was happening. I turned it to ESPN to check the baseball scores. The day had begun. So far, it had begun just like most other days.
Judy was just rising. After mixing some cream and sugar into her coffee and getting oriented to a new day, we talked briefly about our plans for the day. As the Administrator for the Head Start program for Las Cruces Public Schools, she told me she had a number of interviews to conduct that day but would be home at a regular hour. There were no other special plans or activities planned for that day for either of us. We would have dinner together that evening, joined by daughter Melissa and more than likely her fiancé Jerry.
I went upstairs and pressed the shirt I intended to wear that day. It was a peach colored shirt I had just ordered from the Lands End Catalogue. It went well with the Tabasco brand tie Judy had recently given me. A quick shower, another glimpse out the viewing balcony off our Master Bedroom, and I was ready to head over to the church.
I loved this house. In comparison to many, it was not huge. But its architecture, red tile roof, stately columns and dramatic windows were striking. It sat on a small rise at the corner of Cheyenne Street and Cloudcroft Circle. We often thought of it as a sentinel guarding the entrance to our cul de sac and the 40 or so homes that formed our immediate neighborhood. As I walked through the laundry room and out into the garage, I had no inkling that I might never have the chance to relax in the recliner, listen to jazz in our Family Room loft or sleep in our water bed again. Little did I know I might never again experience and enjoy that early morning reverie at the breakfast bar, or tend the rose garden we had planted on the East side of the house. I just assumed I would be back around dinner after another pretty ordinary day of ministry.
My 1994 Honda Passport made the seven mile jaunt down the hill and across the Rio Grande Valley to church like it was on auto pilot. Up Roadrunner Boulevard to US 70. Wait for just enough of a break in the steady stream of engineers headed out to the White Sands Missile Range. Ease across the Eastbound lanes and sneak into the turn lane, then gradually get over into the right hand lane and head West down the hill. Turn right at the Albertsons store and wind your way further west to Valley Drive. Be careful as you pass Mayfield High School as student drivers, pedestrians and cyclists would all be arriving at the same time. Turn north on Valley Drive for 2 blocks and turn into the expansive, half-paved parking area of Northminster Presbyterian Church. This was the daily route. I hardly had to think about it. Only rarely did I vary it.
Once at the church, I marveled yet again at its beauty. The original building sat on nearly 4 acres of what used to be farm land. Directly to the East, across Valley Drive or US Highway 85, there was a large field, normally planted in cotton; occasionally with one of the many varieties of green chile this valley had become noted for. From nearly anywhere on the property you could look East across that field and up to the Organ Mountains; Las Cruces’ most famous landmark. There was enough land on our property for a large ball field, a basketball court, and ample parking throughout the landscaped, lighted lot. There was also room for further expansion. Some of the property was still graveled and in need of tending.
In 1991 we had added a 250 seat sanctuary and a new office and C.E. wing. It was a dramatic building that sat diagonally across the property. With a sweeping roof line and a 35 foot high clerestory, its architecture was both modern and traditional at the same time. On the west side of the sanctuary was a series of windows looking out toward the Organ Mountains. The front arched window was 30 feet high and had just been replaced with a beautiful stained glass rendering of the Presbyterian Seal. Separating the sanctuary from the original building was a covered, pillared walkway and a beautifully landscaped courtyard.
Preschoolers were just beginning to arrive for a day at Montessori School. A line of station wagons and vans was forming as parents dropped off their children. The school, begun and run by a church member, occupied the Multi-purpose room that had once served as our worship space, Around back there was a fenced play area that provided shade from the hot sun and a welcome break from the rigors of pre-school studies. I greeted the Director with a wave and “good morning” as I parked my car and strolled under the stuccoed colonnade and across the inner courtyard to the main office door.
No one else was here yet. I would have the chance for some peaceful study time before the phone began ringing and people started dropping by. First order of business: check my Franklin Day Timer for any appointments. Oh yes, two men from a church in El Paso were coming at 4:00 to look at the bus we were trying to sell. Otherwise, there were no major meetings to lead or counseling sessions to perform. I could devote the better part of my day to the completion of my sermon for the coming Sunday.
Mother’s Day was coming in just three days. I had already bought a few presents for Judy but I made a note to myself to go out and buy a card and look for some other little gift. Her birthday had been just three days earlier and I had given one of her Mother’s Day gifts to her as a birthday present. I felt I needed to replace it and buy another for my wife of 25 years and the mother of our two beautiful daughters.
The Elders of our church had met just the week before to hear the news that I had accepted a call to Enumclaw, Washington and Calvary Presbyterian Church. Judy and I would be moving at the middle of June and I had to check on and confirm the scheduling of preachers who would supply the pulpit once I left. I guessed I should probably spend some time organizing my library and files to prepare for our impending move. Other than that, the schedule was free to work on what would be one of my last sermons. I was glad for a normal day.
Janet, the church secretary arrived around 9:00 with her usual chipper, upbeat demeanor. Today would be the day to finish the bulletin in preparation for Sunday’s services. There were always two bulletins; one for our 8:30 contemporary service, and another for our more traditional 11:00 service. Her day would be full. We always kept our fingers crossed that the copier wouldn’t go on the blink on Thursday. In spite of our prayers, it often did. Another normal day.
In addition to our preparations for a cross-country move, Judy and I were also excited about our daughter Melissa’s graduation with honors from New Mexico State University. Later that day, she was to turn in her final paper. At long last all her requirements for graduation would be met and she could walk with her class at the Pan American Center; NMSU’s basketball arena. Later in the summer, she was to be married to Jerry Parks, a boy she had dated for 3 years. After their marriage, they would be moving to Schaumburg, Illinois. We weren’t thrilled at the thought that we would be separated by so many miles but it was exciting to be thinking of an August wedding.
Our oldest daughter Kresta, was also engaged to be married. Ryan was a man she had met while working out on the Oregon Coast at the Cannon Beach Christian Conference Center. Their wedding was to be in October and would take place in Nampa, Idaho which was his hometown. Not knowing anyone there, Judy was busy trying to help plan a long distance wedding. I, like most men, was pretty much oblivious to those details.
How we were to pull off two weddings, organize our household for a move and leave jobs, friends and family all in such a short span of time was beyond me. Thankfully Judy and the girls were thinking more of the weddings. It was my task to prepare the church for the impending interim period until they could find another pastor. I had scheduled visiting preachers to begin in mid-June. I intended to preach until then. We were due in Enumclaw, Washington on the 1st of July.
It is too easy to get so comfortable with life that you take each day for granted. That was certainly true of this day. It is possible to not fully appreciate the people, the places, the relationships and the activities that are part of life because they become so ordinary, they become almost automatic. Though there were these special things looming in our future, this day was like any other day in most ways. I assumed it would go as planned and with no major disruptions. I took my life and my routines for granted.
I think I told Judy I loved her before I walked out the door, but I can’t remember for sure. I am pretty sure I gave thanks to God during my morning run for my family, my health and the many blessings God had bestowed on us in life. We weren’t rich, but after 25 years of marriage and ministry, we were now in a place of relative financial stability. We owned a beautiful home, each had dependable cars (if not fancy), and most importantly we had a wonderful family. Life was good.
Our house was often filled with people: friends of Melissa and Jerry, Young Life Leaders with whom we had established a strong bond because we organized and chaired the local Committee, members of our small group Bible Study, neighbors and church friends. Just the night before a young woman – Lyn McKinley – had been over. Together we had sat out on the patio and talked over Lyn’s plans to enter Seminary and prepare for ministry. We felt our house was a gift from God and so it was open to anyone. But, I am not entirely sure we recognized fully what blessings we enjoyed.
Life goes on. While committed to the principle of God’s sovereignty over every area of life, we had probably fallen into the trap that so many today do: assuming that we had control over our lives, our futures and our safety. One day was the same as another. It was just a matter of doing what had to be done with as much energy and creativity as possible.
I had often used some familiar Biblical passages to counsel others about not taking life for granted.
James 4:13 - 15 says, “Now listen you who say, ‘Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.’ Why you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead, you ought to say, ‘If it is the Lord’s will we will and do this or that.”
That is exactly how we were living though. We were making plans. We were anticipating the future. We were going through the motions of everyday life, taking it all as though we were somehow responsible for it. We gave lip service to the fact that God was in control. In reality, we probably tried to take too much credit.
It only takes a brief instant in time for all that normalcy to change. Something unexpectedly good might happen that catapults you back to the realization that God is the giver of every good and perfect gift. Sometimes, the thing that spurs a person back to reality is pain and suffering.
C.S. Lewis in his epic work The Problem of Pain states that “pain is God’s megaphone.” It is through the “gift of pain or suffering” that God brings a person back to a relationship with himself. No one would choose that for themselves. Nobody wants it. Yet, God uses those experiences in our lives to shake us free from the doldrums and apathy of independence and selfishness.
In his classic, collaborative work with Dr. Paul Brand, Where is God When it Hurts, Phillip Yancey marvels at the fact that pain is a gift from God. To illustrate the point, Dr. Brand, who had worked for many years dealing with leprosy in India, saw over and over again that those who did not experience pain, were more seriously in danger than those
who could experience pain.
Once again, my counsel to people as a pastor had been to welcome trials and hardships because God uses them to strengthen faith. To put it more glibly, an old adage suggests that “when life hands you lemons, you should make lemonade.”
In my normal, daily, routine life, it was always easy to tell others to practice those principles. I never expected that I would find myself in the dire straits of facing the trial of a life time; a trial that could change my life – our lives – forever. It might possibly even end that earthly life.
I was soon to discover that my advice would be seriously put to the test. My normal, taken-for-granted life was about to be shaken to the core. It would not be another ordinary day.
05:15 am MDT
May 8, 2010
Las Cruces, NM
“There exists only the present instant... a Now which always and without end is itself new. There is no yesterday nor any tomorrow, but only Now, as it was a thousand years ago and as it will be a thousand years hence.” Meister Eckhart
“Do exactly what you would do if you felt most secure.” Meister Eckhart
“Life is what happens to you while making other plans.” John Lennon
Thursday, that fateful day in May began for me just like any other day. I had awakened early – around 5:00 a.m. The first light of day was beginning to dawn with subtle orange and pastel pink hues. The light filtered into our bedroom window through the blinds on the French doors that led to our viewing balcony.
Brandon, my Golden Retriever was by my side as I went downstairs to start the morning coffee. For the 4 years we had been together we had become attached at the hip. He went to the office with me; faithfully followed me every step of the way as I mowed our lawn; curled up by the recliner in the evening as I watched TV and liked going anywhere with me in the car. We sometimes joked that Brandon was the son we never had. While the rest of the family slept, Brandon's and my daily, morning schedule followed a closely prescribed routine. It was pretty much the same every day.
That morning, as soon as I opened the front door, Brandon shot past me like a bolt. Like he had some secret, urgent mission to accomplish upon which someone’s life depended, he made several frantic circles around the front yard before focusing his radar on daily copy of the El Paso Times. As quickly as his morning mission to relieve himself had begun, once he had refocused and now was locked onto his ultimate target. He was possessed by a different set of instincts; retrieving. He scooped up the paper in his gentle mouth and proudly brought it to me, sitting down by my side to let me take it from him.
Once inside, he lay impatiently my side. Like a coiled spring he was ready to unwind completely but he knew the routine. Years of daily routine fed his brain the fact that it wouldn’t be long before we headed out the door and up to the end of our cul de sac, Cloudcroft Circle, to venture out into the East Mesa desert for our daily 5 mile run.
For now he had to content himself by thinking of all the rabbits and quail he would soon be chasing. As he stretched out on the tile floor, he would let out an occasional muffled yelp and his legs would twitch as he dreamed of the chase. Only occasionally was he lucky enough or stealthy enough to catch such a prize. And when he did, he never killed. It was on more than one occasion that some poor stunned animal, playing dead, and covered with the foamy saliva of his captor, was laid at my feet. With eyes that seemed to say “aren’t you proud of me? Look what I brought you!” and his entire body convulsing in a tail-wag gone mad, he would bound off for the next adventure in the desert. Now in his semi-conscious sleep, he dreamed of the chase.
My routine during this time was to read the paper, particularly the sports section. Then I finished the Crossword Puzzle and the other word games. I had only to fold up the paper for Brandon’s normally bent ears to perk up. Jumping to attention, he looked at me with the same expectant eyes a child might have towards a parent just before going on a ride at an amusement park. This was his favorite part of the day. It was mine also.
After putting on my running shorts and lacing my Brooks Beast running shoes, I downed the last remaining swallow of morning coffee, set the cup in the sink and made for the door. We were ready to go. Brandon knew just what to do. He went to the laundry room, grabbed his leash from its customary hook and, with leash in mouth, began his joyous prance of anticipation.
This was our daily routine. During the winter months, when the temperatures were milder, we sometimes ran in the afternoon. In mid-May it was best to get out early. The temperature would undoubtedly climb into the high 90s or low 100s by late afternoon. Heavy physical exertion could be dangerous for dogs and humans. Besides, we both preferred the early morning solitude of the desert.
The sun was just beginning to filter its brilliant gold radiance over the jagged peaks of the Organ Mountains. These mountains are so named because their towering cliffs and rocky crags resemble the pipe organ of a great cathedral. The desert was alive with the sights and sounds of wildlife.
There was a gap in the rock wall at the east end our street. This man-made space was to allow the rare, but torrential waters of summer thunderstorms to pass through and find their way into the storm drains. It also allowed a person on foot or mountain bike admission to the desert’s mysterious and haunting beauty. As we passed through that break and I removed Brandon’s leash, a lizard scurried to find cover under one of the many Creosote plants.
Large desert jackrabbits were also out in abundance. Chasing these rabbits was Brandon’s main reason for living. Simply mentioning the word ‘rabbit’ sent him off on a frenzied dash through the rocky, cactus strewn hillsides – only to be seen again in a half mile or so. One day, he had seen a coyote off in the distance and off he bounded only to come charging back with his tail between his legs as he realized the coyote he had seen was accompanied by 2 or 3 friends who shrewdly waited for him to approach and then reversed the chase.
If I ran five miles, Brandon must have run 8 or 9 on these daily jaunts. He was lean and athletic. He was born to run and run he did, with carefree abandon and enthusiasm. His joyful exuberance somehow seemed to buoy my flagging spirits and tired muscles.
For me, these morning runs were my time for prayer, reflection and spiritual renewal. The fresh sweet air was scented with the fragrance of morning dew on Creosote, Cholla, Ocotillo and Prickly Pear cactus, all of which were in bloom. I was invigorated with each step. Very seldom did we encounter other runners or walkers although I always followed a path that had obviously formed from years of such use by others. That morning we were all alone and it was wonderfully refreshing. It was the kind of morning that made you think “It’s a gift to be alive.”
As we neared the completion our usual route, it was time to get Brandon’s leash back on him and cover the last half mile or so through the neighborhoods of High Point – the general name for this subdivision of stuccoed, southwestern homes. Signs of life were just beginning in those homes as families rose, ate their breakfast, and prepared for work, school and the other activities with which suburban families fill their days.
We arrived home to our two story, Mediterranean style home and came in through the decorative wrought iron gate that led to the back yard. This was the home Judy and I called our dream home. We had it built just three years earlier thinking we would be staying in Las Cruces for many more years to come. Facing south and sitting on a hill, the living room had a high, majestic ceiling with large arched windows that looked out across the neighborhood. With little effort, a glance to the right afforded a view of the Rio Grande Valley to the west. It was a verdant green at this time of year with budding pecan trees, and acres of green chile fields. To the left was a view of the Organ Mountains.
Brandon headed off to get a drink of water and find a shady spot to rest and relive his morning adventure. He would spend the rest of his day snoozing and dreaming about catching one of those elusive rabbits and keeping watch over the house. I went back to the kitchen and poured another cup of coffee, peeled open a fruit and granola bar and turned on the small TV that sat by the breakfast bar. The morning news was on but not much was happening. I turned it to ESPN to check the baseball scores. The day had begun. So far, it had begun just like most other days.
Judy was just rising. After mixing some cream and sugar into her coffee and getting oriented to a new day, we talked briefly about our plans for the day. As the Administrator for the Head Start program for Las Cruces Public Schools, she told me she had a number of interviews to conduct that day but would be home at a regular hour. There were no other special plans or activities planned for that day for either of us. We would have dinner together that evening, joined by daughter Melissa and more than likely her fiancé Jerry.
I went upstairs and pressed the shirt I intended to wear that day. It was a peach colored shirt I had just ordered from the Lands End Catalogue. It went well with the Tabasco brand tie Judy had recently given me. A quick shower, another glimpse out the viewing balcony off our Master Bedroom, and I was ready to head over to the church.
I loved this house. In comparison to many, it was not huge. But its architecture, red tile roof, stately columns and dramatic windows were striking. It sat on a small rise at the corner of Cheyenne Street and Cloudcroft Circle. We often thought of it as a sentinel guarding the entrance to our cul de sac and the 40 or so homes that formed our immediate neighborhood. As I walked through the laundry room and out into the garage, I had no inkling that I might never have the chance to relax in the recliner, listen to jazz in our Family Room loft or sleep in our water bed again. Little did I know I might never again experience and enjoy that early morning reverie at the breakfast bar, or tend the rose garden we had planted on the East side of the house. I just assumed I would be back around dinner after another pretty ordinary day of ministry.
My 1994 Honda Passport made the seven mile jaunt down the hill and across the Rio Grande Valley to church like it was on auto pilot. Up Roadrunner Boulevard to US 70. Wait for just enough of a break in the steady stream of engineers headed out to the White Sands Missile Range. Ease across the Eastbound lanes and sneak into the turn lane, then gradually get over into the right hand lane and head West down the hill. Turn right at the Albertsons store and wind your way further west to Valley Drive. Be careful as you pass Mayfield High School as student drivers, pedestrians and cyclists would all be arriving at the same time. Turn north on Valley Drive for 2 blocks and turn into the expansive, half-paved parking area of Northminster Presbyterian Church. This was the daily route. I hardly had to think about it. Only rarely did I vary it.
Once at the church, I marveled yet again at its beauty. The original building sat on nearly 4 acres of what used to be farm land. Directly to the East, across Valley Drive or US Highway 85, there was a large field, normally planted in cotton; occasionally with one of the many varieties of green chile this valley had become noted for. From nearly anywhere on the property you could look East across that field and up to the Organ Mountains; Las Cruces’ most famous landmark. There was enough land on our property for a large ball field, a basketball court, and ample parking throughout the landscaped, lighted lot. There was also room for further expansion. Some of the property was still graveled and in need of tending.
In 1991 we had added a 250 seat sanctuary and a new office and C.E. wing. It was a dramatic building that sat diagonally across the property. With a sweeping roof line and a 35 foot high clerestory, its architecture was both modern and traditional at the same time. On the west side of the sanctuary was a series of windows looking out toward the Organ Mountains. The front arched window was 30 feet high and had just been replaced with a beautiful stained glass rendering of the Presbyterian Seal. Separating the sanctuary from the original building was a covered, pillared walkway and a beautifully landscaped courtyard.
Preschoolers were just beginning to arrive for a day at Montessori School. A line of station wagons and vans was forming as parents dropped off their children. The school, begun and run by a church member, occupied the Multi-purpose room that had once served as our worship space, Around back there was a fenced play area that provided shade from the hot sun and a welcome break from the rigors of pre-school studies. I greeted the Director with a wave and “good morning” as I parked my car and strolled under the stuccoed colonnade and across the inner courtyard to the main office door.
No one else was here yet. I would have the chance for some peaceful study time before the phone began ringing and people started dropping by. First order of business: check my Franklin Day Timer for any appointments. Oh yes, two men from a church in El Paso were coming at 4:00 to look at the bus we were trying to sell. Otherwise, there were no major meetings to lead or counseling sessions to perform. I could devote the better part of my day to the completion of my sermon for the coming Sunday.
Mother’s Day was coming in just three days. I had already bought a few presents for Judy but I made a note to myself to go out and buy a card and look for some other little gift. Her birthday had been just three days earlier and I had given one of her Mother’s Day gifts to her as a birthday present. I felt I needed to replace it and buy another for my wife of 25 years and the mother of our two beautiful daughters.
The Elders of our church had met just the week before to hear the news that I had accepted a call to Enumclaw, Washington and Calvary Presbyterian Church. Judy and I would be moving at the middle of June and I had to check on and confirm the scheduling of preachers who would supply the pulpit once I left. I guessed I should probably spend some time organizing my library and files to prepare for our impending move. Other than that, the schedule was free to work on what would be one of my last sermons. I was glad for a normal day.
Janet, the church secretary arrived around 9:00 with her usual chipper, upbeat demeanor. Today would be the day to finish the bulletin in preparation for Sunday’s services. There were always two bulletins; one for our 8:30 contemporary service, and another for our more traditional 11:00 service. Her day would be full. We always kept our fingers crossed that the copier wouldn’t go on the blink on Thursday. In spite of our prayers, it often did. Another normal day.
In addition to our preparations for a cross-country move, Judy and I were also excited about our daughter Melissa’s graduation with honors from New Mexico State University. Later that day, she was to turn in her final paper. At long last all her requirements for graduation would be met and she could walk with her class at the Pan American Center; NMSU’s basketball arena. Later in the summer, she was to be married to Jerry Parks, a boy she had dated for 3 years. After their marriage, they would be moving to Schaumburg, Illinois. We weren’t thrilled at the thought that we would be separated by so many miles but it was exciting to be thinking of an August wedding.
Our oldest daughter Kresta, was also engaged to be married. Ryan was a man she had met while working out on the Oregon Coast at the Cannon Beach Christian Conference Center. Their wedding was to be in October and would take place in Nampa, Idaho which was his hometown. Not knowing anyone there, Judy was busy trying to help plan a long distance wedding. I, like most men, was pretty much oblivious to those details.
How we were to pull off two weddings, organize our household for a move and leave jobs, friends and family all in such a short span of time was beyond me. Thankfully Judy and the girls were thinking more of the weddings. It was my task to prepare the church for the impending interim period until they could find another pastor. I had scheduled visiting preachers to begin in mid-June. I intended to preach until then. We were due in Enumclaw, Washington on the 1st of July.
It is too easy to get so comfortable with life that you take each day for granted. That was certainly true of this day. It is possible to not fully appreciate the people, the places, the relationships and the activities that are part of life because they become so ordinary, they become almost automatic. Though there were these special things looming in our future, this day was like any other day in most ways. I assumed it would go as planned and with no major disruptions. I took my life and my routines for granted.
I think I told Judy I loved her before I walked out the door, but I can’t remember for sure. I am pretty sure I gave thanks to God during my morning run for my family, my health and the many blessings God had bestowed on us in life. We weren’t rich, but after 25 years of marriage and ministry, we were now in a place of relative financial stability. We owned a beautiful home, each had dependable cars (if not fancy), and most importantly we had a wonderful family. Life was good.
Our house was often filled with people: friends of Melissa and Jerry, Young Life Leaders with whom we had established a strong bond because we organized and chaired the local Committee, members of our small group Bible Study, neighbors and church friends. Just the night before a young woman – Lyn McKinley – had been over. Together we had sat out on the patio and talked over Lyn’s plans to enter Seminary and prepare for ministry. We felt our house was a gift from God and so it was open to anyone. But, I am not entirely sure we recognized fully what blessings we enjoyed.
Life goes on. While committed to the principle of God’s sovereignty over every area of life, we had probably fallen into the trap that so many today do: assuming that we had control over our lives, our futures and our safety. One day was the same as another. It was just a matter of doing what had to be done with as much energy and creativity as possible.
I had often used some familiar Biblical passages to counsel others about not taking life for granted.
James 4:13 - 15 says, “Now listen you who say, ‘Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.’ Why you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead, you ought to say, ‘If it is the Lord’s will we will and do this or that.”
That is exactly how we were living though. We were making plans. We were anticipating the future. We were going through the motions of everyday life, taking it all as though we were somehow responsible for it. We gave lip service to the fact that God was in control. In reality, we probably tried to take too much credit.
It only takes a brief instant in time for all that normalcy to change. Something unexpectedly good might happen that catapults you back to the realization that God is the giver of every good and perfect gift. Sometimes, the thing that spurs a person back to reality is pain and suffering.
C.S. Lewis in his epic work The Problem of Pain states that “pain is God’s megaphone.” It is through the “gift of pain or suffering” that God brings a person back to a relationship with himself. No one would choose that for themselves. Nobody wants it. Yet, God uses those experiences in our lives to shake us free from the doldrums and apathy of independence and selfishness.
In his classic, collaborative work with Dr. Paul Brand, Where is God When it Hurts, Phillip Yancey marvels at the fact that pain is a gift from God. To illustrate the point, Dr. Brand, who had worked for many years dealing with leprosy in India, saw over and over again that those who did not experience pain, were more seriously in danger than those
who could experience pain.
Once again, my counsel to people as a pastor had been to welcome trials and hardships because God uses them to strengthen faith. To put it more glibly, an old adage suggests that “when life hands you lemons, you should make lemonade.”
In my normal, daily, routine life, it was always easy to tell others to practice those principles. I never expected that I would find myself in the dire straits of facing the trial of a life time; a trial that could change my life – our lives – forever. It might possibly even end that earthly life.
I was soon to discover that my advice would be seriously put to the test. My normal, taken-for-granted life was about to be shaken to the core. It would not be another ordinary day.
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