Family Night

“You don’t look like an Ewok to me.”
“It’s not Ewok, Grandpa, it’s Emo. E-M-O.” Maddie blew long, black hair from her forehead.
“Emo, then. You don’t look like one of those either; do you?” The old man turned to his son without waiting for an answer. His voiced dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “What’s an Emo?”
It’s an angst ridden kid being by a suffocating society that is sucking the life from her like a pair of her sister’s hand-me-down jeans. Which, by the way, look incredibly good on me.”
“Gotcha,” Grandpa said with a wink.
Maddie followed the roll of her eyes and disappeared into her bedroom.
“Something wrong dad?” Don asked.
“I don’t hear any music. You kids always cranked up the music after a conversation like that.”
“Ear buds.” Don continued a curious study of his father’s face. A moment of clarity passed. Don pointed at his ears. “Like head phones only smaller.”
The elder man nodded understanding. “No wonder kids can’t hear nowadays.”
“Huh?”
“Good one.” Grandpa bumped fists with his son.
“You two are soooo lame,” Drew said from his spot on the floor. Drew, a younger version of the two men, frantically flipped switches and levers on a game controller without taking his eyes from the television screen where soldiers and zombies vied for world domination.
“Well, we’ll see who lame in about...,” Grandpa looked at his watch, “...an hour and a half.”
“Ah, dad do I have to? I was going to go over to Tim’s house.” Drew’s protest didn’t interfere with the on-screen slaughter.
“Every body's going. Your Grandma and Grandpa came all this way.”
“Besides,” Grandpa added, “it’s your patriotic duty.”
“My what?” Drew asked oblivious to the look that passed between his father and grandfather.
“I was going to let you tell them.” Don softly kicked his son’s backside.
“Then, they’ll just have to wait.” Grandpa checked his watch again; rose and headed for the door. “You know the place, right?”
“Don’t worry, dad, we’ll be there.”
“On time?”
“Yes, on time. I promise.”

At exactly seven-fifteen Don loaded his mother, his wife and his kids into cab of the family’s F250. The truck rolled back into the road; stopped and rolled forward again.
“Get back in there and get some descent clothes on,” Don scolded.
“Teenagers,” Grandma growled.
“It’s not fair,” Maddie whined.
“You better hurry before something really unfair happens to you,” Don warned.
“What you’ll make me stay home?” Maddie’s hope vanished with one look at her father’s face.
Five minutes later she was back in the Ford and the trip began anew. It was only eight miles to the spot on the county line where the bridge crossed Otter Creek. Don was determined not to be late and Maddie had already eaten up five minutes of the cushion he’d built into the schedule. There was still enough time, barely. The urge to speed up was biting like a swarm of ants, but Don kept his foot steady. The last thing they needed was to be stopped by some gung-ho county mountie.

Grandma had a white knuckle grip on the padded dash. The fire in her eyes wasn’t fear of her son’s driving or of the local police. A silvery thread of saliva slipped from the corner of her frozen smile. She didn’t seem to notice.

A mile further the headlights flashed on the steel beams of Otter Creek Bridge. Don eased the Ford over a rise and to within fifty yards of the span before cranking the wheel hard left to block the road.

“Everybody out,” Don said.

“I thought we were going out to eat,” Maddie moaned.

“We are.” Steel crept into Don’s voice. “Now, everybody out.”

“Ew, not steak again,” Maddie said.

“I think it’s time you and Grandma tell us what’s going on,” Don’s wife said.

“You all know about the problem Mr. Delbert is having with immigration?” Don asked.

“You mean smuggling illegals in to work at his farm?”

“They’re not illegals,” Don explained. “They have work visas. It’s just they don’t go home when they expire. They tend to stay on for less money or sneak off to other farms.”

“So?” Drew said.

“So, we happen to be in a unique position to help.” Don looked around at the faces of his family. “There’s a chance they could disappear without going home or staying here illegally.”

“That’s where we come in,” Grandma said.

Don cocked an ear toward the bridge. “Here they come now.”

An old deuce and a half rumbled around a bend in the gravel road and onto the bridge. The driver dimmed his lights when he saw the Ford blocking the way. It was the last mistake he would ever make.

A shadow dropped from the steel superstructure of the bridge to the cab of the truck with a metallic crash. The figure shattered the truck’s window with a single blow and hauled the driver through broken glass. The copper tang of fresh blood filled Don’s nose. The body bounced along the gravel and came to rest against an oak tree. The shadowy assailant jumped free of the truck. The driverless vehicle veered right and found an oak of its own.

The dark figure silhouetted against the moon waved the family closer. It was Grandpa--only he didn’t look the same. His howl of victory was echoed by Grandma. Her excited smile was now part of a long, toothy snout; her lips pulled back in a ravenous snarl.

“Fiesta!” Maddie shouted, but the word forced through semi-human vocal cords sounded little like the real thing.

Grandpa ripped open the truck’s back doors. The sight of an upright, silver-haired wolf froze the twenty migrants in the box. They thawed a few seconds later. That’s when the screams began. Otter Creek Bridge was a long way from ears interested in hearing. Drew and Maddie buried the scraps.

“What do you think of your old Grandpa now?” the old man asked.

“We love you, Grandpa,” the two said in unison. The words were punctuated with warm muzzle rubs.

“Did you get it all?” Grandpa asked.

“Fifty new one hundred dollar bills.” Don help them up.

“Leave it on the seat of his truck,” Grandpa said. “Delbert will have a crew pick it up in the morning. They’ll need it in another six months when the next set of visas expire.”

A Shocking Turn of Events

Jody was standing right beside me when the hammer came down behind my eyes. His voice, wrapped in cotton, floated in from far away. It was a helluva time for him to develop laryngitis. I tried to move closer. The hazy air in the trauma room was so thick it was like wading through glue.

I could make out Jody’s green scrubs, but the angle was all wrong. Mike got in my face and yelled something over his shoulder I couldn’t understand. He was gone as quickly as he appeared. The room began to spin around the drum beating between my ears. I was going to puke.

Good thing I held it back. Jody was rocking on somebody’s chest right below me. I couldn’t make out the guy’s face; Mary had half of it covered with a bag mask and Doc was leaning over the other half. The glint of light on the ET blade cut the fog. The room was getting crowded. Why wasn’t I in there helping? Weird.

I knew what was going on alright. I could choreograph a code with my eyes closed. I knew all the lines too.

“Epi!”

“Resume CPR.”

“Stop CPR--Clear!”

I had a strong sense of how this was going to end.

“Asystole,” Mary said.

No surprise there. What was surprising was finally getting a look at the guy’s face. It was only a little thicker than the air and blurred when the fan blew across it. Can you believe it, the guy waved at me. It was creepy, but not as creepy as seeing the guy float away through the ceiling.

Jody and Mike caught me under the arms.

“Up you go,” Mike said.

“What happened?”

“Dude, you forgot what “Clear” means. You bounced higher than the patient.” Jody felt the back of my head. “That’s gotta hurt.”

“This is going to look great on the code report,” Mary said. “Do you spell ‘oops’ with one ‘o’ or two?”  

Going with Flo

        The hospital is no place to spend Christmas. That business about death taking a holiday is strictly for the movies. The truth is death has a genuine affinity for the holidays. Who doesn’t have an aunt or a cousin sent to eternity by some guy full of holiday cheer? On the rare occasion when death does step out for a stroll, he always leaves a friend behind to mind the store. Cancer and stroke are always willing to step to do an extra shift and get the ball rolling. That’s why I’m spending this Christmas traipsing up and down the halls of Memorial Hospital.
        I don’t mind; not really. I don’t have kids or a tree to trim. If you ask me, Christmas has gotten way too commercialized. I’d spend the day with friends, but most of them are either away with family or right here working. What else am I going to do? I’m not complaining mind you; I’ve been a nurse too long for that.  
          If you must feel sorry for someone, feel sorry for the people behind these doors. Like Bea Callahan, the lady in 604, the cancer in her belly has likely robbed her of the chance to see a new year. The tumor eating away at her has finally tunneled its way from her colon to her bladder. She’s been peeing stool for a week. There’s an evil smell underneath the unpleasant aroma in the catheter bag. Dogs aren’t the only ones who can smell cancer; nurses do a fair job of it too.
         While you’re at it save a little sympathy for the man in Room 612, his name is Rich Blaylock. He can’t tell you that himself; not anymore. The bleeding in his brain turned him into a drooling parsnip months ago. Happy Christmas, right? His family would probably pay old death to stop by for a visit tonight.
       Compared to these two and their families I have a worry-free existence. My biggest headache these days is that pit bull, Linda, they call a charge nurse. She can’t seem to leave well enough alone. She’s forever going behind me; checking my work; prattling on about evidence based practices or computerized charts. She thinks I’m too old to cut it, but come morning, I’ll still be going while her backside is dragging.
       Excuse me a moment.
       “Hey Clara, where are you going in such a hurry?”
       “Call light’s on in 604.”
       That Clara walks like the wind.Come on; let’s try to keep up. No running; nurses don’t run. Take my hand.Here we are 604. Sorry, for the rush; take some deep breaths and let’s see what’s going on.
     “Look at her Flo.”
     That’s the first time in two days Bea’s eyes have been open. Look in her eyes; that subtle mixture of relief and anticipation; it’s almost like a sigh, don’t you think? It’s moments like this that make nursing worthwhile.
    “I like your lamp.”
    “Why thank you Bea. I’ve had it a long time.”
    “What Mama? Did you say something?”
    Oh, didn’t see her there, did you? That’s Emily, by the way. She’s Bea’s only daughter. She’s been here every night. She must have been kneeling down beside the bed. I wonder how long she’s been down there tonight. Emily’s a real prayer warrior. Well, she was here at the right time tonight. That doesn’t always happen, you know. But it’s nice when it does.
    “Look Em, the lady with the lamp. She’s beautiful.”
    “Huh? Who? My God, Mama! Nurse! Nurse!”
    Hold your ears; it’s going to get real noisy. I really don’t see the need for that god-awful din. That’s modern medicine for you. Every time we help someone out of bed bells, whistles and squawking buzzers begin screaming. No wonder the families cry.
    Oh, you might want to step clear of the door way, Linda’s going to come bursting into the room any second now. See, told you. Right on cue; that Linda’s punctual if nothing else. Look at her. She acts like we aren’t even here; that’s very unprofessional as far as I’m concerned.
    “Hello Bea, come over and meet everybody.”
    “Will Emily be okay?”
    “Of course she will, won’t she Clara?”
    “Your daughter will be fine.”
    We’ll let Linda handle things in here.Why don’t you and Clara show Bea the gardens. They’re lovely this time of year and the air will do you all good.
    “I’d like that,” Bea said. “I’m a nurse, you know.”
    “I know, that’s why we’re here,” Clara told her. “There’s a shortage.Well, there is on earth anyway.”
    “No shortage of nurses in heaven though. Clara, after the garden, take these two on their orientation tour. I’ll catch up to you later. Bea, did you have a question?”
    “Are you really Florence Nightingale?”
    “Oh, just call me Flo. Everybody does.”
    

    What’s that, you thought dead men tell no tales? Well, they don’t—at least not to the living. Maybe I’d better let check your pulse again.

Good Morals

The good moral man is life’s most tragic figure. The poor fellow does no wrong to anyone but himself. He would never think of stealing from his neighbor or lying to a friend. Yet daily, the good he does steals his chance for redemption because it deceives him into thinking redemption is unnecessary. It is not that this man cannot see his sins or ignores his faults. The trouble is that he doesn’t see them as a hindrance.

The scriptures call Christ both the chief cornerstone and the stumbling block of faith. As the gracious friend of sinners, He is the rock of their salvation. But to those out to establish their own righteousness, He is the great occasion to stumble. There are those who cannot imagine or tolerate goodness beyond their own reach. They would deny its existence than admit to failing to achieve it.

All who attempt to reform the soul are doomed to failure. Christianity is not about reform or compliance with rules. It is heartbreaking, but not rare to see Christians fail to achieve the absolute image of Christ. Exchanging a sinful, human nature for a vibrant, sinless one doesn’t happen overnight. It takes a lifetime and it is only when the natural life fades that the power of sin is broken and supplanted by the power of the Spirit.

Done to Perfection

I suppose if perfection came easily everyone would do it. The truth is, it’s not easy being perfect. I know, I try everyday and fail miserably. The problem is not lack of instruction; people line up to tell me where to improve and exactly what I need to do. Although I am somewhat slow on the uptake, the problem does not lie in a want of knowledge. I know what to do; I simply fail to do it. Furthermore, I’m convinced that my transformation into the most physically fit, handsome and well proportioned man alive would not increase my ability to do what perfection demands. The root of the problem goes deeper than that.

Having adopted twenty-some years ago I can say with confidence that behaviorists are the most deluded people on earth. Their greatest success stories are really nothing but smoke and mirrors. Behavior may be modified; obedience coerced; and personal goals rearranged all without ever touching the person underneath.
“I lost 50 pounds and now I feel like a new person!”

Then, you hit your thumb with a hammer and find out you’re not as new as you thought. In the end, not one ounce of anger, jealousy, or inner corruption dropped of the scale of personality.

Much is made of stress these days. Stress is nothing new, nor has more accumulated in the atmosphere along with greenhouse gases. Placing a man in paradise will not elicit perfect behavior. (Been there; done that.) The only solution to imperfection is to create a new man all the way down to the genetic level.

Given freedom to work, this is what Christianity does. Unfortunately, that freedom to work bit is more difficult than it sounds. The Christian God does not want to put a band-aid on personal flaws or to salve current troubles. He will do that. Getting over a rough patch is all people want from God, but that’s not what He wants. God enters a personal relationship with men to transform the thoughts and intents of man’s heart. Perfection comes when this is complete--not a moment before. Don’t quit.

Jesus is Lord of starters; Savior of finishers.    

Driven

I’m a big fan of wildlife documentaries. Our planet and the creatures that inhabit it are a constant source of amazement for me. One example that sticks with me is that of the enormous herds of wildebeest which cross the Mara River as part of their annual migration.
As the herd comes to the banks of the river, the leaders seem to hesitate. Do they know crocodiles are waiting just below the surface? Whatever the case may be the natural drive is so strong that the wildebeest plunge down the bank into the river. Even as the big crocodiles devour their companions before their eyes, the wildebeest continue to jump into the river. Their natural instinct compels them to risk their life.

Rebellion is the natural instinct of Man. Since the day he was offered the choice between obedience in paradise and rebellion in hell, Man has naturally chosen the latter. Like the wildebeest, he plunges into sin mindless of the consequences. The difference is Man chooses to cross many rivers every day when he could as easily do differently.

“Because that which may be known of God is manifest in them; for God hath shewed it unto them. For the invisible things of him from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even his eternal power and Godhead; so that they are without excuse: because that, when they knew God, they glorified him not as God, neither were thankful; but became vain in their imaginations, and their foolish heart was darkened. Professing themselves to be wise, they became fools...Who knowing the judgment of God, that they which commit such things are worthy of death, not only do the same, but have pleasure in them that do them.”

Finding Fault

One day a group of very religious men, who no doubt thought themselves righteous, brought a known adulteress to Jesus. To enhance her guilt, they waited and caught her in the act. These men had no interest whatsoever in this woman or her problems. Their goal was to find fault with the way this friend of publicans and sinners would handle the situation.

The law of God called for her to be stoned for her sin. However, in that day, only the Roman administration could pronounce such a penalty. Would Jesus obey the Law of God or violate the law of Rome? Either choice was convenient for this woman’s accusers.
Jesus upheld the law of God and invited those without sin to cast the first stone. A short time later, Jesus and the woman stood alone. Jesus pardoned her with the admonition to, “sin no more.”

The focus of this story is most often directed at the self-righteousness of the accusers; the universality of sin and the pardon of Christ. All are applicable. However, consider for a moment one more thought from the story.

Whatever faults and sins the accusers possessed, they all had one very important virtue. They were able, if only for a moment, to see clearly into their own hearts and see the darkness there. People have an amazing capacity for self-deception, especially when it comes to motivation. We shrug and say, “no one's perfect,” as if there are no consequences to that somber fact.

It is never enough to acknowledge that sin is everywhere and that people give themselves to it. We must be aware of sin’s presence in the one place that matters most--our own heart. That is the only sin any of us can do something about.

Facing Facts

“ In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.” The Bible begins with the testimony of the only witness to events. There is no argument for the existence of a divine being or the intelligent fabrication of the universe. It is simply stated as fact.

The Bible is just that--a statement of fact. It is the testimony of God as to how things began and how they will end. Each man has a lifetime to evaluate the truth God presents. What we do with that truth is up to us, but the possibilities are endless.

We may choose “to ride upon the high places of the earth.” We may choose to wallow in the mire. The truth cannot be changed, and the truth is that “He came unto his own, and his own received him not. But as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of God...”

“And this is the record, that God hath given to us eternal life, and this life is in his Son. He that hath the Son hath life; and he that hath not the Son of God hath not life.”