CRASH! The lid to the sugar dish exploded on contact with the floor, scattering shards of glass in every direction. Anger flashed briefly in my eyes but was quickly replaced by embarrassment. What was now debris had once been part of a beautiful set of China handed down for generations. Clumsily putting away our morning coffee, the blame was all mine for destroying an irreplaceable heirloom.
This ornately decorative item didn’t mean much to me, but was special to Kim. Flushed with shame, I mumbled an apology to her. This was just one more thing to add to the growing list of mistakes I have made lately.
Functioning with a wounded hand hasn’t been easy.
It has been one month since my injury. For those who did not read my last post, Injured!, while working in the garage with my table saw, my right thumb and index finger were cut by the powerful blade. My thumb suffered several deep tissue cuts and my right index finger was amputated at the end joint, shortening my finger by about an inch.
Still stitched and wrapped in a splint, my finger protrudes awkwardly and interrupts a lot of previously normal activities (like putting away a sugar dish). My thumb is bandaged and stiff, further impeding my ability to perform simple tasks.
Everything is healing, but it’s a frustrating, slow process.
For the first two to three days after the accident, the pain was severe and I stayed home generally surrendering to my situation. Unable to focus my thoughts to any real extent, I confined myself to my recliner and binge-watched episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation. Kim patiently attended to me, alerted me each time medine was due and performed all but my most basic tasks.
During that time, the outpouring of support from my friends and family was amazing. Texts poured in checking on me and telling me that I was in their prayers. Meals arrived routinely, and every request that I made for help was honored.
Over time the intensity of the discomfort has subsided, allowing me to resume an expanding list of activities. However, the pain has continued either unexpectedly searing while I sit still or when I bang my finger into something as I instinctively move through reflexive motions.
Worse than the physical pain are the agonizing, traumatic flashbacks. Like a gif file attached to a text message that loops every few seconds, my brain conjures recurring images of my injury. Each repetition causes me to cringe and try unsuccessfully to shake the visions out of my head as they ruthlessly repeat again and again. My brain brutally holds me captive while it resurrects a nightmare, trying desperately to process details to keep me safe in the future.
My thumb is the lesser injury, This week I removed the tape and gauze, thinking it had healed adequately to be exposed. One of the gashes across my thumbpad is angry-looking, purple scar tissue. The other gash is still covered with a long scab. In the spot with the deepest cut, the wound is still open. Immobilized for a month, my thumb joint has a very limited range of motion. Overall, it is ugly to look at and people automatically wince when they see it.
Hoping to be encouraged by removing the bandages and seeing progress, instead disappointment was my reward. It is worse than I had imagined it to be.
I try not to talk much about it to the people in my everyday circle. While my mind may be constantly attentive to the invisible spasms racing through my nervous system, their minds are occupied by more pleasant thoughts. Why would I want to drag them into my distress?
All of us suffer injuries during our life, whether physical, emotional or spiritual. The initial trauma passes in a few days, but the pain lingers for a long time. Healing comes excruciatingly slowly and continues long after the rest of the world has returned to their routine.
People tell me that they are praying for me, and I believe them. Most of them ask for rapid healing and some petition for miraculous restoration. They love me and hate to see me in pain. I am grateful.
Although I can now perform most tasks, the twinges are disruptive to my concentration. My thoughts can be heavy knowing that my hand will take a long time to stabilize and at some level will never be the same. I have prayed for supernatural intervention, but acknowledge that it may not come.
However, my greatest request isn’t for the pain to go away, At some level, I accept that it is part of this life. If I were suddenly immune to its effects, my connection to people in this broken world would be simulataneously shattered. That price for comfort would be too high. Pain is part of my bond to loved ones. Feeling its torturous effects makes me empathetic to others.
The truly frightening part of pain is loneliness. Overwhelmed by suffering, no one else can break through while we try to forcefully trap a monster inside a locked box. During that battle, we are alone.
When healing lasts for days, weeks, or even months the physical duress can be easier to endure than the emotional isolation.
During the past weeks, most of my prayers have been for God to comfort me. I crave reminders that I am loved, for Him to wrap me in His arms and give me His peace. While my body screams for relief, my soul cries out for sympathy.
God has overwhelmingly answered my prayers. Every day, many people reach out to me in different ways. They are inspired by the Spirit, and I am thankful for each effort, large or small. Whether they are aware or not, they are my Healers.
Kim has constantly been by my side. Erin held my hand during surgery. Mary Jo visited me in the hospital. Pam cleaned the house so we wouldn’t have to see the mess left behind. Columba brought dinner. Carra changed my bandage and monitored my progress. Both Steves checked in daily. James drove up from Austin to offer help. Hank did woodworking for me. Lana encouraged me to share my story. Countless others played a part.
Every text and call brought me comfort. Each simple act of assistance provided a reminder that I am loved. Patiently reading my thoughts in this blog and posting a response is an act of consideration.
If I ask you to focus on the word “healer” and tell me what you envision, most people would describe a doctor or nurse. Although I am enormously grateful to them for their skill, there is another powerful version of a healer that applies to most of you.
Thank you for each time you have acted in compassion. You are an extension of the Father, who is more powerful than a mere Creator. He is a Reconciler who restores broken people back to the original plan.
You hold the power to ease pain. Don’t believe that your gift is small or your capability limited. To this broken person, you were precisely the relief that was needed. You sat with me in the dust, reminding me that I am never alone.
Ironically, this mortal body continues to heal itself while our timeless souls can sustain lasting damage. While physical pain may lay claim to my body, I have prayed without ceasing to bring comfort to my ailing spirit. God heard my cries and responded with compassion. He sent you.
Too many people to name have given me a measure of healing these past four weeks. Hopefully, I can honor you by passing along the same gift to others. Please accept my heartfelt gratitude.
Although this post deals with a nasty injury, for the sake of squeamish readers, I promise to avoid graphic details.
My last post, “The Playful Pursuit of Passions” detailed my recent fascination with woodworking, but anyone who knows me well is aware that this isn’t a newfound interest. I have been planning and building projects for over thirty years. My garage is a warehouse of assorted saws, drills, sanders, and other noisy, whirring contraptions that spout sawdust like a volcano while they transform piles of wood into things of beauty.
One of the great joys of my life has been listening to Kim describe something she saw in a magazine or on TV and imagining how to bring her vision to life. I have impatiently stood by my workbench on countless Saturday mornings waiting for the clock to strike 9:00 a.m. so I could pull the trigger on one of my favorite noisemakers without fear of angry reprisal from a neighbor.
That is where this story found me on the Monday morning between this past Christmas and New Year’s Day. I was on vacation for the entire week and was anxious to immerse myself in my projects. When the clock struck 9:00, I flicked on my table saw to use in the same fashion I have done thousands of times in the past. This time was different though. Something went terribly, horribly wrong.
For those who are unaware, table saws are one of the most useful tools in a woodworking shop, but they are also the mpst dangerous. In the United States alone, they are resonsible for 30,000 emergency room visits and 4,000 amputations every year. They injure the novice and the expert alike, with the blink of an eye separating a normal use from a life-altering injury.
Trauma has blurred the specifics, but while performing a routine task, my right index finger and thumb contacted the saw blade while it was powered on, spinning at full speed.
Kim was working inside when I stepped through the door and said “Kim! Emergency! I need to go to the hospital.”
Over the next few hours, E.R. staff explained to me that my thumb had suffered a nasty tissue cut, but would heal normally in time. My index finger, however, was very different. The blade had damaged the finger so badly that it would be necessary to amputate about 1″ from the tip, just below the first joint.
Over the next hours, skilled doctors did their best to bandage my thumb and perform the requisite surgery on my finger. My first day of vacation ended at 8:00p.m. as I checked out of the hospital and Kim drove us to the Walmart pharmacy to fill my hydrocodone prescription (a strong opioid for pain relief).
Contrary to popular belief, severe lacerations don’t hurt immediately. The really bad pain takes hours to set in. As the numbing injections wore off that night, drug-induced sleep came in fitful spurts, interrupted by searing pain that was softened every few hours by another dosage. It was the third day before the pain subsided allowing me to form coherent thoughts and begin to venture beyond my bed and favorite chair.
Still mostly in shock and internal denial of my situation, I puttered about the house, busying myself with trivial tasks whose real purpose was to distract me from thinking about what had happened and what it would mean to my future. My priority was to avoid the cringes caused by the recurring, traumatic flashbacks of the fateful moment.
In those times, we realize how little control we exercise over the thoughts that erupt from our minds or the reflexive motions that try to move body parts that are damaged or missing. For the first days, I began the slow process of retraining myself to perform simple tasks that were no longer simple – brushing my teeth left-handed, buttoning my shirt, tying my shoes, and finding a comfortable sleeping position.
I expect to be learning tasks like that for several more months to come. Clumsily typing this blog post is a perfect example.
Two weeks have now passed and the doctor’s office just changed my initial bandages and took x-rays. For the first time, my eyes rested on a damaged thumb and a finger that will never be the same. It was hard to look at them, their damaged form almost uncomparable to the hand I have taken for granted my whole life.
I noticed that the original, white bandages were replaced with skin-colored ones. In a culture that associates health with happiness, it was relieving to camouflage my wounds slightly. I hoped that people wouldn’t notice and stare like they have the past two weeks.
In an instant, my Playful Pursuit of Passion became a devastating injury that will take months to heal and will never recover full function.
My brain knows that I am blessed that the damage was limited. Thousands of people each year are less fortunate. My mouth speaks light-heartedly and optimistically, trying to convince myself and everyone around me that it is all OK. But my soul is sorrowful.
My own carelessness brought me to this point. There is no one else to blame. Lulled into a false sense of security, I got too comfortable with the dangers that surrounded me. No matter how safe I am in the future, this cannot be undone. I am trying to achieve a balance of moving forward against the alarms going off in my head, alerting me to risks both real and imaginary. It is going to be a slow process.
Pain is passing and memories become cloudy in time. Lost innocence is not so easily regained.
I am very good at surviving through tragedy but not in dealing with loss. When violent, recurring memories of that fateful moment haunt my mind, I am tempted to slam my eyes tightly and shake my head until they disperse. The time will come when I need to face these nightmares, but I’m not ready yet. First my body needs to heal further, and when I am stronger, then I can battle my fears.
In the meantime, I pray for God to give me peace and to restore my broken body and spirit.
I wish that I could conclude this blog entry with a brightly colored text box containing a single-phrase Bible verse that is uplifting and encouraging. That would be a lie though. I am not ready for that yet.
All of us hurt sometimes. We have to admit it to ourselves and to others, not just pretend the pain isn’t real and ignore the thick, ugly scars forming around our souls. We must patiently endure a slow healing process that never comes fast enough to a society obsessed with instant gratification.
In the next coming days if you pass me in the hall and ask if I’m OK, then I will probably smile and tell you that I am getting better all the time. The hard truth is that I don’t have the words to capture my complex feelings or to distinguish the people who are genuinely interested from those merely saying hello. The reality is that I’m taking things a moment at a time.
I will continue to stand in faith that the God who gave me playful passions will restore my soul to enjoy them again. Through him, the glee will return. He will not allow my heart to grow cold while I hide from my fears. That will not be my story.
As I cope with the pain, clumsily re-learn to perform tasks that were easy as a child, and confront my new reality, I have thought about what I hope for. As injuries and age diminish a body that will not last forever, I put my hope in God to honor this request.
God grant me this wish – that I grow old with the heart of a young child.
After posting a blog entry on January 17 of last year, Making Waves went suddenly and unexpectedly silent. It was a very strange feeling since a hundred blog entries had poured out over the previous 2 1/2 years. Never knowing what the next subject might be, I had grown accustomed to a new topic being on my heart every week or so.
Then all of a sudden – nothing.
It wasn’t that I was too busy or de-motivated. Without warning, the flow of ideas stopped. Nothing came. Silence.
I longed to write and started a few failed endeavors but was grasping at something that simply wasn’t there.
Instead, a tugging at my heart led me to compile Your Loving Son, James for my dad. I gave myself over to the effort without knowing exactly what the finished product would be.
Lots of the time was spent in research. Hours were spent combing through internet sites looking for details of a 2nd Lieutenant’s all-too-brief military career. Even more time was spent reading hundreds of pages of letters written from a young man to his mother while he was going through pilot training. Finally, the actual writing took over as I decided how to tell his story to his son, my dad, who never knew him. It was hard work but more importantly, it was a ton of fun.
I tried desperately to get to know my grandfather, who was my children’s age at the time – while he enlisted in the Army during WW2, got married, had children, and was eventually deployed to the war in Europe. His letters were seldom somber or serious, mostly light news-of-the-day conversations with his mom. Convinced that I could get to know him through those correspondences, I tried to imagine what he was going through during each letter.
Emotionally, it was draining. He was full of hope for the future, love for his family, and ready to enjoy life. As he wrote those letters, he couldn’t have known what I did when I was reading them. His days in this world were growing short. He would never get the chance to realize his dreams. His life would soon be cut short in the skies above Germany. His family would mourn and never fully come to grips with the loss. His young sons would remain strangers, not learning their father’s story for over seventy years.
Compelled to finish the book, all of my free time was consumed telling a story that transcended generations of my family. I didn’t know what to expect when I was done, but felt drawn to the task. Every energy I had went into it.
Available on Amazon.com
After months, it was complete. Finishing a book is difficult. There is a gap between when you have put it out there and the time later when people have had a chance to read it. The wait to you see if your efforts hit the mark is difficult.
After handing my father his copy, I drove back home from Tennessee to Texas, wondering what was next. Several more failed arrempts at blog-writing followed, but I was trying to force something that needed to flow naturally.
No voice spoke to me about Making Waves, so it continued to sit silently on the shelf for several more months.
Soon, a woodworking project caught my attention. Still focused on a family theme, I built a cutting board from 50-year-old pieces of my dad’s workbench to present to my son. It was slow, tedious work, but eventually the board with the Roman numeral 3 (honoring my son James the 3rd) was completed.
In the process, I caught woodworking fever. For reasons I cannot explain, my brain buzzed constantly with ideas. I was drawn to spend all my waking hours in the garage running tools or on-line studying techniques. It was all I talked about.
Cutting boards, coasters, wine caddies, and more began piling up. Although joy poured out of me in my work, I wondered “Why this?”
I have always tried to trust the God who created my passions. When He stirs a fire in my soul, I try to fan the flames. He has always used the effort for His purpose, but this time I wondered how He would use this for His glory. This time, was I merely indulging myself?
Throughout First Fruits, Making Waves, and even Your Loving Son, I always had some vision of what God was using them for. This was different. How could he use a guy in his garage making sawdust to advance His kingdom?
Then calls started coming in. Many asked for boards with something other than traditional last names or a favorite phrase. “Can you make a cutting board with Galatians 2:20 engraved on it? How about Romans 8:39? Romans 8:28? Matthew 28? An adaptation of a verse from 2 Timothy? Do you have coasters with the Tree of Life on them?”
I was stunned. God wasn’t. He always had a plan for my faithfulness.
Many times, God doesn’t give us clear direction of something to do. Instead, he ignites a passion inside us, hoping that as we pursue the joy of our heart, we will find closer relationship Him.
The talents we are given come from Him. The passions of our heart do too. When we give ourselves over to them fully holding on by faith that He will use it for His glory, then amazing things happen. He continues to give me brief glimpses of how he is using me as part of his master plan, even if I never see the full picture.
Just a peek is enough to refresh my spirit. It reminds me that His plan isn’t something; it is someone. We are his plan.
His plan isn’t about the outcome of the work we do. After all He is better equipped to do that himself; he just wants us to enjoy ourselves with him while we fulfill the purposes He created us for.
We often view God as the Master Chess Player, carefully coordinating the movements of all the pieces on the playing board. However, I believe He is more of the Hopeful Romantic, longing to show us how much He loves us and inspiring us with ways that we can show our love.
Obedience is found in our gleeful romps through the day more than long-faced submission to His wlll. After all, God is love.
It is rewarding to see how God uses the things that we do, but much more rewarding to discover Him in the pursuit of our passions.
I don’t know what will come next, but that’s OK. I know who I am doing it for.
2021 is already fading into the mist of remembrance, conjuring the same mixed emotions as the years that preceded it.
As the highlight reel flickers in my mind, it resurrects memories of the events of the past 365 days. There are moments that I wished would last forever. Other experiences haunted my days.
The week between Christmas and New Year is contemplative at our house. While we prepare our 2022 Goals, we also make preparations for 2021’s funeral.
Which past events do we want to use as building blocks for the coming seasons?
Equally importantly, what parts of the past year need to be properly buried and left in the past?
While I carefully untangle my emotions and try to be objective in my assessments, my hands stay busy building the vessel that will carry away the unwanted items, burning brightly as our lists are consumed by the flames.
It’s boat building time!
Every year, James laughingly tells me that my boats get bigger each year. He is right, but bigger isn’t the goal, they need to be better. If this boat is a reflection of my life, hopefully it improves as I continue to grow as well.
The first year was a plank that we ignited with a match. Then came a floating box doused in lighter fluid that we lit with a crude torch. Eventually, a Viking longboat emerged. The next bier was ignited with flaming arrows (Nerf darts). Last year, shields heralding my ancestral Scottish roots hung next to the oars as I contemplated my role in the circle of life.
The arsenal is ready for the archers to select their “weapons”.
What will this year add?
The cedar boards are in the garage ready to be cut and sanded. Blueprints for construction have been printed and were ultimately discarded in favor of “winging it”. Lastly, the pièce de résistance has been formulating in my mind.
However, 2021 wasn’t done yet. It was holding another surprise. A hand injury will prevent me from constructing my vessel.
When someone needed to rise to the occasion, James jumped at the chance. Ready or not, I have handed down my title as Chief Ship Buiilder to him.
“Generations” has been a central theme for me this past year, and it seems to be gaining speed. An event that began as an effort to raise my daughter free of anger and guilt is being passed on to the younger generation to carry forward when I cannot.
With my obligations limited and time suddenly available, I sat down to build my list of things to leave behind. The first few came pretty quickly, then took longer to formulate. It was the basics – forgiveness of offenses, angers to release, striving instead of accepting God’s path, and bad habits to abandon.
Looking back over my list, it seemed all too familiar. Although the details were different, the same types of items had been included in previous years. Laying down my pen and paper, I stopped to think about how my current situation compared to previous years.
I am trying to grow as a Christ-follower, but if I am continuing to deal with the same issues, am I really moving forward?
If I am struggling with the same things each year, am I making progress in my personal journey?
King Solomon was the wisest man of his time. For all of his insight and knowledge, he mourned the repetitive cycle of life in the first chapter of Ecclesiastes.
3 What do people gain from all their labors at which they toil under the sun? 4 Generations come and generations go, but the earth remains forever. 5 The sun rises and the sun sets, and hurries back to where it rises. 6 The wind blows to the south and turns to the north; round and round it goes, ever returning on its course. 7 All streams flow into the sea, yet the sea is never full. To the place the streams come from, there they return again. 8 All things are wearisome, more than one can say.
For all of his legendary wisdom and riches, Solomon was no more able to break his chain of events than me. So maybe we were both looking at things in the wrong way,
My list of things to bury might look shockingly similar to previous years, but it doesn’t matter how far I’ve come. All that matters is how I deal with the moment I am in today.
Right here, right now, am I doing the best I can – the best to forgive, the best to release anger, the best to serve and love my heavenly father?
Just because things look familiar, it doesn’t mean I’m not moving forward. It is merely part of the cyclical nature of this life.
Solomon built extraordinary castles, a kingdom, and a temple even though he knew they would not last. He did it to thank God for what he had been given and to provide an example to the next generation to do the same thing.
So I will smile when the sun sets on New Year’s Eve and bury again the same things I have buried before. It’s OK.
This past year I spent a lot of time getting to know my grandfather, James William McAfee. The first several months of the year were spent studying letters he wrote, details of his military missions, and particulars of his short life. After publishing both volumes of Your Loving Son, James, I felt a bond with him that never existed before.
The year is ending with insight into my other grandfather, who was also named James William. He was my mother’s father. His last name was Lewis.
A couple years ago, my dad was preparing to move and had set aside a number of items that he did not plan to carry forward. As the siblings sorted though the piles, I selected several Bibles belonging to family that had passed into the next life. They were once held by James McAfee, my mom, and by James William Lewis, who went by JW or simply “Dub”.
These treasures represent the eternal word of God that has been passed down through my family. My eyes rest on the same pages that comforted my ancestors, reminding me of our continuing purpose in this world.
Most people think of their lost relatives in terms of the circumstances that surrounded them – the years they lived, the lands they called home, or the professions that provided sustenance. While these things are relevant to me, some things are much more important.
When their spirits departed this earth, it became much harder to determine what went on inside their minds – what achievements they were most proud of, the struggles that gripped them, or dreams that guided their lives. These passions and priorities do more than establish our heritage, they bind our hearts together. Family is identified by shared purpose more than genetic markers.
Although I knew my grandfather for many years, we were never close. During the typical holidays, I don’t recall special conversations, moments, or interests that we shared. Separated across several states and half a century of age, we were never able to bridge that chasm and develop a tight bond. Educated about the details of his life, I never got the chance to embrace our connection.
This week, I got an early gift. It was a stray glimpse not only into JW’s mind, but into my mom’s too.
Picture 1992. Left to right: Jim McAfee, me, Kelly Savage, JW Lewis, Preston McAfee, Jan Lewis McAfee
In December 1987 while I was off at college, my mom bought a Bible for her dad. Bibles are a pretty common gift except to my knowledge JW had never been a very spiritual person. He undoubtedly already had various Bible’s laying around the house, many of which would have belonged to his wife before she passed away.
Mom would have chosen this New International Version because it was a modern, easy-to-read format. By now, JW was 72 years old and highly unlikely to begin reading a Bible that he had predominantly ignored for many decades. Busy with his routine, he wasn’t seeking more than a quiet life in retirement.
Mom knew this, but in her heart she hoped that somehow a Christmas miracle would light a spark in the heart of this gruff, aging man. She wished to give him time with the same Jesus whose grace guided her life.
Although she knew her father might simply ignore her gift, she selected something with the power to change destinies.
I don’t recall traveling to Louisiana that year so most probably Mom wrapped her gift and mailed it to her dad. She would have called him later to ensure it arrived and received a polite “Thank you” before he turned the conversation back to his garden or other events of the day. After she finished the call, she probably never heard more about her present.
But there was more to the story. Thirty-four years later, I found out what happened after he hung up the phone.
Against all odds, JW picked up his pen and reading glasses from the table next to his well-worn recliner. Whether or not he had ever considered it before, he was inspired to read that Bible. All of it. Starting right then.
As I thumbed through the pages, for the first time I recognized the shorthand notes that were made on occasional pages. What had seemed like random notations were his way of tracking his progress.
As days stretched into weeks and then months, he followed no formal plan. He finished as much as he was motivated to read each day. When he was done reading, he wrote the month/day at the spot then faithfully returned the next day (March 22nd in the picture above). For ninety straight days he absorbed the inspired word before smiling as he completed the final page.
Reaching over to his side table, he picked up the same pen he had used on Christmas Day to mark his commitment. With satisfaction he noted his completion.
Never considering why I was motivated to do so, I had recently chosen JW’s old Bible for my daily devotionals. After reading the New Testament letters, I moved on to Revelation.
Over the past week, that is how I happened upon the same last page that he had finished decades earlier. I had never noticed his notations on the first and final pages.
His writing is surprisingly formal. Signed with his legal signature on a page he never expected anyone else to see, this marked a contract between him and his Father.
JW was a voracious reader. Paperback novels were piled around his home, cast aside as soon as they were finished providing him a brief period of entertainment. This was different. He was proud of this accomplishment, which you can almost feel in his note -“the entire Bible”.
It is impossible to know if JW ever called my mom to tell her that he appreciated her gift in ways he could not explain. Somehow she understood the importance when retrieving this particular Bible upon his death years later and carefully storing for me to rediscover in days still to come.
JW’s simple, handwritten phrase did more to strengthen my connection to him than all the holidays as a child. Holding the same sheet of paper as he once held, I can feel the satisfaction that burned inside him. There is a part of us that is the same. I know that now.
God blessed mom’s Christmas wish by giving her not only what she asked for, but much more. He extended her blessing to grant me time with my grandfather and to understand that I am part of a powerful dynasty of Christians. We are a family of beloved sons and daughters of the King.
We never know what fire we may ignite with a simple spark, especially at Christmas. Each year, God softens hearts in the season he released his son into the world to reconcile all of mankind to himself. These are His special days.
It may be through a gift, song, or touch, but my Christmas wish this year is to release part of the flame that burns brightly inside my heart. Hopefully decades later, people will still see the impact of my simple actions that point back to a powerful and loving God.
Last week, Kim was fortunate enough to be included in the early rollout of COVID vaccinations. She got the first of two injections on a Friday and although her arm was a bit sore the next day, she had no real side effects. In theory, that got her immunity up to 50%.
The next day she and James drove to Big Bend National Park to hike and enjoy the beautiful scenery. It was a short trip that they very much enjoyed. They took a few pictures of each other standing in front of breathtaking backdrops but didn’t bring back much else…except a double case of COVID.
By Tuesday, Kim had symptoms that she chalked up to a bad cold – coughing, headache, body aches. She stayed home but generally continued her regular routine, although at a reduced capacity.
On Thursday, James drove back from our house back to Austin for spring semester. By the time he arrived, he felt bad and took his temperature only to discover a 101° fever. The next morning, he headed to Student Health to get his rapid test. Bad news. He tested positive.
He was predictably disappointed with the outcome and got back into his car to go to his apartment and consider his next steps. On the short drive, a car pulled out directly in front of him and with no time to respond, he hit it broadside. Thankfully, no one was injured except for the cars involved. He was able to drive back to his apartment, but the puddle of fluid under the radiator made it clear that it wasn’t going anywhere until it was repaired.
Kim received his call and scheduled herself and me for our rapid tests. After getting our brains tickled with the swab, our results came back. Hers was positive, my initial test result was negative.
By evening, she felt really bad and climbed into bed at 4 pm. I texted a few of her friends whose numbers were on my phone and left it to them to pass along the news. I also alerted our extended families, my boss, and a few friends that James and Kim were confirmed positive, had mild-to-moderate symptoms, and that all of us would be in quarantine for the coming days.
On Saturday, I got up early and made the eight-hour round trip to Austin to bring James back to our house. In his small apartment with a roommate and a dog, there was no way for him to isolate effectively without exposing his roommate or others. Although he had been relieved to go back to school only forty-eight hours earlier, his destiny was to return to mom and dad’s house for a while.
When I got back, the lab messaged me that they had conducted a secondary test that is more accurate, and my result was also positive. Although my symptoms are mild, the count at our COVID Camp had climbed to three.
A lot changes in a few days.
Only a week ago, my blog post (click to read The Flood) contemplated what the world would be like when the pandemic was over. I have been preparing my thoughts for my follow-up post, which I planned to title “The Abundant Life”. If the world were to become very different, I would need to determine a new set of dreams.
I am suddenly faced with counting out three separate mountains of pills each day, focusing on taking care of Kim, and learning to survive in a bubble. My considerations of a new tomorrow were very premature. For a time, my job is to take the best care possible of my family and avoid spreading this infection to a world already full of is already full of it.
It’s not exactly the abundant life I had imagined.
I sat down and prepared to settle into a COVID Sucks Pity Party. We were short on groceries. I would have to work from home for two weeks (not a fan, by the way). What I had hoped was almost over seemed to just be getting started.
The Abundant Life? Are you kidding me? An abundance of problems maybe, but not the blessings I’d hoped for.
Then my phone buzzed. I ignored it. A few seconds later, it buzzed again, then again. Then the phone rang. It didn’t stop for the next hour two hours.
One after another, someone was calling to check on me and the family. Before it was over, we had several specific offers to help – Donna brought her best-in-the-world mac and cheese, Bob recommended shows to binge-watch on Netflix, Steve dropped N95 masks in the mailbox, Mary Jo and Wendy delivered cookies, Columba sent comfort verses, Carra supplied input on vitamins to take, Erin picked up my prescriptions, and two different Pams scheduled dinner deliveries for the week.
Other people have called with general offers to help in any way they could – Hank, Kelly, my boss, my dad, and others. These offers weren’t hollow, meaningless gestures. They really mean it. I know for a truth that I could ask anything of any of them and it would be on my doorstep within moments.
It is overwhelming. I love every one of these people so much.
My immediate needs have been met. I am assured that everything else will be provided when it is needed.
These gestures are extraordinarily generous, but they are merely reflections of the extravagant God who orchestrates it all. On days that are full of darkness, his presence shines brightly in a way I never notice when everything is sunny.
I am re-thinking my definition of The Abundant Life. It isn’t an existence free of stress, troubles, injury, and pain. It is a life full of peace, love, and joy. One describes the circumstances that surround me. The other is the condition of my heart in the midst of those circumstances.
I love days that are full of promotion, victory, miracles, and rainbows. The beauty of God’s creation fills my eyes. His divine favor rests on my shoulders. His goodness is on display for everyone who will see.
I also love the days when storm clouds gather and the world warns of imminent disaster. When aches and pain run through my body and tears fill my eyes, God stops what he is doing to comfort me. He sends friends to stand by my side. He reminds me that I will have trouble in this world, but that he has overcome it. He soothes my soul.
An abundant life has days that are easy and days that are hard. It also has many uneventful ones when nothing exciting happens. It is not about the events that fill your days. An abundant life is one that is filled with faith, hope, and love.
Maybe it is too early to see what lies ahead when the pandemic’s floodwaters recede. However, in the days of trial that precede the next season, I am reminded that joy is born out of love that is shared.
It is exactly the right time to cherish the special people in my life – the ones who need my help, the ones who are offering their help to me, and the One who holds us all together. My life is blessed to be full of them.
