Life on the Inside

Our son Jason called from Ft. Lewis, WA the other night to say that the next couple of weeks would be "the worst ever." Firing various weapons at the range in daylight and then in darkness, shackling vehicles and equipment to be air dropped, seizing an airfield by parachuting in under the cover of night with hundreds of other soldiers, and road marching 22 miles were a few of the things he mentioned NOT looking forward to. In other words, the very things that drew him into the military in the first place.

Jason's imagination was colored olive drab by the age of three, when he first belted out,"Old MacDonald had a farm, G.I., G.I. Joe!" Carrot sticks or french fries in his chubby fists never failed to battle it out, accompanied by sounds of "Pckoo, pckoo!" his best imitation of M-16 gun fire. By the time he started school, his favorite past time was stalking enemies in the woods behind our house with his number one comrade in arms, Alexander--both clad in oversized camouflage and armed with sticks. In high school JROTC, he worked his way up to the rank of battalion sergeant major before graduating and finally fulfilling his dream of becoming a real infantryman.

But now he's on the inside, and the jump boots have lost some of their luster, so to speak. The high adventure he dreamed about has turned into a reality of exhausting training and day-to-day tasks that are more often mundane than manly. He still really does love the parachuting, weapons-firing, and romping through the forest, but he's learned that being a soldier involves more than just the fun stuff. He sees the complete picture, now that he wears his own uniform instead of his dad's. Jason's collision with reality isn't so different than that of anyone else growing up and entering the adult world. From moms to teachers, and from businessmen and women to any professional or manual laborer out there, how many of us have stopped to shake our heads and lament, "This is not what I signed up for!"

The same not-knowing-what-we're-in-for thing happens when we finally grasp the significance of the cross and enter into the body of Christ. We may have resisted for years because we were too busy, too uninterested, or too turned off by Hollywood's unwavering stereotypic portrayal of simpleminded, judgmental, and hateful Christians on the screen, or by the hypocrisy of a church-going neighbor or co-worker. Maybe we didn't know what to think of God so we didn't think of Him at all. Whatever the case, when we entered in by faith, we found that the view from the inside is far different than that from the outside, and, unlike other experiences in life, far better than anything we could ever ask or imagine.

The Bible says "No eye has seen, no ear has heard, no mind has conceived what God has prepared for those who love Him." He's given us a whole book of reasons to believe that He means what He says, and He's given us His church built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets with Christ Jesus Himself as the chief cornerstone. But we'll never know what we're missing until we enter in through faith.

Jason found out that life on the inside of the army is not exactly what he had dreamed about. The glory and the thrill are still there, but they tend to get lost in the daily grind. Likewise, the Christian life has its own thrill and glory, but unlike in the army, it is the little things that happen day in and day out that magnify this truth rather than cloud it. Just ask any insider.

Accused

“What have you been allowing this girl to wear on her feet to cause this type of damage?” demanded the pediatrician.

My daughter was born with structural feet problems that had steadily worsened over the years. Those crooked feet had been cushioned, supported, and lovingly pampered since the day I’d sent out announcements declaring the birth of our perfect baby girl with fuzzy hair and floppy feet. I sighed and defended myself.

Moms aren’t perfect, but we sure seem to get a bad rap. For me, it started in the hospital after my first son’s arrival. “Mrs. Moore, did you eat something gassy? Your baby is screaming in the nursery. You know,” lectured the nurse, suspiciously eyeing the remains on my dinner tray, “whatever you eat the baby takes in, too.” Wet diapers, it turns out, also cause babies to cry.

I’m not saying I don’t make mistakes. My family and friends certainly know otherwise. But even those closest to me don’t make accusations, even when I’m way off the mark. There are other ways to nudge me in the right direction, and if there is guilt to be reckoned with, they know I’ll sniff it out on my own. Moms do that.

But, thankfully, I never have to wallow in my guilt. The Bible says that in Christ I’ve been made complete—that when I was dead in my transgressions, He made me alive together with Him, having forgiven all of my transgressions. That leaves me utterly free to move forward, learning from my mistakes, and focusing on doing the right thing.

In that vein, I sought a nutritionist’s counsel when my lean and fit daughter began expressing undue concerns about her weight. “It appears,” the woman told me with a grimace, “that you just want to control things.”

Code Blue

About five hours after Hayley’s surgery on Tuesday, which relocated a chunk of bone from her hip to her foot, the pain medication finally kicked in and she leaned back and nodded off. She had been agitated and in pain since emerging from her anesthesia fog and being wheeled to the orthopedic ward, so it was a relief to see her looking relaxed. Chuck took Julia, Hayley’s friend visiting from Kentucky, to grab a bite to eat, while I settled onto the couch in front of the window in her hospital room, scanning the sport’s page.

Several moments later, I heard a labored, deep-in-the-throat, sucking gasp. I rushed over and stuck my face close to Hayley’s, calling her name. No response. Her face and lips were greenish. I lightly smacked her cheek, which caused her head to roll to the side, and I yelled her name over and over. Her eyelids didn’t flutter. I detected no breath escaping from her nose or lips. “HAYLEY!”

I pushed the call button and blurted that I needed help. The voice at the other end said, “Yes? Can I help you? Is there anything you need?”

I ran to the hallway, saw that it was empty, and yelled, “HELP! I NEED HELP!” My voice boomed, and I knew I had been heard throughout the entire fifth floor. Immediately, Donald, the physical therapist, darted into view on my left and asked what was wrong. A young woman, presumably his assistant, shadowed him. “She’s not breathing,” I told them. Someone else sprinted up the hall from the opposite direction.

A lot of things flew through my mind at that moment. I was praying constantly. I feared that it was too late, that the gasp I’d heard had signified the end. I also thought that maybe I was wrong about everything, and that she really was just in a deep sleep. If I’m wrong, they’re going to have me committed. They’ll think I’ve lost it . . . Please, let them think that. Let me be wrong.

I returned to Hayley’s side, and seconds later, Donald told me he had found a weak pulse. She was still alive! I remember my knees shaking and my eyes watering as I stood praying. Donald’s assistant rubbed my back and repeatedly told me everything was going to be okay. More people charged through the door, and someone asked me what Hayley’s name was. I heard them calling her and telling her to wake up, and I knew she still wasn’t breathing.

More and more people swarmed into the room. They were still calling her name, but I could no longer see her through the multi-colored mass of scrubs and lab coats. The din increased. Someone asked me if this was her normal pallor. “No.”

Then I heard the Code Blue announcement over the hospital PA system. It was surreal to think that it was for my own child . . . and it confirmed that the situation was as dire as I had feared. People continued streaming into the room—a room that had seemed surprisingly spacious and bright when Hayley had first arrived. Now it felt small and cramped and hot.

“Mrs. Moore, would you mind stepping into the hallway?” I didn’t want to leave Hayley. But it was Donald, the physical therapist, who asked, and I trusted him enough to let him lead me out. Donald is one of those unflappable professionals you want on hand in a life or death situation. He had done his part, being first on the scene, and now he stood in the doorway watching the commotion inside the room, while reassuring me that she was going to be okay. “You did everything right,” he told me. I overheard him tell someone else, “The mom did everything right.”

When things are spinning out of control, it’s helpful to hear that you did everything right.

A woman in a white sweater put her arm around me and prayed. There were as many people congregating in the hallway as there were in the room. Others, out of breath, continued arriving in clumps of two and three. They never stopped coming. A man introduced himself as a hospital chaplain and shook my hand. I wondered why he was smiling and wanting to chitchat at a time like this. I don’t remember what we talked about, just that my eyes were fixed on Donald in the doorway. At some level, I knew the chaplain was trying to distract me; the smile, I later realized, was his natural demeanor.

Finally, I heard the happiest words in the English language: “She’s pinking up!” A moment later: “She’s awake!” And then: “‘Mom,’ you can come in and see her now.”

Hayley looked small and scared, but her face was beautifully flushed and she was breathing. Someone told me I could hold her hand, but when I tried to do that, she pulled away. You little pill, I thought. Later, she told me she remembered doing that but was confused at the time. Gradually, the heroes and helpers flowed from the room, like an outgoing tide, while a few lagged behind, scribbling reports. The nurse never left Hayley’s side until she was transported to the ICU for closer monitoring.

That morning I had read David’s words: I saw the Lord always before me. Because he is at my right hand, I will not be shaken. That was the scripture I had turned over and over in my mind earlier in the day, while Hayley was in the operating room. During the Code Blue crisis, I was admittedly rattled and distressed, but not out-of-my-mind panicked. Instead, I prayed. I think it was that morning’s scripture, putting things in a proper perspective ahead of time, that kept me from completely falling apart when things got scary.

I also know that people were praying for Hayley like crazy that day, from a women’s Bible study in Virginia to family members in southern California, and many more in between, especially right here at home. All in all, from the two surgeons who worked on her foot and hip, to the quick-footed physical therapists and all of the other Code Blue responders, to every medical staff member who attended Hayley, and to those praying far and wide across the country—a whole lot of people did everything right.

Whooooosh

In my small northern California town sprawled on a hillside, I was the kid who was always in a hurry.

Whoooosh. Three blocks to Food Lane for applesauce.

Zoom. Six blocks to the library to return books.

When people saw my short legs churning up the sidewalk, they probably looked to see who was chasing me. Why would a little girl run like blazes all over town?

The answer was simple: my sister Susan was counting. A typical prelude to one of my headlong sprints went like this:

Susan, at the movie theater: “Oh no, I forgot my glasses. Run home and get them for me, will you?”

Me: “They’re your glasses. Get them yourself.”

Susan, in an enticing, sing-songy tone: “I’ll coouunt.”

Me: Whooooosh.

The simple truth was that Susan knew what made me tick. She had figured out—and wasn’t ashamed to exploit—the fact that I couldn’t resist a challenge to run faster than I ever had before. Never mind the unscientific method of measuring my speed; once the gauntlet was thrown, I was off to the races. Of course, I now realize she never counted beyond three—the time it took me to scamper out of earshot—but, bided her time until I drew near enough to hear some random numeric sequence: “Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine.” The numbers always sounded pretty good, but I always knew I’d do better next time.

Ultimately, of course, God is the One who knows what makes me tick. Psalm 139 says He has searched me and is familiar with all my ways. He created me. And not unlike my sister, He has work for me to accomplish suited to my passions and talents, and He delights to see me rush eagerly to do it. In fact, He’s counting on me.

The Race

This weekend I participated in my first ever multi-sport competition, a women's-only duathlon. The race consisted of a two-kilometer run, followed by a hilly 10-mile bike ride, and another two-kilometer run. Since I run or cycle most days, anyway, I figured it would be fairly simple to combine the two activities into one fun event.

But, if you've never hopped off your bike and attempted to run even six steps, you probably have no idea how rebellious the human leg muscles can be. The transition from cycling to running triggers a phenomenon called--with good reason--the grip. Simply put, in cycling the quadriceps propel you forward, while in running you mainly use the hamstrings. Quickly switching from one mode of locomotion to the other causes both legs, from calves to hips, to tighten up and scream, "I quit."

That little challenge notwithstanding, the duathlon was definitely as much fun as I thought it would be. With only women participating, it was competitive . . . but kinder and gentler than your typical all-comer's event. In fact, during both of the round trip run routes, every person I encountered threw me an encouraging word, smile, or wave--and usually all three. Not wanting to seem rude, I managed a polite grunt in return, even though I was sucking wind.

My cycling stint got off to a bumpy start. Pushing my bike, I ran out of the transition area, per the race instructions, and proceeded to fling myself aboard. However, mid-fling, an official pointed out that there was yet one more painted line on the asphalt just ahead to be crossed before mounting, so I clumsily attempted to defy physics and reverse my action. Gravity won out as the bike went down and I flew over the handle bars. Happily, this put me well past the line, with my bike close enough to drag across as well.

Even with the resulting bloodied knee and bruised shin, the competition was exhilarating and extremely satisfying. It was a great reminder of why the apostle Paul so often described the Christian life using athletic terms--run with endurance; press on toward the goal; discipline your body. Paul's point is clear: Christianity is not a spectator sport.

But it's also not about mindless calisthenics that you do because you think you should, while hating every minute. Rather, the Christ-centered life is rewarding and exciting, and it gets the adrenaline flowing. And just when you find yourself settling into a comfortable pace, beware--God might just decide to change things up to challenge your mind, stretch your muscles, and give you a taste of the grip.

Come Down From the Cross

Today I'm guest blogging over at Morning Coffee. Renae has a great site. Check it out.

No Strings Attached

At a church I once attended, the soloist was amazing, and at the end of the service I rushed over to gush and thank her for her contribution to our morning's worship. "Oh, thanks," she replied, barely pausing to look at me as she slid from her pew. A few weeks later, I was again moved by her magnificent song. But this time, after the benediction, I turned toward the exit and shuffled out with the mob. My praise doesn't seem to mean that much to her, anyway, I thought.

Wow, who knew I was so needy? Who would have thought that my "heartfelt" compliments actually came with strings attached? Not me, until I realized that apparently I was willing to be a blessing to others as long as they were willing to bless me back. No money necessary, just be sure to light up with gratitude whenever I deign to acknowledge your God-given talents. Yikes.

It's pretty disturbing to discover something like this about yourself. In fact, it can trigger full-scale introspection and unearth all kinds of additional ugliness. I'll spare you the details.

Fortunately, we're not left to wallow in this pit without help, because if we open our eyes, we'll see that God has placed people all around us who really understand His blessing concept. These people don't just bless the rest of us, they set an example of service we can follow, like Epaphroditus, mentioned by Paul in his letter to the Philippians. Paul tells us to hold men like this in high regard.

A man in my church--I'll call him Mark O. because that's his name--is a perfect example. Every time my daughter goes through surgery or is having a rough time, Mark shows up on our doorstep, hands over a Dairy Queen Blizzard, and tells her he hopes she feels better soon. My daughter thanks him with a shy smile but doesn't exclaim or do cartwheels. Mark doesn't care; his only aim is to bless her.

Christ offers all of us the same type of no-strings-attached blessing with His gift of salvation. Bound to the cross not by string but by nails pounded in with finality, He canceled out the certificate of debt against us. How can we accept this free gift and dare to place conditions upon anyone whom He has given us the power to bless?