My younger brother, Preston, and I spent our wonder years in Nashville’s northern suburbs. Madison was a typical mid-sized, Southern town with a heavy blue-collar influence. It was a great place to grow up.
Summers were different in those days. Vacations from school had fewer organized events than they do today. We spent most of our day unsupervised, playing outside in the yard until 3:30 when it got really hot and we retreated inside to watch black-and-white reruns of the Six Million Dollar Man and Gilligan’s Island until dinner, which came early at our house.
Like most of the homes on our street, our lot was a rambling acre and a half. Since none of the neighbors had fences, the space seemed even bigger, especially in the eyes of a child. Our empire was divided into three territories. The first was the front yard, which was the most visible from the street, but was too hilly for most things and generally sat empty.
The second was the area beside and immediately behind the house where we spent most of our time. It offered the best, flat spots to play in our hilly yard.The garage was nearby and offered relief when the sun was too hot.
The third area included everything from the creek to the edge of the Great Woods (or so they seemed in the day). We didn’t play back there much. It was basically a pasture area with tall grass and uneven footing. Most of the time, it sat quietly empty.
That secluded territory was ruled by the Hedge Apple Tree. It was the reason for the tall grass as well as the absence of inflatable balls, bare feet, or traditional entertainment. The Tree determined how things were done in its quiet corner of the kingdom.
Depending on where you grow up, the tree has different names – Hedge Apple, Bodark, Osage Orange, or Horse Apple. They all refer to the same tree which is most recognized for the weird, green fruit it produces. Most of us have seen the “apples” laying on the ground somewhere. As small as a golf ball or larger than a softball, they have a bumpy texture that resembles a human brain with a milk-colored, sticky pitch inside that is hard to wash off your hands.
The part of the yard we referred to as “across the creek” was frequently used as a bowling alley. From a young age, Preston and I would attempt to roll the sticky green “apples” from their resting place under the Tree into the creek about a hundred feet away. As small children, it seemed an impossible achievement, but we dreamt of a day when we would be strong enough to bounce one clear across the creek.
Every summer we could roll them a little further than the previous year, and we measured our progress much like a parent would mark a kid’s height on a door jamb.
The Hedge Apple Tree demanded a special lawnmower for its part of the yard. The inflatable tires on the riding mower were no match for its thorns. Dad firmly told us never to use the big mower back there, but he must have suspected that we did when he found all of its tires were flat.
Occasionally, we would have to trim the Tree’s drooping branches. They hung low to the ground and the sharp thorns would snare anything that brushed by. As we dragged the cut branches back to the rubbish pile, we would wince each time our carelessness allowed a thorn to tear across our hands, arms or legs, reminding us to respect the Tree and its rule over an untamed province.
One day, Dad decided that the time had come to cut down the Hedge Apple Tree. I don’t know why. After he dropped it, we drug off the branches leaving the exposed stump. One uneventful day, Preston and I pretended we were lumberjacks, retrieving the small, C-shaped tree saw from the garage and setting to work shortening the stump by a few inches.
The saw was just big enough for each of us to grab one end so we took turns pushing and pulling while sawdust flew out of the crack. However, the famously hard wood quickly tired us and the sawdust stream slowed to a trickle. Before long, our arms gave out completely. After multiple attempts, we gave up and moved on to other amusement. Even in death, the Hedge Apple Tree was defiant. “One day” we thought ” we will be strong enough to cut that stump.”
When the Tree was gone, it seemed like a good riddance. No more thorns, no sticky apples. No reasonable person would plant a hedge apple tree in their yard. As properties gradually converted from pastures into park-like lawns, the lowly hedge apple tree was forced to surrender its place to the new order.
With the fall of each hedge apple tree, the world became a more controlled and cultured place. My lawn’s garden beds may now be colorful and balanced, but part of me longs for the unruly conditions “across the creek”. These may be safer times, but I miss the days of kids running wild for hours exploring the world that God gave us and testing the limits of their imaginations.
The change for Preston and I was inevitable. Every summer we grew a little bit taller and explored further beyond our familial borders. We gradually abandoned the Lost Boys of Neverland in favor of building the lives we had been dreaming about.
For Preston’s birthday this year, I wanted to build something reminiscent of good times we have shared. That is when I remembered the old Hedge Apple Tree. It represents an untroubled time in our lives when the two of us were inseparable. As its reign ended, our lives sometimes moved in different directions. However, we have stayed close through it all. Decades later, we are able to see life through a special lens that only we share.
There will always be a part of us that is still standing together on a lazy, hot summer day “across the creek” bowling apples and laughing at the erratic, bouncing paths they take or cheering when they occasionally exploded into pieces. Then and now, we are content to share seemingly insignificant moments that serve as stepping stones into our future days.
Excited by the chance to build something that heralded back to yesteryear, I decided to build a cutting board from the same type of wood we have remembered so often. It took days to find a lumber mill crazy enough to convert the rock-hard hedge apple logs into dimensioned boards, but I finally found one. After days of work, I’m going to need a new saw blade and more sandpaper, but all of the sweat and persistence paid off.
Hopefully it will serve you well, Preston, for years to come. If it ever needs to be sanded down and re-surfaced, then just let me know. You will have to sharpen your own knives though, because I expect it will hold up defiantly through any use that you put it through.
Two years have passed since the prayer garden at the Salvation Army in Lewisville was completed. If you don’t know the story of its creation, there are several earlier posts you can read. I remember looking over it with pride, every detail finished.
There were interviews that gave me the chance to explain to people that the location was special. It is the gateway to the downtown area which now offered a meeting place with God. To the throngs of people who pass through every day, it is a quiet invitation to spend time with the Father.
If you were to drive up or walk by, a nine-foot, lighted cross is the first thing to capture your attention before the beautiful flowers and colorful shrubs draw you in. Benches are scattered about as an invitation to come and sit for a spell. But my favorite piece has always been the large rock at the foot of the cross. Water flows from the top, out of a lighted ring that makes it look like an unquenchable fire as it pours out of the stone and into the ground, never running dry.
This water feature was paintstakingly constructed with its own water reservoir and electric source. It is automatically filled and given a rest for a couple hours each night around 2am while the city sleeps.
However, I’ve never told anyone the real reason that it was built to run fully automatically and totally attention-free.
My passion is building but my attention span is short which encourages me to flit from project to project, creating beautiful things but moving on as quickly as possible. While I was building the garden, God kept asking me if I would watch over it, keeping it ready for him to meet with people.
In truth, I had no interest in checking on it every week to see if it was in proper order and the plants were healthy. I was relieved when some of the people who were served by the Salvation Army eventually adopted it. Johnny in particular has watered it nearly every day to guarantee it stays beautiful. Fortunately, other people also pitched in for replanting and seasonal upkeep.
But the voice never went away, asking if I would watch over it. I knew that no one would expect me to be the constant caretaker, so I didn’t tell anyone about the recurring voice. Instead I did my best to build it to be so durable that it would never require my attention. Dusk-to-dawn sensors turned lights on and off. Self-metering pumps watered plants and kept the fountain’s reservoir full. Timers gave the mechanics a rest each day.
Content that I would never have to answer the voice’s question, I moved on to the next thing that consumed my focus. However, the question continued to echo across the coming days, weeks, and months – for two years.
Over the past couple weeks, it grew so loud that it could no longer be ignored. So I waited until I was totally alone and traveled almost in secret to check on the sacred spot, hoping to prove the concerns were all in my imagination.
That is how this past Saturday morning found me seated in the prayer garden choking back tears. The rock that used to impossibly gurgle living water had stopped flowing. There was no way to tell how long it had sat in disrepair. It was now merely a lifeless slab of stone at the foot of a cross that seemed better suited to cover a tomb than to serve as a reminder of a risen savior.
The open invitation to share time with a living Father had become little more than a somber memorial to a great sacrifice.
It was my fault. I knew that until He released me, that the responsibility to maintain this space was mine. But each time the quiet voice reminded me, I treated it like a salesman knocking on the front door.
I had abandoned my post, and the garden had lost its spark. Now the space sat empty.
It was still long before shops opened, so there were no cars buzzing by and no one walking the sidewalks. Sitting on my favorite bench gave me time to consider the events of the past two weeks, starting with a friend giving me a book (God’s Favorite House by Tommy Tenney).
I wasn’t looking for something to read. I had more jobs lined up than could be counted. I threw it onto the kitchen counter and promptly ignored the tugging to see what was inside. Eventually I felt guilty seeing it stare at me each time I passed, so I threw it into my work backpack where it wouldn’t bother me. But it still called out.
On my flight home from a business trip, the airplane’s wi-fi failed, my phone wouldn’t work, and I was faced with three hours of watching at the seatback in front of me. So I reached in my bag and pulled out the book.
Every page seemed to remind me of the garden and God’s question, “Will you take care of it?” The author explained that I did not understand the importance of the job that I had abandoned. Scriptural markers cautioned me, but I hadn’t wanted to listen. If I had, here is what they would have said.
* Jesus stands at the door and knocks (Rev 3:20). He doesn’t force his way into our lives.
* If we don’t prioritize opening the door for him, then he will move on (Song of Songs 5).
David understood this when he said that he would prefer the seemingly low job of watching the door for God to come through than to enjoy all the riches of this earth.
That is how this hot Saturday morning found me back in the prayer garden. God had given me the chance to open the door for him, but I had lost interest. For minutes that seemed to stretch into eternity, I prayed for forgiveness. I prayed that he would not abandon this place, turning it from sacred into common. I asked for another chance.
The next few hours were spent diagnosing the problem with the water pump and lights before going to Home Depot to find new electrical fittings, researching online for replacement parts, and carefully fitting things together again.
So I sat on my knees at the foot of the cross, my hands busy as I invited his spirit to flow again. I finished putting all of the broken pieces back together. Then with great anticipation, I grasped the plug and pushed it into the outlet, praying that that it would come back to life.
As if in answer to my pleading, the instant the power surged then the water first coughed, then gurgled and began flowing smoothly.
A voice behind me suddently pulled me from my thoughts.
“I wondered how long it would be before you came back.”
Turning around, I noticed an older man with gray hair and a long flowing beard sitting on one of the benches. He said that the fountain had stopped working a couple weeks ago (at the same time my friend gave me the book). He had wondered if anyone would come to fix it or not.
The next half hour was spent chatting with the stranger. He told me about the weather. He wondered where a memorial stone for a fallen friend had disappeared to. He exhaustively reflected on a camp in Minnesota he had visited as a child.
This time I sat patiently, like a doorkeeper should.
The water was flowing again.
I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness. Psalm 84:10
I’ve been watching a story lately. It is a modern take on an age-old tale. It is about a brother and sister who are young adults born into a special purpose. However while they are seeking their destinies, everyone they encounter seems to have their own plans for their future.
All sorts of media – internet, television, movies, etc seem to conspire to guide them along a path that shares a system of beliefs. It is a doctrine of success that is based on comfort – eliminating all unpleasantness from their lives. Of course each voice has something to sell, guaranteed to be “just the thing” they need. Amazingly, none of these talking heads need to know anything about them in order to determine that they have the right answer for them. The obvious nonsense is easy to filter out, but the subtleties are harder to notice and influence them without their being aware.
It’s OK, who really looks to media for answers, right?
Their expanded family presents a different picture. Each relative knows them well and has an image of the path they should follow. However they wonder if these paths will lead to the destinies that call them, or hearken to to the teller’s desires. The brother and sister feel that when they reveal parts of themselves, the family uses it as a transition to steer them back to the prescribed pathway. Are they advising the best path for them, or are they pushing into something they want for themselves?
They love these people, but in ways feel very alone as they try to find their unique purpose.
Work gives them a chance to learn their strengths and begin to catch a glimpse of what lies ahead of them. However, answers again precede questions as their bosses expain to them how to achieve success. Their messaging is clearly tainted by a focus on delivering profitabilty to the organization. Success is promised if their contributions align with the company’s goals but they are cautioned against asking coworkers specific questions about how they are compensated for their contributions.
How can they trust answers that discourage questions? Again, they feel alone in their pursuit.
The church is featured occasionally. They sit through services where the communication is all one-way. While questions erupt from their hearts, screens tell them the specifc words to sing before the speaker talks at length without ever listening to the people in the room. Again, they are told what they should believe and they try to filter what someone else tells them, trying to determine whether they believe what they are hearing. But their questions can’t rise above the constant voices.
It is a world that features answers in abundance without time to wait for questions.
However, this story is not playing out on a screen, in print, or across a stage. The story I am watching is my kids growing up.
Sometimes it is hard to admit that I am one of the voices that won’t shut up long enough to let them finish a thought. Only after a botched conversation do I realize that instead of helping them to search for answers to their questions, I have been one more person shouting solutions.
I forget that growing up is more about the search for wisdom than it is achieving it. Even worse, my words ring hollow when I tell them what they should do to better themselves while I relax, comfortable in my situation.
Jesus took a different approach. After watching us fall from grace, he watched as The Father gave us answers written on stone tablets and carefully detailed through Moses. He described how to know the heart of God and deal with life’s situations. However these clear instructions weren’t enough to prevent them from drifting further from his presence. The works of scripture expanded and grew, but this increase didn’t fill the void in their hearts.
And when The Word was not enough to save us, he became flesh and lived among us.
Jesus is beautiful and unique because he recognized that telling us wasn’t enough. He had to live as an example.
When we didn’t know how to honor our fathers and mothers, Jesus became a child and modeled it for us. When we weren’t sure how to balance work and pleasure, he got a job as a carpenter. When we didn’t hear answers to our prayers, he prayed with us. When we couldn’t determine what was fair, he sacrificed himself.
I bet there were days when Jesus wanted to lose his patience and shout out answers for the world to hear. But for thirty years God told him to practice first, to show us instead of telling us.
During his life, he endured every trial that faces us today. If he hadn’t, then his sacrifice would be inadequate to redeem us. In the end, it will be his life, not his words, that guide us to salvation.
So maybe all of us should just turn down the volume on all of the answers we are giving.
As a parent, it is hard for me to follow Jesus’ example. When I want my kids to respect me, I have to stop talking at them and instead treasure my own dad. When I want to tell them to trust me and take chances, I need to let them see me take risks first.
In truth, I can’t imagine what it is like to be either of my kids today. But that’s OK, they didn’t ask me to be them. All they need is for me to try to become the person I tell them to be.
That is a lot.
The more I try to let my life be a sermon without words, the more patient I am learning to be in listening to them. They are right. This stuff is hard.
In a world overflowing with answers, it is time for the word to become flesh. May I leave behind all of the comforts of my heaven – the pleasant life of habit that I have settled into over the decades. May I find the courage to abandon my palace in search of a continuing life of serving, of forgiving people before they ask, of worshipping God with great passion, and of taking giant leaps of faith toward a God of mystery.
My life of testimony is valuable while it highlights a pursuit of wisdom. It is distant and disconnected when it becomes comfortably stagnant. Why should they believe me when I tell them that life has amazing things in store for them unless my own life points toward a reckless pursuit of an expanding eternity, instead of finding a comfortable stopping-off place?
All of my actions must speak louder than any of my words.
I am trying to help them love their family by reaching out to relatives that have, for whatever reason, drifted away. May they admire my courage in taking chances more than they admire any talent I demonstrate.
I am trying to recognize their God-given gifts and submit to them in those areas where they are greater than I will ever be.
I am trying to serve them in ways that respect their need to find their own paths, not looking for angles to push them along my dreams for them.
In all of these ways, the word becomes flesh and dwells among us. That is the light that drives out darkness.
May that provide a light unto their path while their great destinies become revealed.
During a slow time this past Saturday, Kim and I dropped by the Walmart Superstore. It was my idea. I had shopping to do.
First, I rushed to the cereal aisle and bought a Family Size box of chocolate Lucky Charms. Thinking better of it, I got two. On the way across the store, we saw shamrock-shaped sugar cookies encrusted with green sprinkles. Into the cart with them also. Next stop was the promotional display where I found a packet of temporary tattoos – pots of gold, leprechauns, the works. Kim selected a gift bag with gold flecks and some green tissue paper to dress it up.
We were on our way to Erin’s house to deliver her gifts.
You might not be surprised that a guy named McAfee who named his daughter Erin (an old name for Ireland) would be a fan of St Patrick’s Day. You’d be right, but probably not for the reasons you think.
St. Patrick’s Day is a rare treat for people of faith. While the world is celebrating with green beer, dressed in green, and pretending to be Celtic for a day, they are suddenly open to hearing the real story of St. Patrick.
If you don’t know it, then you are in for a treat bigger than Erin’s cookies.
Patrick was born in Briton during the closing days of the Roman empire. He was the wealthy son of a senator and tax collector who enjoyed a life of luxury in an expansive villa. He probably overheard conversations his father had about the crumbling condition of empire and the sorry state of affairs in Rome, but he was too busy being a child to care. What difference could such things matter to him?
He had time to spend with his grandfather, Pontius, who was a member of the church clergy. Pontius taught the boy about scripture and the nature of God, but Patrick wasn’t interested in such things. He had more important things to occupy his time. What difference could such things matter to him?
He learned how wrong he was on both matters on the same day. With the Roman army busy defending Rome, no one was left to guard the coast from marauding Irish pirates. When they invaded his villa, overthrowing any minimal resistance, they took everything of value and then grabbed him and drug him back to their ship. Alone in the world, he cried out to a God he was previously disinterested in, but no one came to save him.
Days later he was sold as a slave Ireland. His “owner” attached an iron band around his neck to mark him as a slave. The law of the land was clear on this matter. If Patrick removed the band, he was punishable by death. Anyone who assisted him with the removal would share his punishment. The carefree, wealthy teenager had become the lowest form of person. He was property.
His job became tending to the animals. Poorly dressed and fed, he suffered miserably on cold nights in distant pastures with the animals. With no one to talk to, he reached out to the only one who was always there. God.
For six long years as he endured his fate, he became changed. The spoiled child was replaced by a humbled man. The disinterested believer found God during his time alone. What had been intended for evil became a force of grace in his life.
One day, the Lord spoke to him. He told him that his time as a slave was ending. Emboldened by the revelation, Patrick escaped. He travelled stealthily to a coast two hundred miles away, ever vigilant to anyone he encountered. Would they drag him back to his owner, or risk their own lives to help him remove the cursed iron band around his neck?
Eventually he encountered a ship’s captain who agreed to remove his band, likely in exchange for more forced labor, and his escape was complete. He made his way back to his ancestral home only to find that he no longer belonged there. Any connection to that place had vanished when he did.
With nowhere else to turn, he found a church and began to study the God he met in the pastures of Ireland. The work ethic he had gained served him well and he threw himself into his studies. No longer a slave shepherd with animals, he became a priest that lacked a flock.
Then God spoke to him a second time, calling him back to Ireland.
I can imagine his reaction made Jonah seem timid. They were unbelievers who had enslaved him. There were no Christians on the entire island. Worse, he was marked for death upon his return as an escaped slave.
God persisted.
Patrick relented and boarded a ship back to Ireland. Once there, he searched out his former owner and threw himself upon his mercy. To his relief, he was fully pardoned.
Thus began his efforts to convert druids and Celts of all types to Christianity. His patience in explaining the ways of the Kingdom became the stuff of legends. When he travelled to a new place, he would shove his walking stick into the ground and leave it there until he finished his teaching. He spent so much time in one locale that his stick was said to have sprouted roots and begun growing into a tree.
Whether this miracle occured or not is less important than the tenacity it represents. Patrick was determined to share his faith.
As believers multuplied, the church took hold and grew. Patrick became regarded as the Bishop of Ireland. It was a golden time of expansion of God’s kingdom.
Then rumors began to circulate that Patrick was taking gifts from wealthy patrons to make himself wealthy again. He viciously denied these reports but they would not go away.
To defend hmself, Patrick wrote a book titled “The Confessio” that contains most of what we now know of his life. Once again, attacks that were meant to hurt him were used for good by a loving Father.
The people of Ireland may love St. Patrick because he brought them Christianity. I love him because his story speaks to us today – risking everything to follow God’s voice, plans for harm used for good by His hand, and a tenacious life of purpose that expands God’s kingdom.
We all need some Patrck in our lives.
On every St. Patrick’s Day, I hope you start off with Lucky Charms and wear green from head to toe. If someone offers to share a green beer with you, then take them up on it. Somewhere during all of it, you can ask them the same question I have posed so many times.
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.
