NOTE: This is the first post I wrote for Relevant Magazine's God Column. It was an enormous blessing to see the Lord use trial, sorrow, and the valley in my life to be an encouragement to others. I think that's a vital part of our journey as Christ-followers - our suffering and sorrow shaping our hearts and drawing us to the great Comforter. I hope you are encouraged.
Have you ever had that moment, that experience, that phone
call that you won’t forget for the rest of your life? I have. It was Friday
night, January 9th, 2004, at 10:15pm. I was at one of my former
students homes; he had just returned from boot camp and a group of us had gone
over to hang out and hear the stories. My phone rang and it was my brother. He
asked me where I was and if I could get somewhere private. “Are you sitting
down?” This immediately pushed the panic button. I went into a bedroom, closed
the door, and said, “What’s going on?” Here is the point where life changed…and
has never been the same.
A sidenote for background purposes: My parents had just a
year and a half earlier built their last house; the one they would retire in,
have the grandchildren playing in the backyard, host BBQ’s and dinner parties –
the house was great. And it wasn’t anything ridiculously extravagant. It was
just what they needed. One of the details about my parents home that added so
much to its beauty was the 12-foot ceilings. This made the house seem so much
bigger than it probably was. I loved that house.
So I sat down and asked my brother, “What’s going on?” Very
calmly Brent told me that Dad had been in the attic and fallen through the
ceiling. And when he fell (12 feet down) he hit his head on the island in the
middle of the kitchen. They were in the ambulance, headed to the hospital and
Dad wasn’t conscious. I kept waiting on the “good part”, the part where he
says, “…but the paramedics think he’s fine…he’ll be OK….” The good part never
came.
That night was filled with phone calls, prayers, tears and
15-minute segments of sleep here and there. It seemed eternal. The next morning
I got on a plane with my wife and daughter and took the Wichita to Dallas
flight. We were at Harris Hospital in Ft. Worth before 9am. As I entered the
hospital, I remember being awestruck by the hundred or so people gathered in
the lobby from my parents church. Yes, hundreds. You see, my dad was a pastor.
Not a preacher…a pastor. And for years, if you were a member of Fielder Road
Baptist Church and you were in the hospital, or your spouse had suddenly passed
away, or your child was lying in NICU with a breathing tube, or your daughter
had run away in anger, or your marriage was being torn apart – my dad was
there. You would be hard-pressed to find a handful of people at the church (and
we’re talking out of thousands) who had not been touched or impacted by my dad
and his ministry. And now suddenly, HE was the one in need. It was as if this
countless army of people who were part of our family had no choice but to
come…to be there. And I remember standing there in the lobby at one point that
morning, being touched by people with tears and smiles, and someone suddenly
breaking out into my dad’s favorite hymn, “The Love of God”. I was moved.
I remember my mom taking me into my dad’s room in the Trauma
ICU and not being able to do anything but stand there, hold my dad’s hand and
cry. I remember as my mom left the room, leaning over on my dad’s chest and
weeping, asking him to wake up. You are never the same when you’ve seen someone
you love strapped to a bed with wires coming off of every part of their body
and a breathing tube snaked down their throat. It changes you. Instantly.
The next day I was in my dad’s room, with my head again on
his chest, and all of a sudden I heard a man named Don joyfully and
confidentally praying over my dad, claiming his life and ministry could not
possibly be coming to a close. Don put his hand on me at one point and I lost
it. I believed everything he was praying, I just couldn’t get those words out
of my own mouth. I didn’t feel that I could say anything to God without
screaming. I would re-live this moment and many like it over and over again the
next weeks. And then, something happened.
I remember, after returning to Wichita and attempting to
return to life as normal, the phone call from my mom saying, “Dad’s opening his
eyes!” You don’t know the power of those words until you’ve lived everything
that came before them. This was the beginning of a very long road; a road with
twists, turns, hills, potholes, detours and passers-by, oblivious to the
baggage we were towing. It’s also a road that my family remains on today. You
don’t walk this mountain and return the same. Things don’t return to normal.
But I think one thing I’ve discovered is, normal is a mirage; it’s a figment of
our imagination. Normal is a sedative we allow ourselves to swallow that makes
us think we’re untouchable and that life as we know it is in this invisible
bubble. Well, my bubble was popped.
I’ve realized that there was so much God had done through my
dad’s accident, recovery, and his new life, that would never have happened
without walking through this trial and experiencing everything that came with
it. I think of the countless times I’ve been able to put my hand on someone,
pray with them, and feel their pain in my heart. I KNOW what they’re going
through. I know what it’s like to feel powerless, wanting that person you love
to wake up, get up, go back and to have never gone into that attic, or gotten
in that car. I drive by people now and realize that I have no idea what might
have been thrown their way today. I just don’t know, and neither do you.
I’m not sure if you’ve gotten that phone call or had that
moment, but if and when it comes, know that you will be changed. Know that the
things you see and the way you will look at life could never have been seen
from the other side. And know that the times when we are rendered powerless, we
are never hopeless. Those are the moments God made us for.
