Here We Go... Again

Bible scholars might recall the story of the woman with the issue of blood. She had been sick for years, and Mark 5:26 tells us, "She had suffered a great deal under the care of many doctors and had spent all she had, yet instead of getting better she grew worse."

Wow... can I relate.

It all started with an infected front tooth I chipped when I was a kid. As an adult, it turned brown and died. I had a root canal done several years ago, and spent weeks having it bleached white from the inside out. For about two years, it was okay... then began to shift. It left a gap that would make T.D. Jakes jealous. So, after visiting the dentist in November of 2010, they recommended I have it pulled 70 miles away in Gaylord, and replaced with a permanent implant. So that's what I did. Well, I had it pulled anyway.

Three months after having the tooth pulled, I traveled 70 miles back to Gaylord to have the metal screw drilled in my mouth that would hold the implant in place. "Oh no," I was told. "We're just checking today to make sure we can go ahead." So they checked. Yep, all set. But they wouldn't have another appointment until May. So, a three month delay. In May, after another 140-mile round trip, they put in the screw, which would have to heal for three months before I could have the new tooth. Okay, so... we're looking at August. 8 months with no tooth. Frustrating.

July came along, and I kept feeling something funky in my mouth. I got curious enough to look, only to discover that the screw was sticking out of my gums. Lovely. I called Gaylord. Another trip. "Yep, that's a problem. Come back and we'll take it out." So, another long trip a few days later. Now we're back to ground zero. Another three month wait before they can put the screw back in. Now... we're looking at October for the new implant, and likely January before the new tooth.

October comes around. "Looks good," the dentist said after I drove another 70 miles to see him. "Let's give it another month." November. Marathon Gas station erects a statue in my name. The Dr. puts the new screw in. "I'll see you February 14th to check it, and then your dentist will put the new tooth in." Valentine's Day, another trip to Gaylord, another 3 minute appointment, and he tells me that in two weeks, the dentist at home can put the tooth in. So, I call the dentist at home. They'll call me in a couple weeks. Two weeks go by. A month. Six weeks. Finally, after two months, I call. "Oh, you're ready now? Good!  We're glad you called."

ARE YOU KIDDING ME????????????????

Oh, but they weren't ready to put the tooth in. Nope. First they have to clear some of the gum away that's grown around the new screw because we've waited so long.  Bite lip, bite lip.  They freeze me up, and begin to unscrew the healing cap....

"Did your dentist in Gaylord have to do this over? I don't have a tool that will fit this. We'll have to reschedule." Yep. The dentist's office didn't listen to me, or check the notes they had in their hands from the dentist in Gaylord. So... another two weeks to wait until the tool comes in. Two weeks go by, I'm back in the chair again for impressions. Yep, we got 'em. See you in 30 days for the implant.

Four days later.  The phone rings. They want to do the impressions over. I won't tell you what I thought, because unfortunately, it wasn't very Christian of me. I'm scheduled for the new tooth, once and for all, on May 30th, 17 months after the tooth was pulled.

Anybody want to bet it doesn't fit?

Oh... and here's the best part. In the midst of all this, my hip started burning like fire. I went to the doctor, they took x-rays (which they showed me) that indicated arthritis. There's no cartilage in my right hip. I'm walking bone on bone. Off to the Orthopedic Surgeon, who somehow saw cartilage that wasn't there, gave me a shot of Cortisone, and sent me on my merry way. A month later, still in pain, he prescribed 6 weeks of physical therapy. Well, 6 weeks turned into 12 with another Cortisone shot because of course... the cartilage that isn't there that the doctor says is there isn't feeling better like he says it should. So, after yet another shot of Cortisone,  he referred me to a back doctor. For my hip.

I'm asking for a referral for a headache doctor. I'm getting very sore from banging my head against this brick wall.

"No Dad... The Other Fries!!"

I'm raising a very challenging 15-year old. I know that's not unusual, since all 15-year olds throughout the history of the world (with the rare exception of this author) have been a challenge. But mine is a bit different than most, because we're raising a child with autism who doesn't speak and gets frustrated very easily. Again, the polar opposite of his father.

Anyway, I was driving him home after school today and we were having our usual one-sided conversation. "How was school today, Zachary? Did you learn anything? Did you go for a walk? Were you good for your teachers? Did you make any friends?" Silence.

"You know what? Daddy loves you very much." At this, he made the "please" sign by rubbing his hand on his chest. I'm not exactly sure what the sign for "please" is, but that's what he's learned. For him, it's come to symbolize not only "please," but also "yes" and "will you give me what I want?" Of course, I took it to heart. He was saying "I love you back" in the only way he knows how. That did it. I decided to take him out for french fries.

He and I hadn't been out together for a fast food break in ages. He loves fries. So I pulled into a fast food restaurant, but he was eying his favorite restaurant across the street. "Is this okay?" I asked him. He didn't seem happy. "Do you want to go to (insert name of restaurant which must not be mentioned)?" He took my hand and placed it gently on the gearshift. I took the hint, and we went across the street. I pulled in his favorite place and asked, "Is this okay?" I got the "please" sign again.

Okay, it's a little thing. I had my chicken wraps and Coca-Cola, while he had his usual two milks and large fries which he spread out all over the table. The fries that is, not the milk. He managed not to slop any moo juice. We had a good time together, and came home.

It's not often we make a connection like that. In fact, it's pretty darn rare. But I'll take them when I can get them, and treasure each one.

Maybe next time he'll let me pick the fast food joint.

"No Dad... the other fries!!"

A Century of Questions

My Grandmother was still alive when the 1997 blockbuster, "Titanic" hit the big screen. Through tears, she told me why she couldn't bring herself to see the movie. It seems that her mother, my Great-Grandma Brothwell was an acquaintance of one of the band members who played as the ship went down 100 years ago today. For Grandma, even the thought that her mother knew someone on board was too much to bear. It's a bit of a stretch to claim that I have any ties at all to the Titanic, but... there you go.

My Grandfather even teared up (as he was prone to do over just about anything, including episodes of Charlie's Angels) as he recalled how the Titanic was supposed to be "unsinkable." He claimed they unveiled a banner over the side that said God could not sink the ship. I suppose that's probably an urban legend, but the stories persist to this day that the claim was made.

It truly saddened me to read a comment online today from someone who said he was so sick of hearing about the Titanic that he wishes it would sink all over again. How sad it is that we easily dismiss the horrific way that hundreds of people died in those icy waters. What is even worse is the fact that it could have - should have been prevented. But for the sake of first-class passengers and their precious view of the ocean, the White Star Line chose to use a minimum of lifeboats... not nearly enough for the amount of passengers Titanic carried.

There are a lot of questions that will never be answered in this lifetime. What song was the band really playing when the ship went down? Most who heard it agree that it was a lively tune, and most certainly not, "Nearer My God to Thee." Why weren't more passengers from steerage saved, especially the children? Less than 50 percent of 2nd and 3rd class children were rescued, while 100 percent of the first class boys and girls survived. Something's just not right. Just how did my Great-grandmother know the band member? Grandma was from Scotland, so it seems entirely logical. But I've reviewed the passenger list a dozen times. There's wasn't a name on board that I can trace back to my family's lineage. It's another story lost.

I suppose Titanic holds my interest because of the power of story. The heroism of that day, the calmness of some passengers as they waved goodbye to loved ones, and how a different generation accepted in many ways what happened as God's divine providence. I love to hear first-hand accounts of our history. I want to know where I came from. In an odd way, it helps me to determine where I'm going. I think of all the World War Two veterans that we're losing every day. All that history... gone. All those memories wasted if we don't take the time to grab hold of, and cherish every word.

How do we honor the legacy of those who showed such bravery on April 15, 1912? There are no survivors left, no one to pray for; only memories to try to keep alive for another generation. The best we can do is draw on what we have. Talk to Grandpa and Grandma. Drink deeply from their fountain of history. Write it down, record it, preserve it. It's precious!

An observation has often been made about the women who passed up ice cream for desert on the night the ship sank, because they wanted to watch their figures. Again, probably an old urban legend, but it does remind us to live life to the fullest, and enjoy what God has blessed us with.

You never know when or even if your ship will make it to port.

The Miserable Obsession

Okay, I'm ready to come clean and admit it. I have an obsession. I know what you're thinking. "Well duh... we already know you're obsessed with pancakes. What else is new?"

Not even close. In fact, if it came right down to it, I would never eat another pancake until Jesus returns if it meant I couldn't hear the music of Les Miserables', the longest-running stage musical in modern history. One of my most cherished memories is seeing it onstage with my Dad at the Fisher Theatre in Detroit shortly before he passed away. Pam and I saw it again at the Fisher a few years later.

I saved up for months to buy myself a Christmas present that I'll finally get to enjoy on Tuesday: a front row ticket for Les Mis at the Wharton Center on the campus of MSU. (Pam doesn't share my obsession, so only one ticket was needed this time around. She's seen it once, and she's fine with that. Poor misguided young lady.) I feel like an 8-year old on Christmas morning! Rarely do I splurge on anything anymore. We hardly go out to eat, to the movies, or even on road trips because money is tight. In fact, Pam and I have a date night about once a year. We're okay with that. Bills have to be paid. But there's something about the music and story of Les Mis that has captured my heart, and I can't stay away.

I think it's because I see so much Biblical truth in the story's main character, Jean Valjean. He had a rough start... spending 19 years in prison for stealing a loaf of bread for his starving family, and for trying to escape. Yet a kindly Bishop showed him forgiveness, and that one simple act of love turned his life around. He went on to become a wonderful father to an orphaned girl, and heroically saved the life of her fiance' during a bloody student-led revolt against a corrupt government. In short, because his life had been changed, he put the needs of others ahead of his own.

The apostle Paul wrote in Acts 20:24, "However, I consider my life worth nothing to me; my only aim is to finish the race and complete the task the Lord Jesus has given me—the task of testifying to the good news of God’s grace." Intentional or not, I think that's the message of Les Miserables'... that's certainly what it means to me. It's the way I want to live my life.

The finale'.... oh, the finale'! If they don't play it at my funeral, I just may find a way to come back and haunt someone. Jean Valjean sings the line I want inscribed someday on my tombstone: "To love another person is to see the face of God."

Yeah. I can be obsessed with that.

I Win Anyway

Here's a sure bet: I am not going to win the Mega Millions jackpot of $540 million dollars. Why am I so sure? Because I'm not playing, that's why! Here's a second sure bet: The winning numbers will not be 3-6-19-27-29 and bonus number 40.

Those were the numbers I used to play fairly regularly before I gave up any form of gambling. It's part of my vows as a Minister not to gamble... and quite frankly, I've come to believe it's just a good idea anyway. Spending even a dollar of the funds God has graciously blessed me with so I can win someone else's money doesn't seem like good stewardship to me. There is one guarantee in gambling: In order to win, several others have to lose. I just can't feed that animal.

Oh, I've come close though. A few years ago there was a CD set by one of my favorite preachers that I really wanted to buy. But since I didn't have the $45 for it, I began to ask God to provide. Sure enough, when I stopped in to get a coffee at the local convenience store, a stack of lottery tickets seemed to be staring back at me. "Here's your miracle," I heard. "Buy a ticket, you'll get the money." Sorry, but taking a chance that a ticket might be a winner isn't trusting in God for the answer. It's a way of trying to circumvent His promises to give us the desires of our hearts in accordance with His will. Jesus said that His sheep hear His voice, and won't listen to a stranger. Those talking tickets were NOT of God. So I walked away.

Later that week, someone handed me an unexpected check for the entire amount of the CD set.

Regarding this weekend's lottery, one man is quoted by the AP as saying, "If I win, the first thing I'm going to do is buy a (Tim) Tebow football shirt, and I'm going to do the Tebow pose. I'm with him in honoring a higher power."

Now. I'm not judging that man's faith by any means. I'm sure he means well. But I just think that honoring God means putting a little more trust in Him that if we live righteously and according to His word, if we return our tithes to the storehouse and give Him the glory, He'll pour out a blessing that we can't begin to contain. Shouldn't we have more trust in the inspired words written in red than six computer generated numbers on a ticket?

3, 6, 19, 27, 29. 40. When they don't show up on my television screen this weekend, I'll be glad I kept my dollar in my pocket.

I think I'll use it to plant some seed instead.

Of Waffles, Drills, and IPads

I'm hurting. Badly. Since early December, I've been battling a painfully sore hip that's being caused by either a muscular condition or degenerative arthritis, depending on which health care professional is to be believed. At any rate, the pain seems to spread just about anywhere it darn well pleases, leaving me irritable, frustrated, and at certain times incredibly angry.

Yet it's been good for me. The apostle Paul wrote that he delighted in his weaknesses, because when he was weak, then he was strong in the Lord. I'm beginning to understand on a much smaller scale what Paul meant. Suffering through the sort of pain that limits my ability to lift anything heavier than a jug of milk is not only humbling, it has opened the door for God to show Himself perfect and mighty in my life. Let me explain.

This affliction has drawn me to my knees. As strange as this will undoubtedly sound to my skeptic friends and relative(s), the pain has been an answer to my prayers. I began to feel last year as if I had lost my "edge" in my personal relationship with God. I was doing the work of the ministry, but not growing at all in my walk with Jesus. I felt stagnant, alone, and depressed by the depravity of the world around me in these last days. Not willing to give up, I asked God to do whatever it takes to get my attention. Well, He got it. I have no choice but to seek God more earnestly in prayer. And as I have returned to my first love, as I have delighted in the Lord, other things have begun to fall into place.

He has humbled me through my finances. Pam and I each had to replace our cars early this year. The only way to do it was for each of us to "give up" our own weekly spending money. I'm lucky to have a quarter in my pocket. But God has used it to teach me how fortunate I am. I have more empathy for those who have nothing at all. It has prompted me to pray and work harder to reach the lost people of our community. And it's working.

But here's the really good stuff. The delightful stuff. Psalms 37:4 says, "Take delight in the LORD, and he will give you the desires of your heart." Are you ready for this? In the last month, people have been blessing my socks off out of the blue! A friend surprised me with a brand new restaurant-quality Belgian waffle maker, along with blueberries and waffle mix. Another friend bought me a brand new high-quality drill. Yet another couple knocked on my door and handed me a brand new IPad with a $25 ITunes gift card. I certainly didn't ask for any of those things, or even hint around that I wanted them. Yet each of them was a "desire" of my heart. That's over a thousand dollars worth of stuff just handed to me for no other reason than the fact that God put it on someone's heart. I didn't even think to ask God for any of those things. I was too busy seeking His face.

Now. Can healing be far away? I daresay I'm willing to wait on God.