Some lessons come hard, but their messages have consequences for life from that time forward. During the summer of 2006, God carried me on a physical journey with amazing spiritual implications. I rediscovered God’s heart on what Americans usually call a “hospital gurney,” one of those wheeled stretchers that hospitals use to carry patients from one place to another within the hospital. But, before I get ahead of myself, let me give you some background.
For years it had been my practice to avoid hospital elevators and run the back stairs as I made pastoral care rounds. It was my excuse for- an-exercise program. “A busy pastor doesn’t have time for a real exercise program,” I told myself. That seemed to work until I began to experience shortness of breath as I ran up the stairs. On two occasions, I had to leave the stairwell and sit down before resorting to riding the elevator the rest of the way. I mentioned this to our family doctor. He immediately prescribed a cardiac stress test. So, I underwent a nuclear stress test, giving a whole morning to walking on a treadmill with special medications injected into my arms and leads running from me to machines that were designed to diagnose anything that might be wrong. I was delighted when the cardiologist who oversaw the test declared that there were no abnormalities. Two weeks later, my wife, Barbara, and I were walking along the shores of the Gulf of Mexico in beautiful Destin, Florida, when suddenly severe chest pains arrested me. Having just received good reports from my heart tests, I was convinced that whatever the pain was, it was not heart related. When the pain returned on subsequent days, I decided that perhaps I had a hiatal hernia and thought I should have it treated at some point. It was another of those “I’ll get around to it when I have time” moments.
And then it happened. One evening as I returned home around 11 P.M., after a long and busy day of ministry, I had a sense of pain unlike anything I had ever experienced before. At the time I likened it to a team of wild mustangs stampeding on my chest. What’s more, I was suddenly aware that I was sweating profusely. Barbara suggested that maybe I should go to the local emergency room (ER), but Mr. Take- Control-and-Manage-It (as some of my family and friends occasionally like to call me!) decided to lie down and wait a while. I fell asleep. In the morning the pain seemed to be gone. When a similar pain returned a few nights later, not even a good night’s sleep brought relief. This time when I called our family doctor he promptly ordered me to the ER. I’ve never heard him be firmer. He even said that Barbara should drive me there. Talk about giving up control!
That same day the cardiologist was back on the scene. When we met in the ER he informed me that he and our family doctor had decided that I should have a heart catheterization procedure, a process in which a tiny tube is inserted in the groin area and threaded up through the veins to view heart function from inside the body. Talk about a loss of privacy. The cardiologist and his assistants would be looking at parts of me that even I had never seen before! Soon after, I was informed that I needed an immediate triple heart bypass surgery because three blood vessels in the region of my heart were seriously blocked. I was told I would be in the hospital about one week and that I would spend another six to eight weeks recuperating at home. Imagine, in one fell swoop my busy schedule, pride, and sense of control suddenly were ripped from me. In fact, one of our church members whom I respect deeply came by my hospital room specifically to take away my appointment calendar. He told me I’d get it back when I was better.
Two days later, as I waited for a hospital orderly to come and wheel me to surgery, I was one scared man. Even though I had prayed and Barbara and our children, Gary and Erin, had all prayed together, as a pastor, I knew that some people die during heart bypass surgery (actually something like 3.35 people per 100). A few years ago, one of my pastor friends died on the operating table while undergoing this surgery and he was exactly the same age I was. When a young hospital orderly came to my room and told me he had come to take me to surgery, I felt very much alone. The devil was having a heyday reminding me of all that can go wrong.
Then God came.
After I was helped out of my hospital bed onto a gurney, that young A f r i c a n - A m e r i c a n orderly proceeded to push me along a hospital corridor on the way to the operating suite. I became aware that he was humming a familiar tune. It was a hymn tune; not one of those great, lively hymn tunes we think of when we think of singing in African-American churches. No, it was “Be Thou My Vision.” Written by an eighth-century Irish monk, it is one of my favorite hymns. Each time I sing it, my mind floods with memories of the lush green fields and the ancient stone ruins of the land of my birth. My, that hymn flooded my soul like a fresh breath of home! When the young orderly finished humming that one, he went on to another. Now, it was Horatio Spafford’s wonderful hymn, “It Is Well With My Soul.” How could he know that this hymn is my personal all-time favorite? I wondered.
When we stopped outside the surgical suite so that he could open the door, I thanked him for those hymns. “God has used you this day to remove my fears and restore my soul,” I told him.
“Oh, you know those tunes?” he asked.
“I grew up on them,” I responded.
“We sing them in our church.”
He asked me where I went to church. I told him. He asked me who the pastor was and, rather sheepishly, I answered him. I’ll never forget his response as, almost shrieking, he responded, “Well, glory be! I done got me a man of God!” He stepped back to some place behind my gurney, a place I could not see at that moment, and the next thing I knew he was placing a warm white towel across my exposed groin area. “Let me give you the dignity that a man of God deserves,” he said. With that, we rolled again through the operating suite doors, where the doctors and their assistants waited to do their work on a preacher who, only moments before, had been scared but now knew as never before that he is, above all else, a child of God for “If we live, we live to the Lord; and if we die, we die to the Lord. So, whether we live or die, we belong to the Lord” (Rom. 14:8).* Victory flooded my soul! I knew that God was in charge and whether I lived or died I would be in His presence.
By God’s grace, the surgery went well. Now a year later, I am in better health than I was a few years before. More important, I’ve learned some lessons that had to come the hard way for me. Here they are:
First, I have a new assurance of God’s sovereign grace and providential love.
Before my surgery I knew these things to be true and I preached them but now I reallyknow. His fingerprint is on every molecule and atom that makes up who we are. And He cares more deeply than any preacher can ever describe. “My flesh and my heart may fail, / but God is the strength of my heart / and my portion forever” (Ps. 73:26).
Second, I am not my own for I was bought with a price.
My body is a temple of the Holy Spirit and it is given to me as a trust from a Father who loves me more than mere words can describe. I owe it to Him to treat this body well. “Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your body” (1 Cor. 6:19, 20).
Third, I’ve learned something more of the sweetness of my Savior and His faithfulness.
He is faithful to me even when I neglect what He has entrusted to me. Paul writes that nothing can ever separate me from His love (Rom. 8:39).
Fourth, I’ve been reminded of the frailty of our human nature.
Days before my surgery, Barbara and I had been looking forward to another trip back home to see our family members in and around Northern Ireland. Within an hour all that was changed and I went from being a “Mr. Take-Charge” to being a scared little boy on a hospital gurney. “. . . No man knows when his hour will come” (Eccles. 9:12). Life is short and we had better maximize each day’s opportunities for Christ. “My times are in your hands; / deliver me from my enemies / and from those who pursue me” (Ps. 31:15).
Fifth, I’ve learned anew about the need to pray for the sick.
In the Intensive Care Unit (ICU) after my surgery, I became aware in new ways of the urgency and desperation of people who are undergoing medical crisis. At my worst moments, I saw that many people were worse off than I was. How many times have I, as a pastor, stopped by the hospital for a quick visit, a Scripture reading, and a prayer with a member of our church and not noticed those nearby who may not have someone to pray with them and assure them that God is near and that He cares? Now when I stop at the ICU waiting rooms, instead of merely praying for “my own” folks, I ask all who wait on loved ones if they would like to join us in prayer. Through these months I’ve never had anyone refuse to join hands and hearts as we sought God’s blessings together.
Sixth, I’ve learned to live with daily gratitude to God for the blessings of my life.
Once more, Barbara, my wife of some 40 years, proved her love by going the extra mile, always with an attitude of gladness and love. As much as any human being, she deserves the credit for my renewed excellent health. Through this ordeal our love for each other has grown even stronger and deeper. It is not being trite to say that we act more like teenagers toward one another now than when we were in our teens. Our children, Gary and Erin, dropped everything to come to South Carolina and support us. I have a new appreciation for friends and church family and for godly physicians and hospital personnel. Theirs, too, is a call, and sometimes God comes in the one who pushes the gurney!
*All scripture quotes are from the New International Version.
