When Life Turns Tragic

A quadriplegic! Bobby is a quadriplegic? I couldn't believe it. What went wrong?

I remembered Bobby as an oversized 14-year-old boy. His father and mother were devoted Christians. Bobby's dad was a hard-working minister who worked during the week as a carpenter and ministered in small churches on Sundays. Bobby's parents spoke often of how God had blessed them both materially and spiritually. Now Bobby was paralyzed.

As my parents told me of Bobby's accident, I tried to mentally catch up. During my tour of duty in the U.S. Navy, a lot of changes had taken place. Bobby had grown from the awkward kid I knew to a tall and handsome young man. At just 15 years of age, he said God had called him to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ. His plans included graduating from high school and going on to Bible college in preparation for a lifetime of service for God.

On a certain Sunday, Bobby's father asked him to speak in his stead at the small church he was pastoring. (An unusual, but not unheard of opportunity in the small churches of that day.) Bobby's message was powerful and he was an instant hit with the church family—especially the youth.

A family of the church invited Bobby and all the teens from the church to their home for lunch. It was a fun time and by the time lunch was over the kids had arranged a swimming party for the afternoon. Bobby agreed to go, but only as a spectator, because he had not brought clothes for swimming. However, someone came up with a pair of jeans Bobby could wear and he consented to join them after all.

When they arrived at the old swimming hole, the kids made a mad rush for the water; everyone was scrambling to be the first one in. Bobby—a tall, lean, athletic type—dove into the water first. Tragically, the water wasn't deep enough for diving and he struck his head, breaking his neck. In an instant, the handsome young man became a quadriplegic. He would never recover from the accident.

My parents told me that Bobby wanted to see me. I lived 200 miles away, but sent word by my folks that I would come to see him in the near future. Within a few weeks, I made the long drive to see Bobby. All I had been told about Bobby did not prepare me for this visit. It was my first time to visit a paralyzed individual. I was fearful of saying or doing the wrong thing, thinking I might add to the mental and emotional pain he was suffering. The drive passed quickly and I was soon parked in front of his house . . . cold feet and all.

Bobby's mother invited me into the house and immediately took me to his room. He greeted me with a booming voice, as though he was trying to compensate for his condition. I walked to the side of his hospital bed knowing he could not shake hands and wondering what my next move should be. He seemed to sense my awkwardness, saying with a smile, "I'll meet you part way." He lifted his right hand a little and I cupped it in mine. We both knew it was more than a mere meeting of the hands, it was a meeting of the hearts. Though I was a few years older than Bobby and we had not spent much time together, we were close in spirit.

The afternoon passed before either of us was ready to end our visit. I had a 200-mile drive to make and felt I should be getting on the road. I stood and asked that the two of us pray for one another. He said, First, I want to tell you something. I think it is the real reason why I wanted, and needed, to talk with you."

I listened as Bobby told me of the Sunday he preached, and the afternoon swimming party—much of what my parents had already told me. Then he went on to tell me about his injury and what it had done to him as a person.

It had been two very long years for him. Just 24 months ago he was a young man of vigor and vitality. Then, he weighed around 200 pounds. Now, he weighed only 120. He had only a slight mobility in his right arm and hand. His eyes filled with tears as he said, "I'm helpless."

Like most young people, Bobby wanted his space. He resented parental control and strained against their reins. On one occasion, he had even threatened them with, "Just wait until I'm 18. Things are gonna change then—I'm moving out." But, that was before his life took a tragic turn. In an instant, he had gone from pushing his parents for his freedom to do as he pleased to a complete and irreversible dependence upon them. Now he could do nothing for himself. He confessed that he had even considered suicide, but realized he could not even take his own life without their help, or that of someone else.

Bobby turned his eyes toward me and waited for my response. I tried to prepare myself for the worst possible question he could ask of me. Momentarily, my imagination went wild. I braced for a question he could never ask. I was needlessly fearful and worried over a situation that would never develop. (A lot like you may be feeling as you read these words.)

Bobby went on to tell of experiencing overwhelming boredom. His physical condition brought on mental weariness. He felt sorry for himself. He told of growing tired of hearing the Scriptures read and the praying of prayers that seemed to offer him only a false hope and fake optimism. His number of visitors had dwindled and those who kept coming were uninteresting—parroting meaningless phrases and words.

In his desperate fight to cope with boredom, Bobby asked for a television and cigarettes. His parents purchased a small television and mounted it on the wall for his viewing. His dad gave him a pack of Camelä cigarettes. These diversions helped with his boredom for a while, but the television also led him to his greatest delusion and disappointment.

Every week, Bobby watched the programs of televangelists and so-called "faith healers." He became enamored with the faith healers and watched as people threw crutches away to run across the stage. He heard some testify of excruciating pain that suddenly went away during the prayer and touch of the healer's hand.

Others were wheeled across the platform in wheelchairs. At the healer's command they would abandon their chairs—running down the platform steps into the aisles among the congregation. Week after week Bobby watched the shows. Slowly, he began to believe in the faith healers. His favorite one told a touching story of his own healing when he was just a young boy and of God calling him to a healing ministry for others. Bobby was impressed.

In time, the so-called faith healer announced he was coming to Dallas, Texas (approximately 150 miles from where Bobby lived) for a one-week healing crusade. He urged the sick, crippled, and paralyzed to come for healing. Citing the story of the friends who removed the roof of a house in order to get a paralyzed man to Jesus, the faith healer called on friends and families to do the same for their loved ones. He emphasized that the citywide campaign would only be for one week and urged people to come early.

Bobby wanted to go. He was desperate. He would go! By ambulance and plane.

Bobby's parents made arrangements to take him to the healing campaign. They hired an ambulance to transport him to the airport, chartered a small plane to fly him to Dallas, and arranged for another ambulance to take him to the location of the crusade. The cost was astronomical for a poor family, but they were doing whatever was necessary, just as the healer said.

When the family reached the crusade site they stood in awe. A large tent had been erected. Seating thousands, this tent would house the services. Smaller tents flanked the large one. In these smaller tents hundreds of people were being processed. Each sought a place in the healing lines that would form and move across the platform in front of the healer.

Bobby was placed in one of the small tents to be processed. A man came to fill out a registration card, recording Bobby's name, address, the type and length of his illness, and the status of his medical treatment. After completing the card, the man left saying someone would be in to see him.

No one came.

Bobby's place in the healing line never materialized, either. Neither the healer, nor one of his associates, ever came to see Bobby. His parents tried to ask questions and get someone to help Bobby, but their efforts were to no avail. The only prayers ever prayed for Bobby at that crusade were those of his father and mother who shared in his letdown. The family returned home, disillusioned and disappointed in so-called faith healers, but stronger and much wiser in the true faith and love of God.

Bobby's story was about over, but he wasn't quite finished.

"I know you have a long drive home and need to be on your way," he said, "but I want you to know that I am not bitter, nor do I blame God for my condition. I did a very stupid thing and my error has caused this [paralysis]. God has not left me. I sense his presence every day and night. Someday He will come for me and then I will be whole, in a body He has prepared for me. I will be with Him forever."

Bobby broke the somber mood with laughter. "I should have known that faith healer was a fake. He never healed anyone in the hospitals, malls, markets, or homes. Only on a platform under lights and before the TV cameras." At that we both laughed.

I had planned to see Bobby again, but before I did I received a call saying Bobby's Lord had come for him. Bobby was finally at home, a quadriplegic no more. His tragedy had been turned to triumph.

Father, deliver us from faith in men, but infuse us with faith in You. Let us learn to trust You for healing or for hope, as it glorifies You.

Time Counts

Do you remember your early experiences in learning to tell time? I can remember some of mine. Some of the first⎯if not the first⎯were at home, with my father as the teacher.

The ticking of an old Big Bend pocket watch fascinated me. Papa would hold it close to my ear, urging me to listen, while he recited a little rhyme: "Tick, tock, tick, tock, the mouse ran up the clock." He would never complete the rhyme, nor would he allow me to hold the watch. He called it his very valuable timepiece, emphasizing that it was not a toy for kids to play with. I got the point.

Mama used the old alarm clock⎯a Waltman, I think⎯to help me learn to tell time. Her emphasis was on the hands of the clock. She would ask me to tell her where the big hand was and then where they little hand was positioned. Then she would tell me the time of day, thus beginning to teach me to tell time. One day I would have my own alarm clock and "valuable timepiece." But learning the value of time would come later.

I was soon to learn there was much more to time than just telling the time of day. Papa, like a true preacher man, would make my ears ring with statements I didn't understand⎯nor particularly care about. He would say, often very early in the day, "To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven," quoting from Ecclesiastes 3:1. Sometimes he would continue quoting, telling about a time to be born, to die, to plant, to pluck up, to kill, to heal, to break down, to build up, to weep, to laugh, to mourn, to dance, to cast away stones, to gather stones, to embrace, to refrain from embracing, to get, to lose, to keep, to cast away, to rend, to sew, to keep silence, to speak, to love, to hate, a time to make war, and a time for peace (verses 2-8). (Yes, he knew this and many more passages of Scripture by heart.)

It was obvious to me that something was missing. There was no time to play! At that time in my life, playing was my passion. In time, I would have other passions. In more time, I would yield to the call of God on my life. Ministry⎯preaching, evangelizing, and pastoring⎯would become my strongest passion of all. And, in ministry, I would learn even more about time and timing.

In 1952 I received my first invitation to a full-time pastorate. I said yes. But, I did not know what I was saying yes to. Looking back, though, I would do it all over again.

To me, accepting that church meant I would be living in a rent-free parsonage, preaching three times a week⎯twice on Sunday and once on Wednesday night. I would also be my own boss. I could do what I wanted, when I wanted, just because I wanted to. I must have sounded terribly brash to God. Good thing it was just between God and me.

However, as I would soon discover, a full-time pastor meant something quite different to the deacons and the church membership. From them I would hear that the church owned the house I lived in and paid my salary. I was there to look after the church business, minister to the needs of the membership, preach on Sundays, teach on Wednesday nights, contact the absentees, and evangelize in the community. It was quite a tall order for a 23 year-old with no experience as a pastor.

Where would I ever find the time to do all these things? I tried to recall some of my early instruction, but try as I might, I could not remember any of those lessons that addressed the situation I was now facing. In fact, the only thing I could remember about those days that had anything to do with time were the words Papa spoke when he called me in the mornings.

"Get out of that bed!" he would say. "Breakfast is about ready, and besides more people have died in bed than anywhere else!" Somehow that early morning greeting never failed to get me up and going. It was strange, but just remembering those words made me realize a pastor had to get up and get going. Thanks to Papa, I became and early riser. Decades later, the early morning hours are still my best time.

However, just getting up and going would not accomplish my work. I would need some type of schedule and I soon discovered my schedule would need some fine-tuning to keep the day's rhythm. And, to my surprise, a bedridden saint would be an important part of this tune-up.

Sister Smith had been ill for a very long time and confined to her bed for over a year. Her physical condition was no longer on the front burner of our church's ministry. In fact, her name did not appear on the prayer list and she was only mentioned occasionally by some of the women in private conversation. New people did not know of her, even when they heard her name. Even I, the new pastor, had no so much as heard of her before a deacon asked me if I had been to see her.

When I discovered that she lived with her daughter only a short distance from the church I felt terrible. My mind swirled with questions. Why did this deacon wait until now to tell me about this poor lady? How could I face her with the fact that no one told me about her? How could such a thing happen in a church family? Was she forgotten intentionally? Was it out of neglect? How was it that a pastor, her Sunday school teacher, the women's auxiliary⎯seemingly the entire church family⎯could just busy themselves with ministry and miss an opportunity to brighten the day of a bedridden saint?

Monday afternoon I went to see Sister Smith. Stopping in front of her house, I paused for prayer before getting out of my car. I might have delayed exiting the car even longer but I saw a curtain move at the front window and thought someone inside was watching me.

Mentally and emotionally I was struggling with this aspect of ministry. I felt so helpless, not knowing what to say or do for a person who was confined to bed and battling a terminal illness. I was soon to learn that Sister Smith herself would help me in this area.

Remembering that I was representing Jesus Christ⎯making this visit on His behalf⎯I straightened up my walk and put a smile on my face as I walked the few feet from the car to the front door. I knocked on the door and waited.

A gracious lady opened the door, greeting me as "Pastor." How she knew I was a pastor was a mystery to me. (I was reminded again that in a small church situated in a small community, most every move the pastor makes is known and reported.) Opening the door wider, she invited me into the house.

"Mother and I have been expecting you," she said, "ever since Ruth [the deacon's wife] called early this morning. This way please, Mother is in the front bedroom."

I followed, expecting to be scolded⎯and rightly so⎯for not coming sooner. To my surprise, I was greeting most warmly by a bedridden figure, smiling and beckoning me to come closer. I took her extended hand in mine, our eyes met, and I knew she was sincere when she said, "Thank you for coming. I am blessed just to have one of God's preacher boys in my home."
I looked at my watch, remembering the words of my mentor, "Most of the time, a ten minute visit is a sufficient amount of time to spend at the bedside of the ill. A pastor should never wear out his welcome." Time was passing quickly. Another ten minutes and I would be going.
"Sister Smith," I forced myself to say, "would you like for me to read Scripture and have prayer before I go?"

"Go? You just got here. What do you mean, before you go?"

"I don't have much time today," I said, "but I will be back."

My excuses didn't hold water with Sister Smith. Her voice grew firm as she told me to sit down.
"Pastor, you have just as much time as anyone⎯we all have the same amount. God has given us 24 hours a day. Evidently you are not using your time right."

Ouch! This was the first in a series of lessons on the use of time that Sister Smith was to teach me and it was a painful way to begin. Although this bedridden saint did not know she was actually teaching during our visits, I soon learned she had much more to share with me both in word and example.

Sister Smith had my attention. She spoke of the value of time and the importance of "redeeming the time" as Paul had taught (Ephesians 5:16; Colossians 4:5). Outwardly, I nodded my head in agreement. Inwardly, I determined to study those verses for their correct application.

Alone in my office, I began my study. Within the week I had concluded that Sister Smith was on the right track. I certainly could improve the way I used my time. I soon became eager for another visit with Sister Smith. I wanted to know just how a person in her circumstance used her time. Given her physical limitations, how could she redeem the time? Frankly, I didn't think it was possible, but somehow I believed she did. I had to find out.

The day came for my return visit. I prayed before going, asking God for courage to follow through with my planned inquiry. In one sense, it was none of my business. But in another sense, the way she used her time just might be an inspiration to me.

Upon my arrival at Sister Smith's I was greeted first by a young man. He introduced himself as a grandson who came to do Granny's yard. He had the appearance of an industrious young man who used his time wisely. Sure enough, even before I asked, he voluntarily told me of his Granny's teaching on the use of time. He even laid out his plan for the day. I would later discover he followed her teaching closely.

"Nice meeting you, Pastor," he said. "You have a good day and a good visit with Granny. I'll see you around."

With those words he was on his way. I walked toward the house thinking he had just given me a push toward having a good day . . . and it seemed so easy for him to do. Wow!

At the door I was again greeted warmly by the daughter and taken to Sister Smith's room. We exchanged greetings and chatted for a few minutes about the church, the weather, and other such things. All the while, I was thinking about my main reason for coming. Finally, I could not wait any longer.

"Sister Smith," I blurted out abruptly, "I've been thinking about our talk the other day and you telling me I just wasn't using my time right. I would like to know how you use your time. It might help me to improve."

Sister Smith laughed heartily. "Pastor, you are probably thinking that an old, bedridden lady like me has no real life." Still chuckling, she went on, "Well, quite the contrary. I am very much alive. It is only my body that is bedridden, and I gave my body to the Lord many years ago. It belongs to Him and whatever He does with it, or permits to be done to it, I accept. I've learned not to question Him or blame Him for my physical conditions over which I have no control. I just try to remember Paul's experience and try to claim the sufficiency of God's grace, as promised to him." (She was referring to 2 Corinthians 12:1-10; particularly verse 9: "And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.")

A holy hush enveloped the room. I knew I was in the presence of God and that He was pleased with what He heard from His bedridden child. She was right. Sister Smith was God's child, and in His time He would give her a new body suited for her heavenly home.

As Sister Smith continued to speak I learned of her once-active life. She had worked in the local school system, cared for her family, taught Sunday school, and still had time for other church and community projects.

"How did you ever manage to have time to do all of those things and still have a life for yourself?" I asked.

She laughed again. "It was fun," she replied. "Not all of the time . . . there was a sprinkling of times when it wasn't. But to answer your question about a life of my own, I did not live for myself. I lived first for my Lord, my husband, my children, my church, and other people and things came last."

Sister Smith went on to tell me of first giving herself to Christ every morning when she awakened. Then she sought to do His will for the day in the matters awaiting her attention. She daily submitted her "To Do" list to God and asked for His help in arranging and accomplishing the work. She wanted her work to be a service to God and for Him to be glorified. Having done this, she got started and followed through on each task.

I could see she was getting tired, but I couldn't resist asking if she still did these things. She did⎯with some minor changes, of course. When she awakened she first committed herself afresh to the Lord and then prayerfully asked Him to reveal His will for her day. The list she submitted to the Lord had changed somewhat. It now consisted of medications, baths, meals, Scripture readings, prayer times, phone calls, inspirational readings, correspondence, witnessing, and visiting with guests.

One of the most touching things she talked about was how irritable she was at times and her attitude toward her caregivers. Her dependence upon others was hard to accept and turn over to the Lord. Relief came when she could honestly pray for herself and her caregivers. She admitted to repenting and apologizing often.

I was especially impressed with her prayer time. She prayed for me and the church, Her caregivers, including her doctor and pharmacist, were also included in her prayers. Her love for her family and missionaries were likewise evidenced in the time she spent interceding for them. It seemed as though no one was left out. And, I learned, there were days when she prayed for the entire day. That day we prayed together before I left.

Sister Smith long ago entered the presence of her Lord. But my visits with her yielded much more than I ever expected and I have incorporated some of her teachings in my own prayer life. I will never forget the bedridden saint who taught me how to use my time, or the emphasis she placed on prayer.

Maybe when I get to heaven I will get to tell her just how she enriched my life and that I passed on to you the things she taught me. On second thought, why don't you just tell her yourself?

Father, time is Your unique gift to Your children, for you live beyond the confines of minutes, hours, and days. Help me to make the most of this gift and to use it in ways that please You and further Your purposes on this earth, until the day when I join you in the eternal now of Your presence.