While I am a man of faith, I am also a reasonable man with rational concerns.  And I was concerned.  The last time I had this procedure, things were less than perfect.  I needed a little heavenly reassurance.

And, as some of you may also remember, the medical Nazis required me to bring a CPAP with me.  So for the last several days, I was trying to get adjusted to the silly thing.  And so I began Tuesday night already tired from my many confrontations with the device in the nights preceding.

I was sleeping quietly Tuesday until roughly midnight, when I suddenly developed a maddening and irrepressible itch dead center in the middle of my back.  Wiggling didn’t help and my arms are to short to reach.  So I had to get up and use the back scratcher.

And then I heard it.  A blood curdling electrical hiss.  Repeatedly.   It was like Dr. Frankenstein’s lab was right on our back porch.  I half expected to hear the cry of “It’s Aliiiiiiiive!!”  I couldn’t really see anything, but my son James could.  A power box in our back yard, at the foot of the transformer pole, was shorting out.  Electricity was arcing (loudly) behind the bushes, causing them to smoke.  (If we hadn’t had the rain, the smoke would have been flames.)  When I did finally see it, the bush had an eerie glow behind it.

We called the fire department and OG&E.  When the smoke cleared (literally) we realized that God had awakened me so we could get the fire trucks out.  That alone was a comforting affirmation of God’s protection.  But the real miracle was yet to happen.

Wednesday morning I went into the operating room at 10:40.  Prior to that, lots of prayers went up from my pre-op room.  With and for the doctor, and the attending nurses, and the gas guys, and me.

During the procedure, a problem developed.  One of the stents encountered an obstruction.  (Remember, my ureters are like pretzels.)  Then, suddenly, the stent moved as if it were being sucked up right to the kidney.  It was remarkable enough that the nurses remarked.  The doctor informed them that it wasn’t his doing.  It was an example of Amazing, greasing, Grace.

But there’s more.

When my old stents were removed, there were no crystalline deposits.  It has always been the buld up of those deposits that required the many replacements.  So now, we’ved moved to a 10 month span between replacements.  First it was six months.  Then it was nine.  Now it’s ten.

God’s protection and Grace had extended from the electrical fire right into the operating room.

And for me, the symbol of all of it has been that image of the bush.

Even with all our pastors and prophets and popes……..even in the era of instant messaging………..God still uses that Gold Standard of heavenly communicaion – the burning bush.

Praise His Name Forever.

———-

Grace Happenings – Chapel Hill United Methodist Church
February 11, 2004

Inspiration and Perspiration

Grace Happens

Right before Christmas I had the privilege of witnessing a miracle, one of those events that logic and understanding don’t support. A family that has been related to our church for sometime saw a loved one go from health to the verge of death in just a few short days. Doctors told the family that nothing could save this life, not medicine, not amputation to stave off infection, not an extended hospital stay. Go home, call hospice and prepare for the end. So that is what they did. They went home.

People in our church and folks from far and near heard of the plight and did what could be done: there were prayers, prayer chains, cards, calls, even some meals delivered. We waited and watched and prepared for the end. Then I received a call…maybe a miracle was in the works.

Now for years I’ve lived in between observing the miraculous and the disappointing. So often I’m left as a pastor to try to offer some explanation for the reasons prayers haven’t “worked”. I preach series of sermons helping people to give some purpose to the hardships of life. I’ve presided over funerals of children and teens and young parents. None of that has fit very neatly into my understanding pf prayer and miracles.

My youth was spent with Christians who sought miracles on a regular basis. We prayed, we believed, we claimed, we expected miracles. Sometimes there were great reports, sometimes there were intermediate reports of good news. We looked for good news wherever we could find it. Some of my friends began to believe that quoting certain Bible verses ensured success in prayer, and if you did not experience their success rates then you must not have faith. To tell you the truth, there were times when I questioned my own faith in the midst of some of our family trials and illnesses. There was even a time in my ministry when I was afraid to pray for healing or blessings for fear that I would have to explain what was going on when the best didn’t happen.

Over the years I’ve come to believe that sometimes miracles do occur. I really can’t explain them easily. Sometimes they come to people I really don’t believe should get them, some real scoundrels. Quite often they occur with people who don’t have the kind of faith one would expect. The very people we expect to receive miracles are the very ones who seem to be left off the list. So you can imagine my surprise and delight and even a little skepticism when I heard that a miracle might be in the making.

The doctors were just as surprised as any when the blood poisoning could no longer be detected, and the gangrene began to sluff off and new skin was produced. Day by day this loved one improved. The joy that invaded the family cannot be overstated. They have experienced a miracle. Hospice has been sent away! Praise God.

I got to thinking about this. Life brings with it some really difficult times. So much so that one cynical group of folks have printed up a bumper sticker that reads, “Fertilizer Happens”. I think we need a new bumper sticker that acknowledges that in a world of the unexpected, sometimes grace happens. Sometimes God touches us when we least expect it. Sometimes good comes to those of us who don’t deserve it. Sometimes a blessing comes our way and we didn’t do one thing to bring it about. Sometimes GRACE HAPPENS!

I really complain when bad things happen. I wonder if I celebrate as much when grace touches my shoulder, my family, my friends. I’ve begun to look around for more of the grace happenings in our world. As a friend and colleague, Lesley Rose, would say, “God is good, all the time. All the time, God is good.”

Guy Ames

I was taken off the respirator and dismissed from the hospital. I was admitted into a hospice program and went home to die. When I arrived home I had a fever of 106, I was still hallucinating and I still could not speak. My organs were shutting down, as were the neuropathways in my brain. I was actually in the physical process of dying. The hospice team iced me down, put morphine patches on me and tried to make me as comfortable as possible. My life expectancy was measured in days. Perhaps even in hours. Funeral arrangements were begun.

It’s important to note that hospice was not treating my legs. Their job was to make my death as painless as possible. I was being given a strong, but common, anti-biotic and they were applying only saline solutions to the wounds. Other than amputation, there is no cure for gangrene. But the miracles that happened next were either to numerous to count or they need to be lumped into one continuous miracle that lasted almost six weeks.

First my temperature returned to normal. Then my kidneys returned to normal functioning. And then the real adventure began. “But there is no cure for gangrene,” they would say, amazed, as the gangrene dropped off my legs and exposed fresh, new skin. “I don’t understand” and “I’ve never seen anything like this before” were common refrains. After a few weeks, it was obvious that, for some reason, I was not dying. But they cautioned me that I would still lose a leg. I told them no. When I did not lose a leg they, they said I would lose a foot. I told them no. When I didn’t lose a foot, they said I would lose some toes. I told them no. When I didn’t lose any toes, they said I would lose a nail. And I did. But it grew back.

I entered the hospice program with two terminal conditions and a life expectancy of only days. But we got a second opinion from God. He saved me, healed me and restored me. I am now beginning to walk again. And on the same two legs that God gave me 57 years ago. When the healing power of Jesus Christ hits a body, sometimes all you can do is just stand back and watch!! Praise His Name Forever!!

Those Who Are With Us Incident

One particular morning, before I left for the OCAF office, I was feeling particularly depressed. The material I had to view (every day), would make most people run screaming into the street. (And one person literally did.) And there was just so much of it. It was overwhelming.

As I was praying and meditating, a scripture came to mind.

2 Kings 6:16-17 (NIV) – “Don’t be afraid,” the prophet answered. “Those who are with us are more than those who are with them.” And Elisha prayed, “O LORD, open his eyes so he may see.” Then the LORD opened the servant’s eyes, and he looked and saw the hills full of horses and chariots of fire all around Elisha.

That was a great encouragement to me and so I left for the office with an optimistic attitude. About an hour after I got there, [Name Deleted], the OCAF secretary, and a devout Baptist, came in. The first thing out of her mouth: “As I was praying this morning, the Lord gave me a scripture. The one where Elisha’s servant sees the chariots of fire. And Elisha says, ‘Fear not, those who are with us are more than those who are with them.’” I told her what had happened to me that morning and we both danced a little gig.

After lunch, [Name Deleted], an OCAF volunteer, and another good Baptist lady, came in. She flopped down in a chair and said, “You’re not going to believe what happened last night. In the middle of the night, the phone rang. It was my sister in Illinois. ‘Sister,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry to wake you but I just had a dream and I need to tell you about it. In my dream, the Lord gave me a scripture and told me to give it to you.’” Almost in unison, we all said “Fear not, the prophet said…………”

The encouragement from that day carried me for years.

Dads aren’t supposed to stand in the corner. But, for me, it was the best way to learn about fatherhood.

The adoption of older children is not an easy proposition. It’s often hard for the parents. And it’s often hard for the children. So when my wife and I decided several years ago to adopt a 10 year old girl and her 7 year old brother as our only children, we needed all the help we could get. And all the prayers we could muster.

Although we have tried to give our son and daughter a normal life, there will always be a part of them that is anything but normal. They, like almost all older children up for adoption, had experienced more pain in their few years than most of us will endure in our lifetimes. There are precious few books on the issues we have had to face and even fewer parental peers with whom to face them. Parenting for us, then, truly became an exercise in our faith.

One such exercise occurred the weekend of the opening of the 1988 Winter Olympics. As was usual in our early months together, our kids had committed a major offense on Saturday night. It was as if they had hoarded bad-behavior coupons all week long and then redeemed them all at once in one Saturday sin spectacular. I can’t remember now what they did that particular weekend, but I certainly remember my paternal pain. How could we deal with this particular offense, and how could we constructively punish these repeat offenders? We decided to defer sentencing until Sunday.

My Sunday morning was somber. An axe was going to have to fall sometime that day, but it was going to have to be after church. If our kids had known of their pending fates before we left the house, they would have been miserable during church and probably would have “shared” their misery with us and others. No, judgement time would have to be later that day. But the sermon that Sunday morning changed my decision, my afternoon, and my life.

I had determined early in the morning that there was no alternative but to administer two licks and to assign an hour of corner time to each child. Rules were rules, and my kid’s had to learn them. But the pastor’s sermon that morning was on unconditional love. And his challenge during the closing prayer was for each of us to find one way during the coming week to show God’s unconditional love to those around us. It took less than a second for my answer to that particular prayer. I was to take my kids’ punishment for them.

My new decision felt good for all of about five minutes. Then reality sunk in. Give myself licks? Put myself in the corner? Miss the Olympics? I prayed for a second opinion. Nothing. But daddy’s don’t do corner time, I petitioned again. Nothing again. My fate was sealed. I believed in prayer then, and I believe in prayer now. I asked. He answered. And that was that.

After lunch we had our family conference. I explained to the children the punishment necessary for their offenses. They understood and were prepared to accept their fate. Then I explained the new decision. I reminded them that Christ had taken our sins upon Himself and that He had taken our punishment for us. I said that I was glad to now take their punishment for them and hoped that someday they would remember this incident and realize more fully it’s spiritual significance. I asked them to please accept my gift and to enjoy the Olympics. I then gave myself four good licks and went to the corner for two hours.

What happened next still amazes me. I had thought that the lesson to be learned that day would be for my children. And, certainly, there was a great lesson there for them. But the real lesson was to be learned by me. My family was overwhelmed by my actions and their first response was to show their constant gratitude and concern. Every few minutes someone would come around and thank me and ask how I was doing. Soon, however, the “worshiping” dwindled. Then they turned to work. They just couldn’t enjoy themselves knowing what I had done. They did the laundry. They cleaned the house. They did everything they could to show their appreciation except the one thing I wanted them to do: accept my gift and enjoy the afternoon. After a while, I became an embarrassment. Fathers aren’t supposed to be in corners. They passed without speaking. They turned away.

After a while I began to understand what was going on. I had wanted my children to understand how to receive my sacrifice, but first I had to understand the nature of it myself. I wanted it to free them. I wanted it to give them joy. I wanted it to give them peace. But their gratitude had turned to guilt. And their guilt had turned to rejection. And then it hit me. It was not my sacrifice I was contemplating in my solitude. It was His.

You cannot understand Fatherhood until you truly understand Sonship.

A few weeks ago, my son started calling me “father”. When we adopted him (and his sister) 5 years ago, he was 7 and I was “daddy”. That seemed to suit us both for a few months, but then, 2nd grade peer pressure being what it is, I was booted up to “dad”. And there it’s stood. Until now.

When I first heard “father”, I was speechless. It had to sink in for a while. I know he thought I was deaf or senile when I didn’t answer him, looking him in the eye, like I was. But it was a pretty sudden change. You could almost hear the capital “F” is his voice. My first thought, of course, was “This kid wants something.” Something BIG. But he didn’t. He just wanted to talk. Father and son.

Before I was married, I dreamt a lot about being a dad. I always knew I’d be good at it. I like to relax. And
play games. And eat pizza. Such dads are always popular with kids. And after I was married, I KNEW I’d be good at it because I started growing in places that remind folks of Pooh Bears. And then the kids came. And after 10 years of marriage, I was a real dad. Not a “natural” dad or a “biological” dad or an “A Parent” dad. A REAL dad.

I’ve worn the “Dad” button proudly for 5 years now. I’ve been there when he needed me and when he didn’t want me. I’ve stayed up all night watching “Terminator” movies and I’ve stayed up all night watching his hospital bed. I’ve been a “dad”. But now I was a “father” and it puzzled me.

When parenting becomes puzzling, I generally look for spiritual parallels. I don’t know if that’s deep theology or just elementary living, but it works for me. And so I began to think of by own relationship with God. When the kids came, I was scared. I doubted myself, my abilities, and my kids. It was only my clinging to my heavenly Father that got me through it. Not just one day at a time. It was one hour at a time. Until it began to sink in that He had equipped me to handle what He had given me to do, and that where my abilities left off, His grace would always be sufficient. Always. After 5 years, it’s sunk in. I don’t have to be afraid. I don’t have to worry. I can count on my Father. I am His, and He is mine.

And then it hit me right between the eyes. After 5 years my son was no longer afraid. He didn’t worry any more if I would be there the next day. I was his. And he was mine.

And I was “father”.