But for the Grace of God, There Go I

    I hurried, as quickly as possible, careful to remain just below the need to stop and catch my breath.  The ride in the elevator seemed longer than ever and I rounded the corner for the semi-sprint to the end of the never-ending hallway to my doctor’s office.  I-45 congested with traffic, to Hardy Tollway choked with traffic, to 610 Loop stacked with traffic, to Hwy 59 strangled with traffic, to the Hwy 288 parking lot had sapped our lead time, as well as, our regular drive time making me a not-so-fashionable 40 minutes late to my echo appointment. 

  The patient scheduled behind me had been taken in my place and I was welcomed to change into a gown and wait to be “worked in”.  Trying to remain positive, I reasoned that it would not have been fair to hold my appointment, thereby putting the whole schedule off by forty minutes.  But the longer I sat, and the more people they took in front of me, the more I entertained not- so-happy thoughts. Like the fact that I had been doing this for thirteen years, hundreds of appointments and not one time had I been late.  And further thoughts of those hundreds of appointments and how many extra hours I sat, sometimes as many as two at a time, waiting on doctors that were behind in their schedule or for tests that were late for the same reason.

   Watching the clock nudge closer and closer to my next appointment, I finally gave up and asked to be placed on the schedule for the afternoon.  Changing back into my clothes, I huffed down the hallway to the next waiting room.  Sitting down, I pulled out the needle and thread that was in my purse and began to work out my frustrations.  The sound of others around me stirred me from my self-induced pity party.

   Raising my head, I began to take in the room and its occupants near me.  It was not until I withdrew my focus from my own thoughts and feelings that I noticed the three young women in my midst. Carefully looking at each one, I began to recognize emotions that their faces belied.  With sudden clarity, I was taken back thirteen years to a time when I sat in their places.  It was a somber fear and unbelieving shock that moved behind their eyes.  Thirteen years later, I was pierced suddenly, through and through, that these young women who sat next to worried looking husbands, were very different from me.  Though I had shared their emotions, the noticeable difference was the progression that the disease had taken in their bodies. 

  I sat with a needle and thread in my hand, angry because I had been made to wait.  Each of them sat tethered to a pump by tubing and a catheter, placed inside their jugular veins, that delivered life sustaining medication. I sat with my sneakers in my bag, wondering if I could beat my record in the exercise test that I was to take, while each of them sat with oxygen tanks in the bags at their feet.  I watched as they were called back, and with tired glances moved slowly through the door, carefully carrying the equipment that allowed them to do the things that I had taken for granted.  Finally, my name was called and I moved guiltily unencumbered. 

  My doctor is one of the foremost leading authorities and researchers on Pulmonary Hypertension.  She gave up her position as the Director of Pulmonary/Lung Transplant Program at Methodist Hospital to focus on research for treatment and a cure.  It is because she only sees patients once a week that I was able to see the others that share my condition.  She was happy to see me, after a year, and was pleased with my exam, giving God the credit.  She confirmed my earlier evaluation of her other patients by telling me that it was good to see how well I was doing because she had not seen much good that day.  Pending any unexpected test results, she released me for another year and stopped the blood work that has been done monthly for all these years. 

   After two more tests, we started back home. The ride gave me the opportunity to contrast the despair that I saw in the other patient’s eyes with the hopeful outlook that I had been given. I was immediately ashamed by my earlier attitude, humbled by my own arrogance.  I was broken for the young women that I saw, guilt-ridden that God would choose to allow me to thrive and not them.  Once again, I was reminded of the mercy in which God has bathed me.  Grace, that for reasons unknown He has given.  I do not understand it.  I do not deserve it.  Setting all pretenses aside, I can honestly proclaim that my only worth is what God has done in me.    

I'm Not Afraid! : Conclusion

   The thought of looking through a darkened window still gives me pause, though time and distance has given me a different perspective.  Thankfully, the members of the Brave Club, as well as The Holy, became acquainted with the One whose Spirit now lives in them.  No longer frightened of something on the outside looking in, but grateful for something on the inside looking out.  Forgiveness that is offered through Christ is a beautiful thing.  Thinking back over my life and some of the choices I have made, His forgiveness is the only thing that allows me to sleep at night. 

   Sadly, there are those around me who continually strive to be a member of the Brave Club.  Honing their survival skills, they go about their lives with their eyes averted from their Heavenly Father who sees all, living as though what they cannot see won’t hurt them.  On some level, they know He is there, though they deny His existence. No amount of logic or rhetoric will give them the one thing they so desperately seek.  Only faith can fill the void they continually try to satisfy. 

  As believers, we must take advantage of God’s grace and forgiveness so that the light of Christ can shine through the windows of our souls.  That light is the only thing that can illumine the dark around us and draw the lost to Him. 

   Today is a great day to polish our windows!

“In Him was life, and that life was the light of men.  The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it.”  John 1:4-5

“You are the light of the world.  A city on a hill cannot be hidden.  Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl.  Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house.  In the same way, let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven.”  Matthew 5:14-16

I'm Not Afraid! Part II

   That was the scene that played out week after week at my grandmother’s house.   “The Holy” was short for Holy Ghost.  As kids, we could not come up with anything spookier sounding.   I knew all about God and  Jesus, but the thought of there being such a thing as a Holy Ghost ranked up there with my personal childhood monsters:  Gravel Face and the Cucumber people. 

   My oldest brother filled the bill of The Holy.  He earned the moniker because of the skill with which he could scare the bejeebers out of my other brother, two cousins, and me.  His method was simple, but effective – sneak around the house after dark with a flashlight, waiting for the opportune moment to toggle its switch, as he held it under his chin, for a chilling effect.  Anticipation was the seasoning sprinkled on the event to make it much more frightening.     We knew what was coming.  In fact, we had formed a club, The Brave Club, to train for these exact occasions. 

  Though some might consider our methods unconventional, we worked hard to become stealthy and bold, figuring that by so doing - courage would prevail.   We had nerve all right.  We had mastered the art of running and diving through the window and onto the bed of the “closed in” back porch – with only one casualty (which happened to be a pair of glasses). Thankfully, we suffered from periodic amnesia that kept us from remembering exactly what had happened to the glasses. Our best recollection was that they simply fell off her face and broke.

   We further sharpened our skills by boldly walking amidst the adults to snitch the unprotected “Kool” brand cigarettes, steal away to the bathroom, and with surgical precision-remove a portion of the tobacco to replace it with a broken match head.  Re-packing the tobacco, we then, walked unassumingly back to return the pack to its rightful place.  I am almost certain the theme song to “Mission Impossible” could be heard.  That was our brand of action and certainly our parents would be none the wiser.  Looking back now, we probably did give ourselves away as we nervously awaited the fateful draw on the “doctored” cigarette that would bring a shocking end to a new family member’s nasty habit…our version of the Anti-Smoking Campaign.

   Our talents were furthered stretched as we crawled underneath the house to a position directly under our recently widowed great aunt.  There we tried, in our best ghostly voices, to convince her that her recently deceased husband was speaking to her from beyond the grave…”Luuuuuucy this is Meeeelllvvviiinn”…    What can I say? We were proficient.  We were professionals.  We…were…charter members of The Brave Club.  And yet, The Holy always horrified us…

I'm Not Afraid!

  He stood alone in the dark, his only instrument of torture held under his chin.  There must have been a satisfied smile on his face as he peered through the windows of the old house.    He had the gift.  His talents had been recognized by those he now watched.  They were the ones that had made him what he was, and now, his mission was plain and simple.  He was there to terrorize.

   The ones that he watched were expectant of his arrival.  Before dusk had taken the last few rays of sun, they had piled into the house for the evening meal, anticipating his coming.  Meals quickly eaten, they converged in the back of the house to make their plans.  Preparations had been made and skills honed as they waited. 

   Each of them had become adept at the art of hiding and escape.  The old house had been a proving- ground for them.  They were self-taught warriors.  Their skills were used for covert operations, as well as, feats of bravado.  But suddenly, everything was forgotten as the face outside the window appeared.  All plan of escape was ignored and the sound of their own screams filled the room as they beheld...The Holy... 

Looks Are Deceiving

   Independence comes in many forms.  For my son, it came at the age of ten.  This was a magical age.  The first foray into double digits – Yes!- but, more importantly, it was the age at which he was legally allowed to fill his own plate at the breakfast bar of Shoney’s. 

   Shoney’s was always the choice for us when it came to breakfast out.  There was no wonder, when you walked into the door and your senses were assaulted by aromas of cooking and baking, as well as, the delightful sight of fruit and floral arrangements decorating the buffet tables.  The tastes of the many items offered, insured an all-around satisfactory dining experience. 

   This day found the boys and me enjoying a leisurely breakfast.  We were “vacationing” while my husband worked.  Needless to say, we always got our money’s worth at All-You-Can-Eat buffets. As parents of boys, it was a wise financial move.  Not certain if they ever actually got full, we usually just told them, at some point, they had to stop eating. 

   Finishing up his fourth plate of food, he asked if he could go back for more.  I told him to make this trip count because it would be his last for this meal.  He squared his shoulders, stuck his chin out ever so slightly, and headed back to the buffet.  An act so simple and yet I could hear another apron string snap reminding me, again, how quickly he was growing. 

   Independent though he was, I still watched him as he perused the buffet, making his way slowly up one side and down the other.  When comfortable that he was maintaining a sanitary method of plating his food, I turned my attention back to the other two and became engrossed in the conversation at hand.  As the discourse continued, I looked back toward the buffet and saw him stopped before one of the displays.  Once again, I rejoined the discussion as I finished up my own meal.  When he walked back to our table, I chuckled to myself at the care he had taken in selecting his last item.  Surprisingly, the plate that he returned with carried one, lone banana.

   Joining the ongoing conversation, I watched as he attempted to peel the banana.  After a couple of tries to pull the stem down, I reached across the table and offered to peel it for him, still taking every opportunity to be the “Mama.”  As he placed it in my hand, he said, “You’d think it was  rubber.”  I carefully took it, so as not to bruise it, and picked up my knife to cut it.  It wasn’t until I had the knife on the stem that I realized and exclaimed, “IT IS RUBBER!!”  Without missing a beat he answered, “Well, no wonder it was so hard to pull it off that table.” I smiled to myself as I thought that maybe that apron string had only frayed.

   …I wonder if somewhere there is security camera footage of a little boy struggling to pull an artificial banana from a fruit arrangement, followed by unknown woman, glancing suspiciously over her shoulder, as she struggles to cram an artificial banana back into the same arrangement…

Only the Weak Survive

    The ride home from the hospital had been no different than the previous few.  We had cried, laughed because we were crying, and then, cried again.  We were a mess.   Reality had come and we were struggling to wrap our minds around what we had been told. 

    We had both spent a sleepless night in ICU. The drug trial that had been attempted that day was to no avail.  The doctor told us there was no cure.  No one with this condition had ever been cured of it.   We were sent home to wonder what would happen next.  The best that we could hope for was that the progression of this condition would allow me to be in the 20% of people that survived 2-3 years more, after diagnosis.  Once the scarring of lung tissue had reached a certain level the search for a suitable donor would begin.  In that case, a double lung or heart/lung transplant would increase my chances of survival to 50% for five more years.

    For the first time in my life, I was in the grip of utter sorrow.   And now, back at home and alone for the first time in six weeks, I sought solace from the One who knew me best and loved me most.  Though driven to my knees in prayer, the only words that tumbled from my mouth were, "No one can take care of my family the way that I can!”  Prostrate on the floor, I dissolved into tears.  My tears were replaced by sobs of which I thought I was incapable.  There in my closet, I came to the end of myself.  No longer self-sufficient and able to handle whatever was thrown my way.  The mere thought of what I was up against was obscene.  The only thing that I knew for sure was that I could not carry this burden. Facing the unthinkable, it occurred to me that in order to be at peace, I was going to have to give up that which was most precious to me – my family – and place them in His hands. Though unable to find audible words to convey, my heart spoke to His.  I envisioned myself placing my husband and little boys into the strong and capable hands of the One who had given them to me.  Inexplicably, it was if the walls of my closet were folded away and He was there.  I sensed His Presence as never before.  It was as if He reached into my very soul and calmed my heart.  The sobs that had flooded the room ceased.  

    I stood that day with the understanding that I was powerless to help myself and yet sustained by the Omnipotent One, ignorant of my future and yet certain of the Omniscient One, unaware of where to go but reliant on the Omnipresent One…

II Corinthians 12:9   “But He said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’”

Pride Goeth Before a Fall

With three boys in tow, I whirled into the new dentist's office.  Moving to a new city had caused change all the way around.  Among the things that we left behind was a beloved dentist with which were familiar.

  The office was large and housed several dentists.  Once the boys were settled into separate rooms, I asked to use the facilities.  The receptionist pointed and I turned to follow her direction.  Thankfully, the restroom was at the end of the hall.  No mistaking it, the door stood ajar.

  Upon leaving the restroom, I casually glanced to my left.  Sitting on his stool was a dentist that was looking back at me.  I smiled graciously and headed back down the hall, a little miffed at his obvious stare.  Our visit went as expected and I scheduled two follow-up visits for two of the boys.

  About a week later, we returned to the office.  By now, I was familiar with my surroundings and headed to the restroom while waiting for my son’s appointment.  Again, the open door beckoned at the end of the hall.  Though forgotten before I went in, I was reminded of the previous week’s encounter when I left the restroom.  Sitting in almost the same spot as before was the dentist from last week.  And this time, he greeted me with a look that was somewhere between incredulous and smirking.  A semi-smile on his face made me feel uncomfortable. 

   Now, I was bothered.  What was wrong with this creeper?!  I was a married woman, and I did not appreciate his obvious staring.  The hallway seemed to lengthen as I walked back to the waiting room.  I could feel his eyes boring a hole between my shoulder blades.  How dare he?  Oh wouldn’t I like to give him a piece of my mind!  But on second thought, I surely did not want to encourage conversation of any kind. 

   I made a bee-line for my husband’s office and relayed what had happened.  By now, I was irate and ready to change dentists.  I had not dressed provocatively.  I had not asked for his attention.  And yet, I felt as though I was under a microscope. 

  Our final appointment arrived yet another week later.  I had made sure that I would not need to visit the Powder Room while I was there.  Unfortunately, I had forgotten to do the same with my three-year-old.  Before our visit was over, he was dancing on one foot and then the other.  It was with some trepidation that I rounded the corner to head down the hallway.  As I made the turn, I was faced with a most humbling sight.  There at the end of the hall, no longer beckoning was the closed door of the restroom.  Emblazoned across the front in letters that seemed to jump right off the door was the word, “MEN”.

  If possible, I would have crawled into my purse that day.  Ego completely deflated, I laughed out loud drawing a somewhat agitated glance from the receptionist.  Totally embarrassed, I confessed to my husband what I had done…TWICE.  Humility IS a good thing… right?

Romans 12:3  "For by the grace given me I say to every one of you:  Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment, in accordance with the measure of faith God has given you."