It's the Thought that Counts...Right?

   I am really not high-maintenance.   In fact, my husband says I am “Low to No Maintenance.”  But…I do like gifts.  After almost 29 years of marriage, I admit it.  Mind you, I’m not too particular about what it is; there is just something about unwrapping a gift that I enjoy. I think it is the anticipation of what lies beneath.  Throughout our marriage I have loved everything he’s given me…well almost…except for that one Christmas…

  Before the boys were old enough for school, I would pack them up and head to my parents when John was out of town on business.  Part of the time, I was working, and so I would drive back and forth to my parents in my Pontiac Parisian station wagon, complete with simulated wood panels.   One particular day, I was driving back after work, before the advent of cell phones, and ended up broken down on the side of the highway – in the middle of nowhere- well, not exactly nowhere…I was about 200 yards from a bar.  Actually, that’s a little too dressy a term for the establishment.  It was an all-out Honky Tonk/Beer Joint. 

  Here I am, walking along the side of the highway, stethoscope still slung across my shoulders, scared to death some of my church family was going to drive by (even though I was an hour away from home) just as I made it to the front door of the bar.  Not to mention, I was completely intimidated by what I would find on the other side of that door. Thankfully, as God always does, He rescued me…again.  As I was getting out of my car, a man from my parents’ church saw me, recognized me, and came to help me. 

   John said that incident was fresh on his mind that year as he shopped for my Christmas present.  I, on the other hand, had no trouble with his gift.  I bought him a bright red four wheeler.  This was going to be a Christmas to remember. 

  Did I mention that I am really not particular?  Well, maybe somewhat.  Anticipation had almost gotten the best of me as I exercised some modicum of maturity.  Unwrapping slowly and savoring the surprise, as long as possible, I removed the paper, took one look at the box and realized that sneaky devil had wrapped my gift in a box that came from ‘who-knows-where’.  He was always up for a good prank.  With a knowing giggle, I opened the end of the box and looked inside.  That’s when I choked on my giggle.  What was on the front of that box from ‘who-knows-where’ was my surprise. 

  That’s right!  My man bought me a CB radio.  You know, Smokey and the Bandit CB radio – eastbound and down, loaded up and truckin’… CB radio.  A thousand things went through my mind at that moment, none good.  Somewhere in the fog I heard him say, “Now you never have to worry about being broken down on the side of the road…” (Oh, and there was a loving smile on his sweet face.)   I barely heard as I was hurdled into the future on some lonely dark highway, grabbing for the mike with the confidence of a big burly man and interrupting the airwaves with “Uh…hello? Anyone out there?  I’m stuck on this lonely highway?  Can anyone help a stranded 24 year old woman?” 

   Needless to say, the ride to family Christmas celebrations was pretty quiet.  As I look back, I can see myself shoved up in the corner of the passenger seat of my sassy station wagon.  My wonderful husband brought the radio to “try out” along the way.  With the turn of the switch we got the scratch of white noise. Much like this…”SSSSSSSSSCCCCCCCCCCCZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZKKKKKKKKKKKKKK”.  I sat with arms folded.                                                                                                                                                                 “Maybe we need to roll down the window for it to pick up the proper frequency,” he said.

  “SSSSSSSSSSCCCCCCCCCCCCZZZZZZZZZZZKKKKKKKKKKKKKK.”  I sat with arms folded.          

“Oh!  We probably need to pull over to the side of the road for it to work.”

“SSSSSSSSSSCCCCCCCCCCCCZZZZZZZZZZZKKKKKKKKKKKKKK.”  I sat with arms folded.        

“Wait, I remember, you have to stick the antennae to the roof.”

“SSSSSSSSSSCCCCCCCCCCCCZZZZZZZZZZZKKKKKKKKKKKKKK.”  I sat with arms folded.         

  He looked at me.  I looked at him.  And the front seat of my Pontiac Parisian erupted in laughter.  We have gotten many miles out of that incident.  Who would have ever thought that a gift from who-knows-where would have provided such enjoyment for almost 29 years?

Front Row Seat to a Miracle: Conclusion

    The ambulance arrived and the transport team was preparing to transfer the baby into a travelling incubator.  Before leaving the unit, the doctor sent me to get my sister-in-law.  As I turned to go, he said, “She must begin the grieving process.  The nurse will provide mom and dad with pictures of the baby to remember her by.” 

   What should have taken a few minutes, took over an hour as they moved her from one bed to the other.  Her condition continued to deteriorate as we watched.  Our mom and dad had arrived and looked on as the newest member of their family fought to live.  Daddy led the way straight into the throne room as he pulled us into a huddle in the hallway.  He reminded us that we had come to the end of what man could do for her, and now we must give her over to what God had for her.  And that we did.  He voiced the prayer that was probably the most difficult one he would ever have to pray.  Her mom and dad trusted her into God’s care, not knowing if they would see her alive again. 

   March 5 will mark the 22^nd anniversary of that night, a night that will not soon be forgotten.  Jeremiah 33:3 says, “Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know.”  Through this experience, that Scripture came alive.  From the ambulance ride to Houston, that she wasn’t supposed to survive, to a helicopter flight to Galveston-- God revealed things about Himself that none of us had known until then. 

   A mostly experimental treatment, that was almost unheard of at that point, was her last medical hope.  She would be only the 36^th baby to be placed on ECMO.  Her blood would be circulated from her body into a machine that oxygenated it and pumped it back into her body.  The work of the heart would be greatly reduced and her lungs would be given time to mature and heal.  

   She began her Student teaching a few weeks ago.  She is excited to break out and to make her mark in this world.  The silent witness to God’s unsearchable things is a faint scar from just under her ear and down her neck.  Through the years, she has been reminded of how God used her birth to show her family of what He is capable.   We were invited.  We gave Him our full attention and trust.  And we were given a front row seat to a miracle.  

Front Row Seat to a Miracle: Part 3

   For all the trouble she was having, there were several babies on life support that night.  By God’s grace, each of them was stable, at least for this shift.  Thanks for this fact had no sooner crossed my lips, than the alarm on her ventilator sounded. 

      It had crashed!  Not a simple malfunction, but an outright, no longer working- crash.  The very thing that was pushing breath into her body had stopped.  As I scrambled to fix and finally replace the machine, the doctor stood bedside and manually ventilated her lungs.  As he stood there he told me the story of this family.  “They are counting on me, because I took care of their older daughter, as well.”   She had been a C-section baby that needed a little support after birth because of fluid in her lungs.  Feeling somewhat of a failure, the decision had been made to transport this baby to Houston.  She would have to be travel via ambulance instead of helicopter because of inclement weather.  There was little hope that she would survive the trip.  As he talked, my mind wandered down the hall to her mom’s hospital room.  I wondered if she knew the gravity of her baby’s situation.  But for a few seconds after delivery, she had not seen her.  My heart ached as I looked down at her and wondered if she would leave this world without realizing how much her family loved her.  Would the only touch that she experienced be the mechanical touch of doctors and nurses that manipulated her body just long enough to carry out whatever procedure needed to be done?

   With the new ventilator in place, the wait for the ambulance began.  Her dad entered the unit again and stood as a sentinel.  With resolve that had all but slipped away, I quickly turned my back and busied myself.  Thankfully the nurse across the aisle asked for my assistance with another baby.  I noticed tears in her eyes.  I asked if she was okay.  She told me that her husband had left her that evening.  I tried to offer comfort from a heart that was already bruised and bleeding.  She wiped her eyes and went on to say that even so, her problems were small compared to what this family was experiencing.  That was all I could take.

   “That is my brother.”  It came out as a whisper.  “And she is my niece.  I need to go be with my family.”

Front Row Seat to a Miracle: Part 2

   In spite of all the lines that protruded from her little body, she was beautiful - with a head covered in black ringlets.   I wanted so badly to distance myself from this one, in order to make my job a little easier, but she had already taken up residency in my heart.  And this night, everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. 

   Even though she was heavily sedated, she was hypersensitive to any stimulation.  If she was touched, talked to, or if she heard the alarms on any of the equipment, her heart rate would drop perilously low.  The pressure that we had to ventilate her lungs with was so high, that she was at major risk of suffering blindness.  I watched the normally confident neonatologist pacing.  He had not left the hospital since she was born that morning.  What had started out as a wonderful day to celebrate the promise of a new life had slowly changed as the day wore on.  And now the promise was dimmed to the point of being snuffed out. 

   As I worked, I prayed, ever in quiet conversation with God.  As anyone in the medical profession will agree, there is a place that you retreat to that allows you to carry out the necessary duties to sustain life without the interference of emotion.  This night, would not find me there.  I silently called out to God on her behalf.  I asked for God’s mercy for her family.  My heart was in torment as I watched her dad stand with head bowed and shoulders trembling with silent sobs.  I listened as the doctor spoke in anguish about being at a loss for what to do.  “We have done all we can.  This family trusts me.”  I thought to myself, “You have no idea…”

Front Row Seat to a Miracle

   For the past few hours, I had watched him.  Each time he had walked into the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, he was a little more undone.  I dared not approach him, even though my heart screamed out to go to him, to hug him, and to cry with him.  But, that was not an option. 

   He was the daddy of a brand new baby girl.  She was a full-term baby, healthy by all appearances, that for no good reason, was fighting for her life.  She was one of a small percentage of Caesarean delivered infants that suffer from hyaline membrane disease.  Her lungs were not developed enough to sustain her life.  Because of that, she was one of my patients.  As a Respiratory Therapist, I was responsible for monitoring the life support equipment, as well as, her heart and lungs, and arterial blood gases.

   With two preschoolers at home, I found that the 11-7 graveyard shift worked for me.  I would put my babies to bed before I left for work and would be home before breakfast.  This night would be unlike any I had ever worked before or since.  As I took report that night, the Therapist from the previous shift minced no words.  “We’ve got a kid going bad. The unit is full, but this one will take your full attention. Doc is weighing the options at this point, but, it doesn’t look good.  And just so you know, Dad has been given to permission to come and go as he pleases as long as his doesn’t approach the bed.  He stands over at the nurses’ station and watches.  It’s really sad.”   These bits of information were passed along so that while we performed our jobs, we could do so with the utmost sensitivity.  “Which baby?” I asked.

Granny Jessie

   My grandmother was a character to say the least.  She had a true pioneer spirit and was as tough as nails.  She loved to fish with a passion matched only by her hate of armadillos.  The older I get, the more I realize how much I learned from her without really knowing that she was teaching me.  She was a very talented seamstress and a creative force.  She instilled in me a love of sewing and all kinds of stitchery, including: crochet, crewel, embroidery, needlepoint, and cross-stitch. She took it upon herself to teach me.  I shall never forget our crochet sessions that went something like this.  After showing me what to do, she would give me an assignment. For example, she would tell me to have completed 10 rows of crochet by the following week.  I would return with project in hand for her inspection.  More often than not, she would rip out every stitch that I had sewn and say, “Start over.” 

  There were two mistakes that I made that she would not tolerate.  I was careless about the consistency of my stitches.  Some would be extremely tight and others would be extremely loose.  The other thing I stayed in trouble over,  was adding stitches where they did not belong. Either way, had those two problems been overlooked, I would have ended up with a misshapen, unrecognizable project.   However frustrating for me that it was, and believe me, IT WAS, I learned a great deal from those exercises.  The things that she taught me about sewing have been easily translated into other areas of my life, especially in my spiritual walk.

   As a Christian, my walk must be consistent for others to follow.  If my walk is too “loose” or I have one foot in the world and one in the church, I blend in with the world and my witness becomes unappealing to those who are struggling to find something of worth.   If my walk is to “tight”, I become pharisaical.  When I make a practice of constantly pointing out when and where others fall short in their walk with Christ, I set my own self up for a major fall.  If I judge others, Scripture explicitly tells me I will be judged by the same measure. Regardless, the outcome is that I drive others away.

  As a Christian, I should not add anything to my witness.  I must not be guilty of adding in my abilities or my works.  If I rely on anything other than Christ in me, the hope of glory, then I provide a warped view of Christ to those whom I am trying to witness.   Whether I am inconsistent in my walk or am guilty of “adding” unnecessarily to my witness, the result is the same—what I leave others with is a misshapen, unrecognizable Jesus.                         

   If there was an overall idea that my Granny Jessie taught me, it was excellence.  She was all about doing the job – well. 

Ecclesiastes 9:10               Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might.

Parenting Tip #25: Discipline on the Road

   It has been said that parenting is the most wonderful and the most horrible thing all rolled into one.  When our sons were small, there were days that I felt like an animal trainer in the circus.  “Up, boy!”  “Down, boy!”  “Sit, boy!”  Once they were tucked away in bed, my husband and I would sneak in and spend a little time just looking at them.  (I would probably do that now, but that would be creepy.)  Anyway, the frustrations of the day seemed to fade away as we watched them resting peacefully.

  Consistency is the key with parenting.  Children have to know that you are serious about keeping the boundaries that you have set for them.  I beg to differ with the man that sells the “Total Transformation” program that purports to have your children minding with respectful attitudes by sundown.  Parenting is hard!  It takes both parents on the same page, working in tandem to see to it that their children are raised to be decent, law-abiding citizens.

   In our house, the rod was never spared…broken a few times, but never spared.  For all the faults that John and I have, and the many times we have failed, we always backed each other up.  Always wary that an uprising was in the making, we were not about to let them get the upper hand.  Dividing and conquering was out of the question.  Whether the issue was with me and a boy(s) or him and a boy(s), we both knew that the other had our back. Sometimes we tag teamed if the offense was of great significance.  Other times, affirmation of the other parent’s position was stated as a simple, “Your dad is right” or “Mom has a point.” The inmates were not about to take over the asylum on our watch.    We were rock solid.   Well……..except for that one time…..

  It had been one of those days, in a vehicle.  Slapping, knocking, hitting, slinging and the boys were misbehaving, as well.  We had upgraded from a Ford Aerostar to a full-size Chevy van just so they could not touch each other.  We always carried three distinct personalities in our boys: the “daddy/rule maker” who always changed the rules if he was losing; the “sneaky/instigator” that would ding everybody to death out of sheer boredom; and the “emergency broadcast system/president of the world” that kept us apprised of everything the other two were doing in a very loud voice.  This day all three personalities were kicking. 

  You really cannot blame my husband for what happened next.  He was delirious from all the fighting and scratching that was taking place, just out of arms reach, in the back of the van.  He had all he could take and exploded, “I’m going to beat your belts with my butt when we get home!!”  You could have heard a pin drop.  Complete silence. I whipped a crick in my neck as I turned my face to the window.  I was almost certain that my lungs were about to explode.  And yet, silence reigned.  My mind raced as I wondered how to back that statement up.  But, a united front had to be presented. 

  Therefore, I mustered my “mom face” and turned toward the back.  In my most threatening tone I added, “And…that… will…not…be…pretty.”  The rest of the ride home was amazingly quiet, except for the occasional snicker, or smothered laugh.  And I must confess….they were mine.