Possibly one of my biggest design flaws (not counting thunder thighs) is that I truly imagine the world can be perfect.
Logically speaking, I should know better.
I mean, it's not like I don't notice the brokenness around me. I see it every time I turn on the television or read news updates on my computer. I see the irrefutable evidence while driving through my city. I've experienced it within in my own family, within my own heart.
Yet I can't seem to stop myself from imagining that if we all just tried a little harder, loved a little deeper, prayed a little more, then all the suffering would go away. Little children would never have sad eyes. Friends would never be lonely. Sons and daughters would not march off to war. Families would never break apart. Our minds and our bodies would always be healthy.
And then the first of the month rolls around, and my rose-colored glasses are ripped right off my face.
***
Every 30 days I spend time with some very special patients. These are not typical physical therapy patients, in that they are not expected to make significant progress in functional ability. Ever. All are far enough along in their varied disabilities that functional recovery would require nothing short of a miracle. They are referred to by insurance as "maintenance" patients.
Every 30 days – whether I need it or not - I get a heartbreaking reminder that there will always be suffering and brokenness among the oh-so-mortal people who inhabit this oh-so-mortal planet.
And every 30 days, I am humbly reminded of just how perfectly God uses broken people to inspire our broken world. To inspire me.
***
One of my favorite patients (ever!) is a man I will refer to as Joe. He is a total quadriplegic due to the debilitating effects of a progressive neuromuscular disease and has been primarily bed-bound for the past 15 years or so. Joe is able to operate a wheelchair by using an adapted chin mechanism. His chin, his eyes and his mouth are the only parts of his body Joe can move.
As you might imagine, speech is very difficult for him. Joe's vocal cords have become so weakened that he can barely be heard above a whisper. Much of our conversation involves lip reading on my part. And since I suck at lip reading, I very often try to jump ahead of him and wrongly anticipate and interpret his words. He is forevermore patient with me, smiles, and repeats his words over and over until I finally get what he has to say.
And boy, has this guy got a lot to say.
As the owner of a brilliantly quick mind and a wicked sense of humor, he is overflowing with conversation each time we meet. Every time I see him, he has a list of questions that he has saved up for me regarding his disease or a particular topic of interest. These exchanges have somehow morphed into a bit of a game between us. Instead of giving him complete answers to his questions, I always leave him with ‘homework’ to discover the answers on his own and report to me upon my next visit.
I usually forget the topic, but Joe never does.
***
As I walked into his room last week, he couldn't wait to tell me how many muscles comprise the hamstrings and took a great deal of time to painstakingly name each one. I sagely nodded my head, hoping he wouldn't guess that not only had I forgotten about the homework, I had also forgotten the name of that pesky Semimembranosus.
After we had stumbled our way through the hamstrings discussion, I removed Joe's Dallas Cowboys slippers and began exercising his withered legs. I soon noticed that he had grown uncharacteristically quiet.
“What’s up, Joe? Are you feeling bad today?” I asked.
“No. I’m ... okay.” He whispered. “It's Mom. She ... she has ... cancer. Must have ... surgery.”
[Joe receives daily provider care and lives at home with his Mom. Together they have forged a dynamic duo that not only triumphs over Joe's disabilities, but has also carried each other through the recent loss of his Dad.]
“I'm sorry, Joe. I'll put your Mom in my prayers. Are you scared?”
“Yes, I ...” was all Joe could manage before his face crumpled and his eyes filled with tears. He tried to speak again, but conversation became more and more difficult.
I sat down beside him on the bed, straining with everything in me to understand his trembling whispers.
“She ... she ... she doesn’t. Deserve. She doesn’t deserve this.” He finally replied.
“No, Joe. She absolutely does not. And you don’t deserve it either. Life really sucks, sometimes. But you know what, Joe? Everything is going to be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, then it’s not the end. We just have to hang on, buddy.”
“I ... like ... that. Will ... do that.” Joe said, with a shadow of a smile.
“And you know what? Maybe old Nostradamus and those Mayans will be right and the world really will end this year.”
“Be ... okay ... with me.” Joe said, really smiling now. “Ready for ... a new ... body.”
“Ah, Joe. Won’t that be great? I mean, yeah, I'll be out of a job - not much demand for physical therapists in heaven - but I'm good with that. I plan on spending my days floating on the clouds and eating red M&Ms. And watching you run, of course.”
Joe rested for awhile, obviously deep in thought. I felt overwhelmed with sadness at the unfairness of life. And more than a wee bit angry. Angry that even with a buttload of faith, sometimes life really does seem to be TOO hard. TOO sad. TOO much.
“Thanks ... for prayers” he whispered.
“You’ve always had my prayers.” I replied. “I just need to pray harder for your Mom.”
***
And so I have.
Certainly not because I know God will do what I want Him to do. I pray because I trust God to do what is right.
It's not about getting heaven to do my will. It's about aligning myself to God's will.
And God's will for me is clear.
Clearly, He doesn't want me to get lost in my imaginings of a perfect, unbroken world.
And clearly, He is not a big fan of my snazzy rose-colored glasses. He never ceases to knock those glasses off and force me to look deeply into the eyes of suffering. But in doing so, I learn to trust Him more. God is clever that way.
He's selfish, too. Because God doesn't just want all my faith and all my trust. He also wants me to put all my hope in Him. Somehow He knows - God knows - that if I miss seeing the brokenness, then I will miss the hope.
****
Joe understands hope. His body failed him years ago. Yet he has always trusted that Jesus will not.
I bent to hug him before I left. “Keep the faith,” I whispered in his ear. “God is good.”
“He ... is.”
As I turned to leave, I heard Joe finish his sentence:
“... my ... Everything.”
***************************************************
Logically speaking, I should know better.
I mean, it's not like I don't notice the brokenness around me. I see it every time I turn on the television or read news updates on my computer. I see the irrefutable evidence while driving through my city. I've experienced it within in my own family, within my own heart.
Yet I can't seem to stop myself from imagining that if we all just tried a little harder, loved a little deeper, prayed a little more, then all the suffering would go away. Little children would never have sad eyes. Friends would never be lonely. Sons and daughters would not march off to war. Families would never break apart. Our minds and our bodies would always be healthy.
And then the first of the month rolls around, and my rose-colored glasses are ripped right off my face.
***
Every 30 days I spend time with some very special patients. These are not typical physical therapy patients, in that they are not expected to make significant progress in functional ability. Ever. All are far enough along in their varied disabilities that functional recovery would require nothing short of a miracle. They are referred to by insurance as "maintenance" patients.
Every 30 days – whether I need it or not - I get a heartbreaking reminder that there will always be suffering and brokenness among the oh-so-mortal people who inhabit this oh-so-mortal planet.
And every 30 days, I am humbly reminded of just how perfectly God uses broken people to inspire our broken world. To inspire me.
***
One of my favorite patients (ever!) is a man I will refer to as Joe. He is a total quadriplegic due to the debilitating effects of a progressive neuromuscular disease and has been primarily bed-bound for the past 15 years or so. Joe is able to operate a wheelchair by using an adapted chin mechanism. His chin, his eyes and his mouth are the only parts of his body Joe can move.
As you might imagine, speech is very difficult for him. Joe's vocal cords have become so weakened that he can barely be heard above a whisper. Much of our conversation involves lip reading on my part. And since I suck at lip reading, I very often try to jump ahead of him and wrongly anticipate and interpret his words. He is forevermore patient with me, smiles, and repeats his words over and over until I finally get what he has to say.
And boy, has this guy got a lot to say.
As the owner of a brilliantly quick mind and a wicked sense of humor, he is overflowing with conversation each time we meet. Every time I see him, he has a list of questions that he has saved up for me regarding his disease or a particular topic of interest. These exchanges have somehow morphed into a bit of a game between us. Instead of giving him complete answers to his questions, I always leave him with ‘homework’ to discover the answers on his own and report to me upon my next visit.
I usually forget the topic, but Joe never does.
***
As I walked into his room last week, he couldn't wait to tell me how many muscles comprise the hamstrings and took a great deal of time to painstakingly name each one. I sagely nodded my head, hoping he wouldn't guess that not only had I forgotten about the homework, I had also forgotten the name of that pesky Semimembranosus.
After we had stumbled our way through the hamstrings discussion, I removed Joe's Dallas Cowboys slippers and began exercising his withered legs. I soon noticed that he had grown uncharacteristically quiet.
“What’s up, Joe? Are you feeling bad today?” I asked.
“No. I’m ... okay.” He whispered. “It's Mom. She ... she has ... cancer. Must have ... surgery.”
[Joe receives daily provider care and lives at home with his Mom. Together they have forged a dynamic duo that not only triumphs over Joe's disabilities, but has also carried each other through the recent loss of his Dad.]
“I'm sorry, Joe. I'll put your Mom in my prayers. Are you scared?”
“Yes, I ...” was all Joe could manage before his face crumpled and his eyes filled with tears. He tried to speak again, but conversation became more and more difficult.
I sat down beside him on the bed, straining with everything in me to understand his trembling whispers.
“She ... she ... she doesn’t. Deserve. She doesn’t deserve this.” He finally replied.
“No, Joe. She absolutely does not. And you don’t deserve it either. Life really sucks, sometimes. But you know what, Joe? Everything is going to be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, then it’s not the end. We just have to hang on, buddy.”
“I ... like ... that. Will ... do that.” Joe said, with a shadow of a smile.
“And you know what? Maybe old Nostradamus and those Mayans will be right and the world really will end this year.”
“Be ... okay ... with me.” Joe said, really smiling now. “Ready for ... a new ... body.”
“Ah, Joe. Won’t that be great? I mean, yeah, I'll be out of a job - not much demand for physical therapists in heaven - but I'm good with that. I plan on spending my days floating on the clouds and eating red M&Ms. And watching you run, of course.”
Joe rested for awhile, obviously deep in thought. I felt overwhelmed with sadness at the unfairness of life. And more than a wee bit angry. Angry that even with a buttload of faith, sometimes life really does seem to be TOO hard. TOO sad. TOO much.
“Thanks ... for prayers” he whispered.
“You’ve always had my prayers.” I replied. “I just need to pray harder for your Mom.”
***
And so I have.
Certainly not because I know God will do what I want Him to do. I pray because I trust God to do what is right.
It's not about getting heaven to do my will. It's about aligning myself to God's will.
And God's will for me is clear.
Clearly, He doesn't want me to get lost in my imaginings of a perfect, unbroken world.
And clearly, He is not a big fan of my snazzy rose-colored glasses. He never ceases to knock those glasses off and force me to look deeply into the eyes of suffering. But in doing so, I learn to trust Him more. God is clever that way.
He's selfish, too. Because God doesn't just want all my faith and all my trust. He also wants me to put all my hope in Him. Somehow He knows - God knows - that if I miss seeing the brokenness, then I will miss the hope.
****
Joe understands hope. His body failed him years ago. Yet he has always trusted that Jesus will not.
I bent to hug him before I left. “Keep the faith,” I whispered in his ear. “God is good.”
“He ... is.”
As I turned to leave, I heard Joe finish his sentence:
“... my ... Everything.”
***************************************************
I asked God for strength that I might achieve.
I was made weak that I might learn humbly to obey.
I asked God for health that I might do greater things.
I was given infirmity that I might do better things.
I asked for riches that I might be happy.
I was given poverty that I might be wise.
I asked for power that I might have the praise of men.
I was given weakness that I might feel the need of God.
I asked for all things that I might enjoy life.
I was given life that I might enjoy all things.
I got nothing that I asked for,
But everything I had hoped for.
Almost despite myself,
My unspoken prayers were answered.
I am among all men most richly blessed.
THE CREED FOR THE DISABLED (Written by a Confederate Soldier)
Love it!
ReplyDeletebeautifully said ... i'll pray for "joe's" mom :o)
ReplyDeleteFrom one PT to another... touching story. Thank you.
ReplyDelete