Do You Believe This?

Jesus said, "I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?" Jn 11:25-26

I can’t believe it!

Another year has come to an end. And in a couple of days, if you’re like most people, you’ll be asking yourself this question: How did I do? Well if you find yourself down, full of regrets and depressed by the realization that you once again missed the mark, relax, you’ll soon get a chance to do it all over again. Most of us will anyway…

"Medic-seven," the dispatcher said. "Cardiac arrest."

My heart still skips a beat every time I hear those words. Cardiac arrest means someone else’s heart has stopped beating, and the way I respond, the way I function and hold it all together may be the determining factors as to whether that victim lives or dies. We call it a code. It’s actually one of the most well rehearsed calls a paramedic ever runs, a scenario we practice over and over and over again to perfection, but somehow it always seems to produce the same effects: mild tachycardia, sweaty palms, and a feeling of impending doom followed by a few moments of controlled fury as we feverishly struggle to save another person’s life. But this time there was nothing my partner and I could do.

"A ninety-two year old female," the dispatcher continued. "Not breathing."

My partner entered the address into the GPS unit. I hit the gas. We made excellent time weaving through traffic and arrived on scene only four minutes after the dispatch, but it wasn’t soon enough. Our patient was already gone. She lay on the floor beside her bed with no sign of life. Her eyes, frosty and opaque, painted a picture of recent death. Her heart made not a sound. No rigor mortis gripped her limbs, but it was easy to see she was dead. Any resuscitation attempt would be futile.

"And right before Christmas," I murmured. "How sad."

We returned to base feeling a little blue. I backed the truck into the bay at Station-2 and was just about to climb out of it when we received another call similar to the first, only this time the victim was much younger. Only four months old. We found her lying in bed, her tiny limbs stiff and cool, her skin a sickening shade of blue.

I felt my heart break. I glanced at the young family standing on the other side of the room. I wanted to say something to them but couldn’t think of the words. On the children’s faces I saw shocked innocence, and on their mother’s unimaginable pain. A bright Christmas tree glowed in the corner of the room but it seemed to lack the luster it might have just hours earlier, before death entered their home robbing them of Christmas joy.

*

The loss of these two fragile lives should serve as a grim reminder to us that death is inevitable. And no man knows when his time will come. So I have a question for you: Are you ready to die? Do you know where you will spend eternity? Death can come at any moment and will eventually visit us all, so don’t let another year go by. Make it your New Year’s resolution to consider this: Jesus said, "I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?"

I do! Christ came to bring everlasting life, and now death is just the beginning. Yeah, I believe. I hope that you will too.

* * *

A Child Is Born

"For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given; and the government shall be on his shoulder; and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace." Isaiah 9:6

"Hey, I know you!" I stared at the woman trying to make a connection. She looked vaguely familiar to me, standing in the booking area of the police station with handcuffs about her wrists, but I couldn’t place her face. "You delivered my baby," she said as the arresting officer removed the cuffs. "Six months ago in the elevator? Remember?"

And suddenly I did remember. Oh, how I remembered…

The house was cluttered. Dingy and hot. A drunk, heavyset male lay passed out on the living room floor. She lay by his side in the middle of the room cursing, her knees apart, her swollen belly exposed. "How far along are you?" I asked kneeling to begin my assessment.

"Don’t touch me," she shouted. "Just take me to the hospital!"

"Relax, I’m only here to help."

"Well I don’t want your help, I just want a ride!"

Her face drew up tight. She took a breath and held it. Her cheeks turned red. And then suddenly, as if releasing the energy of an internal explosion, a loud cry burst forth. She moaned and screamed and panted and cried until the contraction eased. Then she sat there panting, angry and belligerent. And the rest of the call was pretty much the same. She griped and complained all the way to the hospital, fussing about her treatment in life and all of the bad things people had done to her. "I deserve better," and on, and on, and on.

I ignored her vulgar language and pulled together the equipment for a complicated delivery, all the time praying for the baby yet to be born. We backed into the ambulance bay. My partner opened the doors. We wheeled her inside the hospital and entered the elevator that would take us upstairs to Labor & Delivery. Another contraction gripped her. Tore her at the seams. "It’s coming," she screamed as the elevator began to rise. "Oh God, it’s out!"

I lifted the sheet and saw a small baby boy lying on the stretcher between her legs—small and blue and slippery looking…and still.

I picked him up and toweled him off and suctioned his mouth and nose, then vigorously rubbed his tiny back to stimulate respiration. He gasped and took a breath, then began to cry and pink up. I felt an excitement one can only understand upon having witnessed the arrival of new life. But my heart sank a few moments later. The doctor told me the mother had confessed to smoking crack—that night! Well no wonder he’s premature, I thought, so small, depressed, and unprepared for life.

I left the hospital with a sick feeling in my stomach. "That poor child," I said. "He doesn’t have a chance."

*

I can’t help but wonder: what kind of life will he have? Will he delve into alcohol and drugs like his mother? Join a gang? Kill or be killed? Well when I think of his birth, and the circumstances surrounding his untimely delivery, I am reminded of another poor baby born in a lonely stable in Bethlehem, before hospitals, before medical care. I mean, who would have thought he had a chance? And yet on that first Christmas morning two thousand years ago, with cattle lowing and shepherds keeping watch, a wonderful event occurred: A child was born, and unto us a son was given.

I believe in Christmas, the day eternal life entered the world. In Christmas I find hope, for the lowly, for the down and out, and for those born under the worst possible conditions. So please join me in praying for a baby boy who was born in an elevator six-months ago this week. In the eyes of the world, he doesn’t have much of a chance. But then, this is Christmas. And unto that small baby boy, a savior was born—Jesus Christ. The Lord.

***

We Need A Revival

I am not ashamed of the gospel, because it is the power of God for the salvation of everyone who believes… Ro 1:16

Someone needs to tell these kids. They’re all gonna die…

"Medic-7," the dispatcher announced. "We’ve got a subject shot!" I grabbed my stethoscope and headed for the ambulance. Colorful images flashed through my mind as I climbed into the passenger seat. The dispatcher continued her voice high and sharp. "A teenaged male shot once in the head. Police officer on the scene requesting Code-3 response. Code-3."

"10-4," my partner responded jumping behind the wheel. "Medic-7 en route."

I tried to calm myself as we hurried to the scene. Relax. You’ve been a medic a good long time. Surely by now you’ve seen it all. But as we pulled onto Hopkins Street and arrived on the scene, I felt my stomach tighten. My palms began to sweat. There’s just something unsettling about a young man with a bullet hole in the side of his head, his life blood spilling out all over the ground and a dangerous crowd pressing in on you demanding you get to work.

There was nothing we could do of course. He was already dead. But for the sake of our own skins and the fact that we were standing on their turf and outnumbered about a hundred to one, we made a good show of it. Loaded him up and moved to the truck assuring the angry crowd we would do our best to save him. Once clear of the scene, however, my partner killed the lights and sirens and slowed down to normal traffic. I stared into the victim’s lifeless eyes trying to guess his age. Eighteen years old, maybe? Nineteen? Oh, Lord, what a waste.

"Duke ER," I said keying the radio mike. "I’m sorry but we’re bringing you a corpse. Another gang member. There’s nothing we can do."

*

What in the world is happening out there? It’s like warfare. The gang situation in our cities has never been worse. Drugs, robbery, murder—they’re as common on our streets as rain. And I often find myself angry, craving righteous revenge. After all, those kids are killers. Punks! We should just put ‘em all away and be done with them, right?

Well that might be the thing to do if we had nothing more to offer them, but we do.

This is Christmas. The time we celebrate Jesus—the light of the world. And I can personally attest to that light. If it weren’t for him I would be lost, living in darkness, with no hope for the future and no idea which way to go. But thank God for Jesus Christ, and for the people who cared enough to lead me his way. He saved my life. And if he can do it for me, he can do it for them. So it occurs to me, why don’t we tell them about Jesus too?

Now I realize that gangs are here to stay. I’m not naïve enough to believe they’ll disappear. Shootings will still occur. People will always die. But sending those kids to prison, just locking them away, that won’t solve the problem. And one thing is certain: they will never know the truth if no one tells them. So I think it’s time for a revival. Time to stop talking and start acting. The gospel of Christ is the power of God unto salvation. Are we using it? Are you? Let’s take our streets captive for Jesus. Take the gospel out there and see what God can do.

*

Please join me in praying for a revival in the city where I work. Pray that God will organize a group of people with a burden for the gangs. Pray for power and protection. Pray for opportunity. And pray that when the time comes we might find the courage to risk it all for Christ.

Lord, we need a revival. Every one of these kids is going to die. Send someone to tell them before it’s too late. Send someone soon!

* * *

Rejoice! It's Christmas!

For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord. Ro 6:23

Oh, Lord, I thought, why now? It’s Christmas…

Larry’s compressions were perfect. Two inches deep, a hundred a minute, right out of the book. John had the airway under control, an endotracheal tube in place, properly secured and ventilated. My partner, Warren, started the IV and handed me drugs. Epinephrine. Atropine. I pushed them into the IV line, delivering just the right amount to stimulate the old man’s heart. In all it was a perfect code, an organized attempt to save a human life, and it couldn’t have gone any better, but deep inside I knew it was futile. He wasn’t going to make it.

"I don’t know," I said shaking my head. "This just isn’t working. I think it’s time to stop." I glanced at Warren. "What do you think?"

"No," a voice behind me said. "Don’t stop! C’mon, daddy," the young woman cried. "You can do it!"

I glanced around me at my patient’s family, a wife and three grown children. Their cries of support, the hope I saw on their faces, it all just about broke my heart. We’d done everything right, run a perfect code in the middle of their living room—a beautiful home decorated with Christmas tree and lights—but a flat green line still traced across the ECG screen. It painted a picture of finality, a portrait of hopelessness and death.

"It’s Christmas, dad. You can’t leave us now!"

"Honey, stay with us. We need you here."

I felt my eyes well up. I shook my head. "It’s no use," I murmured. "He’s already had three rounds of epi and atropine. One of bicarb. Pacemaker won’t capture…"

I glanced at the family again. I could feel their pain. But as I considered my protocol I knew what I had to do.

"Larry," I said with a sigh. "Hold compressions."

I placed my fingertips against the old man’s neck. Larry paused and took a much-needed breather. I squinted and stared at the cardiac monitor hoping to detect a sign of life—a blip, a pulse, any indication that my patient’s heart had responded to treatment—but I couldn’t. The thin green line continued its lonely trek across the screen. My fingers felt nothing but cool dry skin beneath them. No pulsation. No warmth. No life.

I glanced at Larry and shook my head.

"You can stop."

Then I stood and faced the family.

"Folks—"

I took a deep breath. A fist-sized lump threatened to close my throat.

"I’m so sorry…"

*

It’s hard to lose a loved one, especially this time of year when our thoughts turn homeward and old memories of Christmas fill us with hope and joy. But there’s never a convenient time. Death always seems to surprise us. It’s so final, and at times seems so unfair. So what’s a family to do when they face such terrible loss? Where can they find peace? Where’s the hope?

Well this year as you enter the holiday season, remember there is hope. Even in death, real hope. That’s what Christmas is all about, a new beginning. Life. You see if we were all perfect, totally obedient to God, we wouldn’t need a savior. But we’re not perfect. The Bible says we have all sinned. And with sin comes darkness. Death.

Sounds pretty bleak, huh?

Well if that were the end of the story it would be, but it’s not. For two thousand years ago God sent us hope, a way back into His presence where we all truly belong. And His plan was revealed through the birth of a child, His son—Jesus Christ.

*

Yes we have all sinned. And we will each take our turn at death. It’s inevitable. No one can escape it. But don’t fear, for you have been given the greatest gift of all—Jesus Christ. He was born. He’s still here today. And in him you can find life. And peace. And hope.

So rejoice. Be of good cheer. It’s Christmas!

* * *

Coolest of the Cool

"Boldly and without hindrance he preached the kingdom of God and taught about the Lord Jesus Christ." Acts 28:31

I couldn’t believe it! He was my hero. The coolest of the cool. Warlord of the most vicious gang of teenagers that ever roamed the streets of New York, and he was coming to my hometown. I had to see him! It was a teenaged boy’s dream come-true.

I had read his book several times, at least to the point where he became a Christian, but I never ventured past that page; I just wasn’t interested. But what I didn’t realize at the innocent age of 13 was that God was interested in me. He had a plan for my life and it all seemed to begin the day I first picked up that paperback book—Run Baby, Run.

“Nicky Cruz? He’s coming to town?”

“Yeah,” my sister said. “You wanna go?”

“Are you kidding? Yes!”

I felt wild with anticipation. Something thrilling was about to happen. I put on my coolest denim jacket and boots, slid a fake switchblade knife into my pants pocket, and followed my sister downtown.

The auditorium was packed. A feeling of intensity gripped the room. And then suddenly I saw him. He walked to the podium. I gazed in utter amazement. He was everything I had imagined and more, solid, tough looking and scarred with a no-nonsense approach that thrilled me to the core. I couldn’t believe I was actually looking at him.

Nicky Cruz!

And then he started to talk. He spoke of the ghetto, and of switchblades, and of zip guns and chains and blood. Of girls, of killing, of drinking and fighting and drugs. His story came to life. Filled me with wonder and awe. But as he continued to speak and shared the rest of the story that I had avoided so many times—of the skinny preacher who walked into Brooklyn and boldly shared the gospel that had forever changed his life—something happened to me. I began to feel a deep yearning, an emptiness that longed to be filled. And whatever it was that tough Puerto Rican kid had found after so many years of fighting and running from God—I wanted it.

“Jesus,” Nicky exclaimed. “He saved me. He can save you too!”

The service drew to a close. He gave the altar call. I inched forward with a hundred other people. I didn’t even know why. But as I made my way to the foot of the stage and gazed into his eyes something remarkable happened.

“Did you do it?” my sister asked me. “Did you pray to receive Christ?”

“Me?” I said, coolly shaking my head. “Nah, I just wanted to see what Nicky looked like. He was cool!”

But you know the truth—I did do it. I bowed my head and prayed. I asked Jesus Christ to come into my heart, and since that night my life has never been the same.

*

Fifty years ago a bold young preacher walked into Brooklyn and risked his life to share his faith with the gangs, and a boy named Nicky Cruz responded. And the night Nicky came to my hometown, I responded too. Now what about you? Have you met the Lord Jesus? Have you responded to his call? If not, don’t waste another day. Get down on your knees tonight and invite Christ into your life. Take it from a man who knows—from a naïve teenaged boy who responded almost forty years ago—you’ll be glad you did!

*

Dear Nicky, God used you to ignite a fire in my heart. Then Jesus did the rest. I thank God for your boldness. I thank God for you. Happy Birthday! You are still the coolest of the cool! --Pat Patterson

Learn more about Nicky Cruz and his outreach at http://nickycruz.org/

...before it's too late

"Therefore, get rid of all moral filth and the evil that is so prevalent and humbly accept the word planted in you, which can save you". - James 1:21

*

“Medic-7, hemorrhage! A 38 year-old female with a severe laceration. Caller reports heavy bleeding! Respond Code-3.”

My partner and I didn’t need to hear the dispatch twice. We jumped in our truck and drove out of the bay. I pushed some buttons and the ambulance lit up like a Christmas tree, lights flashing, siren wailing—Code-3. Bloody images consumed my thoughts as we raced to the call. Walking onto the scene those images came to life—a raucous crowd filled a room decorated with bloody wallpaper and jagged pieces of clear broken glass. My patient stood in the center of the room with a blood soaked towel wrapped around her wrist. Crimson drops fell from her fingertips and splattered onto the floor.

I reached for her arm to remove the towel.

“No,” someone shouted. “Don’t take it off!”

“Relax,” I said. “I need to see the wound.” But as I removed the last of the towel I realized I had made a big mistake. A bright red stream spurted from the severed artery, shot across the room, and sprayed the far wall with crimson-colored paint. “Quick,” I shouted to my partner. “Hand me a dressing!”

My partner handed me a trauma dressing and a bandage roll, and within seconds I had the wrist tightly wrapped. But the bleeding was far from controlled. Blood continued to drip from her fingertips. Her skin continued to pale.

“I feel dizzy,” she mumbled.

“Let’s go,” I said to my partner. “She’s lost too much blood.”

A moment later we had her in the back of our ambulance with the lights flashing and the siren wailing again—Code-3. I tied the tail of the bandage to the overhead railing hoping that elevating her arm would lessen the flow of blood, but it didn’t. I tried using a pressure point, pressing my fingers against the artery above the wound, but the blood still flowed. I had one more option, a last-ditch effort that needed to work. I wrapped a tourniquet around her arm and tightened it. The bleeding stopped.

After starting a large bore IV and giving her a good fluid bolus I called the ER to notify them of our arrival. And they were waiting for us when we arrived, gloved and gowned in surgical scrubs, ready for business.

“Be careful,” I said, as an eager resident stepped forward. “This thing will shoot across the room if you let it go.”

“Relax,” he said with a chuckle. “I got it.”

“Oh, really?”

I shrugged and watched him remove the tourniquet. The bleeding resumed. He began removing the dressing. I left the room. I couldn’t watch.

I returned a few moments later to find an empty room. But the gurney, the floors, the walls…they were covered with blood.

Hemorrhage. Once it starts it’s hard to stop.

*

We’re hemorrhaging too, you know. Our society. Bleeding. Losing the core values that once made us great. We no longer allow prayer in the classrooms of our schools, for example, and the Pledge of Allegiance has been all but outlawed. And to many people the United States flag has become a personal affront. Imagine! I mean, what’s next, our National Anthem? Our moral values and our devotion to God are at an all time low. So from where I sit, we’re hemorrhaging. We’re becoming pale and dizzy, and in the end, if no one responds, we too, like every great empire before us, will fall.

We need to start acting like Christians again, restore our moral values and the guiding principles that made this country great, because sooner or later the bleeding always stops and when it does, the victim dies.

So, America, apply some direct pressure to this ever-increasing problem. Use a tourniquet if you must. But let’s stop the hemorrhage. We must humble ourselves and turn our faces back to God…before it is too late!

* * *

The Best of the Best

"Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might…” Ecc. 9:10

To be the best: To excel, to outdo all others, to reach a level of accomplishment unsurpassed in one’s field. And for a brave young man I know—my good friend’s son— it means even more than that. It means to be willing to lay down your life, to sacrifice your freedom that others might live…

“Pat-Man, I need your help.”

“Are you okay?” I said. “What is it?”

“They’ve called him up again.They’re sending him back over there. I called to ask for your prayers.”

As he explained the situation I could hear the fear in his voice. I assured him I would pray for his son, and that everything would be all right, but my heart felt heavy as I hung up the phone. His young man had just gotten home, retired from the military and started a bright new career, and suddenly without warning, they had decided to call him back. It didn’t seem right.

“But that’s not fair,” I said. “He’s already given so much. Why can’t they just leave him alone?”

But deep inside I knew the reason why. It’s because he’s one of the best shooters in the U.S. Army. One of the elite. The best of the best.

Now I’ve known many brave 1st responders: police officers and firefighters, EMTs and paramedics. Men with tough jobs who work hard to save other lives. But this young soldier has the hardest job of all. Surgical removal. One shot, one kill.

“A sniper! Wait a minute,” you say. “How can that be right?”

Well first of all, that’s war. But tonight when you’re lying in bed, comfortable and warm and leading a normal life, consider this too: God has a divine plan and He uses men to accomplish it. Men who are willing to follow and obey, to use the gifts He gave them, and to serve without question regardless of the cost.

Look at King David, that humble shepherd boy. He attacked and killed the giant Philistine with a simple sling and a stone. And what about Samson, the man empowered by God to kill a thousand Philistines with the jawbone of a mule? You see, some men are asked to do the job no one else will. And when I consider this young man’s sacrifices, his skills and his God-given talents, I suddenly understand what it means to be the best: It means to do whatsoever your hand finds to do, and to do it with all of your might!

So, Lord, please tell him how proud I am to know him, how much his sacrifice means, and how much I appreciate his willingness to fight…for my family, for my country, for my home. Honor and bless him, Lord. Grant him the strength to do his job well—with all of his might—and then bring him back home again so that he, too, may enjoy the blessings of liberty for which he has fought.

*

Dedicated to a good friend’s son whose name must remain unspoken. Thank you! God knows you’ve made a difference.

* * *

God Still Knows Exactly What to Do

"So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand."
Isaiah 41:10

“I don’t know what to do!”

Actress Jennifer Garner spoke that line in the 2001 Academy Award winning film, Pearl Harbor. She starred as Sandra, a young Army nurse serving in a makeshift hospital on Pearl Harbor on the morning of December 7, 1941. Walking wounded arrived by the score, bleeding profusely their charred and broken bodies beaten to shreds, many with wounds too deep to fix. The doctors, nurses, and Army corpsmen did everything they could to manage the unfathomable catastrophe, but the scene was overwhelming. It was too much to manage, too unbelievable to comprehend. Terrified, the young nurse looked around her at the mayhem and cried, “I don’t know what to do!”

I can only imagine the horrors of that infamous day when our nation came under attack. Bombs fell from the sky. Torpedoes exploded. Over 2300 brave sailors died and countless more were injured. It was the first time in modern history that we felt the pounding of our enemy’s feet on our own soil—this sacred ground, the United States of America—and it angered us! We knew our enemy. We saw the whites of his eyes and the evil of his cause, and in our righteous determination we fought back. And thank God, we won!

But 67 years later we live in a different America. Our moral values have slipped. We’ve grown politically correct. And the Godly principles on which this country was founded no longer seem important. People, what’s going on here? Are we so quick to forget all that God has done for us? Well make no mistake—we need Him again. Our world is at war, and just as in 1941 we are the battleground. Only this time we can’t see our enemy. We don’t know whom to trust. And many Americans have floundered, looking around them at the chaos and crying, “I don’t know what to do!”

Well this is still sacred ground. America is still worth fighting for. And God is still in control. So stand up. Remember the Christian principles on which our country was founded. Turn to the one in whom we still trust. And stand your ground. God said, “Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

So I ask you, as you consider the fate of our great nation—this indivisible union that still provides liberty and justice for all—what are you so worried about? Why are you so afraid? God is still in charge. And if we will humble ourselves, turn back to Him and ask Him to heal our land, in His righteous determination He will do just that. He’s still in charge. And He still knows exactly what to do!

*

Dedicated to all veterans of the United States Armed Forces. Thank you for your sacrifice. And may God bless our home, The United States of America.
-Veterans Day 2008

* * *

Are You Ready For This?

"Nothing in all creation is hidden from God’s sight. Everything is uncovered and laid bare before the eyes of him to whom we must give account." - Heb. 4:13-14

“Pat! Come here quick!”

“What?”

“Hurry, I’ve got something to show you!”

I rushed into Trauma Room-1. An attentive crowd stood around the gurney. I didn’t find that unusual—that particular ER belongs to a teaching hospital, so it’s quite common to find people standing around watching the ER docs work—but as we pushed into the room I noticed something wrong.

“Are you ready for this?” my associate whispered. “Look.”

The crowd parted. I felt my jaw drop. A beautiful young woman lay on the gurney in the center of the room. She was about eighteen years old, with long blond hair and a magnificent figure laid bare for everyone in the room to see. I had to force myself to look away. I glanced around me at the other people in the room, stunned. The physicians and nurses were justified in being there, of course, but the rest? Most of the rest of the people in the room were men, and they just stood there. Gawking.

Now I’m no pious, self-righteous, super Christian, believe me. I’m a healthy American male who appreciates female beauty as much as any man alive, but what I saw there that day bothered me. That poor girl was totally naked, and totally defenseless, and I’m sure, if she had been alert to what was going on around her at the time, she would have been totally humiliated.

But she is not alone. We all have it coming. Like her body, our hearts will be laid bare for everyone to see and there will be no place to hide. It’s called Judgment Day, a day when each and every one of us must stand before the Lord and give an accounting for all we have done. And no deed, no thought, no ill-conceived fantasy or spoken word will remain hidden. Each of us will be exposed exactly as we are.

Rev 6:2 I looked, and there before me was a white horse! Its rider held a bow, and he was given a crown, and he rode out as a conqueror bent on conquest.

Rev 20:11-15 Then I saw a great white throne and him who was seated on it. Earth and sky fled from his presence, and there was no place for them. And I saw the dead, great and small, standing before the throne, and books were opened. Another book was opened, which is the book of life. The dead were judged according to what they had done as recorded in the books. The sea gave up the dead that were in it, and death and Hades gave up the dead that were in them, and each person was judged according to what he had done. Then death and Hades were thrown into the lake of fire. The lake of fire is the second death. If anyone’s name was not found written in the book of life, he was thrown into the lake of fire.

*

Can you picture that white horse? Can you see its rider? The one with the blazing eyes and the head with many crowns? Well get ready. He’s the King of Kings—Jesus Christ. He’s coming for His people, and when He gets here every knee will bow and every tongue confess that He is Lord. If you know Him you have nothing to fear. He’s already been laid bare. He faced death so that you won’t have to.

Do you know Him? Has he already written your name in the Book of Life? Jesus is coming, you know. Are you ready for this?

* * *

What's Your Gift?

" Each one should use whatever gift he has received to serve others, faithfully administering God's grace in its various forms." 1 Peter 4:10


"How're you doing, brother? Working hard or hardly working?"

My friend, Steve, always greets me that way. It's his trademark and I love it. It usually makes me laugh, helps me prepare for the shift. But I didn't feel much like laughing that night. My heart was heavy; I needed to talk. Steve clocked in and followed me out to the ambulance bay to check the truck.

"So," he said opening the airway bag. "What's bothering you, brother?"

"I didn't realize it showed."

"It shows." Steve chuckled and gave the wrench atop the oxygen bottle a twist. He glanced at the regulator, nodded, and then retightened it and slid the cylinder back into the bag. "You wanna talk?"

"Yeah," I said with a hearty nod. "I think I need to."

"Go."

"Well you know that book I've been writing?"

"Your novel?" he said. "Sure. What about it?"

"It was rejected again."

"Again?"

"Yeah, another publisher said no. But that's not all—this time my agent sent the manuscript back to me. She's giving up on it. Says she can't sell it."

"Hmmm." Steve bit his lip as if trying to hold back a smile. "I probably shouldn't tell you this," he said with a grin, "but deep down, I'm kind of glad."

"Glad?"

"Well, ever since you started writing that book your head's been somewhere else. Your heart's not here anymore, dude. It's like you've already left."

"Well, Steve, I've been writing for over five years! I've worked hard to get published. You don't know how—"

"You've worked hard for this!"

"This? Steve, this job's chewed me up and spit me out so many times I can't think straight anymore. I mean, c'mon, man, we work longer hours than anybody I know, and where's the payoff? When am I ever going to get mine?"

"Is that why you write? To get yours?"

"Well—" My shoulders shrugged themselves. "That's not the only reason."

"Look," Steve said. "You may not want to hear this, brother, but I believe God put you here for a reason, and it's not to make money. He's using you in more ways than you know. I mean just think of all the lives you've touched. The people you've saved over the last twenty years. All those students you've trained to be great paramedics. Brother, there are a lot of folks out there who would be much worse off today if not for you. Shoot, a lot of ‘em wouldn't even be here."

"So, what am I supposed to do, Steve? Just give it all up?"

"No. Write. But do it for the right reason. And don't even think about giving up EMS. God's given you a wonderful gift, brother. You need to use it!"

*

And so, to answer Steve's question—hardly working…that's how I've been doing. I've been so busy worrying about my own agenda that I forgot all about God's. Steve was right. God has given me a special gift and it's time I started using it again. I'll still write, of course, but from now on I'll do it for the right reason. So, Lord, please forgive me for being so selfish. And thank you for my good friend, Steve. And thank you, too, for this awesome gift: I'm a paramedic. I've been blessed with the ability to save other people's lives.

What's your gift? Are you using it? If you are then good for you! Keep up the good work. But if not, it's time you got started. Discover that gift, then get out there…and use it!

* * *

What Do You Know?

In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth…
Ge 1:1

"You know, you should look at the Milky Way sometime, Bill. Some night when the sky is pitch black. As your eyes begin to adjust and that soft, almost indistinguishable blanket of stars and interstellar gases begins to form, you’ll suddenly realize you’re looking at something far greater than us. Our galaxy! It’s over a hundred and fifty thousand light years across. And it contains over a hundred billion stars. And they say it’s just one of a hundred billion similar galaxies that move around the universe together. Now how can that be? How did it all get here? It didn’t just happen. You say you wonder if there’s a God; I don’t. I know there’s a God. There has to be!"

My friend, Bill, gazed at me and scratched his chin, his computer mind processing the picture and considering it from every angle. He gave a slight nod and then an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

"You may be right," he responded. "I don’t know…I just don’t know."

*

The child had curly red hair, a pale freckled complexion, and blue eyes that might have sparkled one day, but it wasn’t meant to be. It was his time. Fourteen months old and already his time. Why? I don’t know.

When my partner and I arrived the firefighters were already performing CPR. The little boy lay on the ground with his tiny chest exposed. One firefighter’s hands pushed against his small fragile sternum, another’s worked an Ambu-bag pumping oxygen into his lungs at a steady, controlled rate. The mother stood to one side with her hands to her mouth and a stunned expression on her face.

"Oh, Jesus," I prayed as I climbed down from the ambulance. "Lord, please help us. Help us do this right."

My partner and I rushed over to help. I performed a quick assessment and attached the cardiac monitor to confirm a rhythm. There wasn’t one. A flat green line traced across the screen. I felt my heart sink. I knew the child was already dead. But I also knew we had to try.

"Good job, everyone," I said trying to keep my cool. "Keep doing exactly what you’re doing."

I could tell by their faces that everyone else felt exactly as I did. Confused and scared. A tiny life was slipping away right before our eyes and we all knew that our attempts were likely futile. But we held ourselves together. We did it right. Everything proceeded in an orderly fashion, in perfect textbook style. CPR, intubation, IV, drugs—we did it all right. Our Medical Director would have been proud. But despite our valiant efforts the little boy died, and I went home that night wondering why…

"Why?" I prayed. "God, why would you allow this to happen?"

My answer never came.

*

I used to think I knew it all. Not anymore. I’m not even half as smart as I once thought. All I can honestly tell you with certainty is this: There is a God and He’s not me, Jesus Christ died for my sins and I’m going to heaven, and my family loves me. And that includes my dog. Other than that, I just don’t know. But the good news is God does. He made the earth and the moon, the sun and the stars. He even made that fabulous Milky Way Galaxy. He created everything there is. That’s what I know, and that’s all that matters to me.

Now, what do you know?

* * *

Well, what did you expect?

Love your enemies, do good to them, and lend to them without expecting to get anything back. Then your reward will be great, and you will be sons of the Most High, because he is kind to the ungrateful and wicked. Lk 6:35


Larry was a junkie. I think he had more toxic chemicals in his veins than blood. I found him lying in the bushes barely breathing, his eyes half-open, his pupils like pinpoints. Foamy saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth. Track marks scarred both arms. I knelt beside him, pulled a dirty syringe from his arm, and then opened my med box to prepare a syringe of my own.

"What else do you want?" my partner asked me.

"We need an IV."

"You know he’s just gonna rip it out, don’t you?"

"I know, Warren. Just do it please."

Warren shrugged and snatched a 500-cc IV bag from the med box. I wrapped a tourniquet around Larry’s arm, thumped up a fat vein, and then plunged an IV catheter into it. The flash chamber filled with blood. I threaded the catheter and attached the IV tubing. Warren set the flow rate to keep the vein open.

Next I selected a small plastic vial and stuck a 3-cc syringe into the round rubbery top. I turned the bottle over, pulled back on the plunger and withdrew two milliliters of clear fluid. After tapping the syringe to clear it of excess air bubbles I attached it to the IV line and pushed the drug into Larry’s vein.

Mere seconds passed before Larry’s eyes began to flutter. His respirations quickened. He slurped a couple of times as if sucking the remains of a milkshake from a straw, and then took a deep breath and sat up. He looked sluggish at first, blurry and unseeing as if covered by a thick haze, but then the constricted pupils dilated and his vision sharpened to a fine point.

"Well," I said. "Welcome back."

"What happened?"

"You OD’d again, Larry. You were barely breathing."

"But why…why did you—"

"We gave you Narcan. We had to get you breathing again."

I offered my hand. Larry slapped it away, stood up, and shouted at me, "You took my high, away, man!"

I’d better not tell you what Larry said to me next, or what he did after he ripped the IV out of his arm, but it wasn’t pretty. He thrust his middle finger into the air and then turned and stormed away from the scene, bleeding from the punctured vein and shouting loud obscenities. I felt stunned. I glanced at my partner.

"Did you see that?"

"Well what’d you expect," Warren said. "A thank you note?"

"No, but maybe a little appreciation!"

"Get real, Pat. He’s a junkie. That hit probably cost him ten bucks. We just stole it from him."

*

You know, I never really expected Larry to thank me, I’m not that naïve, but still, I think it would be nice if, just once, someone would say "Thanks," and then pat me on the back for a job well done. I deserve that much, don’t I?

Well, to be honest, no. I know I don’t deserve that. Jesus said, do good to them and don’t expect anything in return. Just love them. But that’s a hard thing for me to do—to love a guy like Larry—but if Jesus loves him, I suppose I should try. So next time I see him, I’ll stick a needle in his arm, push a therapeutic dose of Narcan into his vein, and then sit back and watch him wake up. And if he curses me, and spits, and blames me for his troubles in life, I’ll smile and turn the other cheek. And then, perhaps I’ll even pray for him, instead of worrying so much about myself.

* * *

True Purpose

For we are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.
Eph 2:10


Thomas lived in a small group home on the south side of town. He had AIDS, renal failure, high blood pressure, and, the night I met him, an overall sick feeling he couldn’t explain. "I’m due for dialysis tomorrow," he said. "But tonight…I just don’t feel right." He didn’t look right either. He was only 47 but he looked old and tired as if he’d spent a lifetime on the run, fighting, and struggling just to stay alive.

After performing a quick assessment I checked his blood pressure and hooked up the cardiac monitor for a look at his heart. His vitals were a little off, but overall he checked out fine. I glanced at his face and suddenly got the feeling that this was more than just a sick call. He needed to talk to someone. And I was okay with that.

"Tell you what," I said. "Let’s take a ride."

He smiled, much obliged, and rose to his feet.

It was a routine transport. I stuck an 18-gauge IV catheter in his arm, took another look at his EKG, and then leaned back and looked at him as we rode down the highway.

"So, Thomas," I said. "Where are you from?"

"Right here."

"Yeah? Then you remember this place before it became a ghetto."

He nodded.

"Look," I said, "forgive me for prying, but, well, I was just wondering…were you ever in a gang?"

A stern expression tightened his face. "Let’s put it this way," he said. "I learned to shoot a gun when I was five years old. Started taking drugs when I was twelve. I did heroin for more than twenty years on the street and then every day in prison for seven more. It won’t my mother that taught me all that."

I gazed at him without speaking. I felt he deserved that. He had something important to say. He continued…

"The alcohol and drugs ruined me. My kidneys are shot now. I don’t blame nobody else, though. I made the mistakes, and I’ll live with ‘em. But these gangs you asked about?" He paused and shook his head. "They’re bad, man. These kids today will shoot anybody. They steal and rob for drugs. They kill. And those girls? They only keep ‘em round for one reason—makin’ babies. To the gangs that’s all they’re good for. My daughter’s there now, you know." He glanced at me as if searching for an answer. "She stays coked up and pregnant most the time."

"Can’t you talk to her?" I asked. "Try to help her?"

"No, you don’t understand. Can’t never talk to her no more. Afraid of her. I know it’s my fault, she’s my child, but she won’t created for no good."

I felt a strange paradox as I walked away from the ER: pleased to know that Thomas is a Christian today—he gave his life to Christ somewhere along the way—but saddened by what I had just witnessed. Harsh reality. Not just words from some magazine article about gangs and troubled youth, but real flesh and blood, a grown man who had survived the streets only to live and suffer the consequences of his mistakes.

Today Thomas lives in the corner of a dusty room. He has few friends, some serious health issues, and a daughter he can no longer see. So I wonder, does he question his purpose in life? I can’t answer that, but I do know this—Thomas and I encouraged one another last Wednesday night, and that was no mistake. It was God’s handiwork. And in that brief meeting, I find true purpose.

*

Do you struggle with your purpose in life? If so, consider poor Thomas. And remember, you are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works.

* * *

Under His Mighty Wing

He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the LORD, He is my refuge and my fortress; my God; in Him I will trust."
Ps 91:-1-2

My father once told me a story of a squadron of WWII fighter pilots. The commander, a devout Christian, had the men memorize Psalm 91—a beautiful poem of God’s promise of protection, His angels, and the fortress He provides His people against the perils of life. Every morning the men stood as a unit and recited the passage before climbing into their planes and flying off to fight. And as the story goes, not one of them was injured during the course of the war. Every man returned safely to his home.

That story changed my life…

*

"Kim, have you seen Dan?"

"No," my wife responded. "I thought he was with you."

I sighed and walked through the house calling my son’s name. I was used to it. Dan was a rascal. He was three years old, full of life, and we were late for church.

"Danny," I called. "Where are you, buddy?"

Silence.

I grunted, walked outside and called him again.

Nothing.

I trotted around the house shouting his name.

Still nothing.

"Dan?" I yelled. "Where are you?"

Panic gripped me.

"Kim," I shouted. "I can’t find him!"

My wife ran outside to join me and together we began a frantic search. Suddenly we heard a small voice. I ran to the side yard and saw him walking from our neighbor’s house. He held an apple in his hand and a huge smile on his face. "Look, Daddy."

"Dan," I said. "Where have you been?"

I picked him up and hugged him. I felt overjoyed. Relieved beyond words. My son was safe at home and that was all that mattered. We talked about it, of course. It was a short discussion, after all, he was only a child; but my father and I had another talk, and it wasn’t so short.

"Son," he said. "Listen to me. You won’t always be there to watch over Dan. He’s going to grow up, move out and have his own children, and someday, God forbid, no matter how much you pray for him, something bad could happen. That’s just life. You need to learn to trust the Lord."
And then he told me that story—the squadron…and Psalm 91.

"Do what those pilots did," he said. "Memorize it, and then let Dan go. God will watch over him."

That was twenty years ago. Kim and I have two sons now—Dan and Phillip. And they did grow up. And they ventured out. And today they’re healthy and happy and doing just fine. And to this day, I still murmur those precious words I memorized so long ago:

"Lord, hold them in the palm of your hand. Give your angels charge over them today, please. Cover them with your feathers that under your mighty wings they might trust."

*

I realize that life happens, and that despite my prayers, something could happen to one of my boys today, but I also know with certainty that if it should, my God will be watching over them at the time.

Is there someone you’re holding on to just a little too tight? Are you afraid, like I was, to let them go? Well don’t be afraid. Trust the Lord. Memorize Psalm 91 and recite it every day. Then let go. And if something should happen to your loved one, if tragedy strikes and they never do come home again, you’ll know in your heart that God was with them. They were covered by his feathers, tucked securely under the shelter of His mighty wing.

He is my refuge and my fortress; my God; in Him I will trust."

* * *

Fight for Position. Fight!

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Ps 23:1-4


Total loyalty. Total trust. Total dependence.

Every time I read Psalm 23 I imagine a flock of sheep fighting for position. They push, they struggle, each trying his best to draw close to the shepherd’s leg while an army of angry red eyes glares at them from the darkness. They hear vicious growling, angry pawing, and the relentless snarling of hungry creatures eager to tear at their soft pink flesh. But the flock remains safe. It grazes in perfect peace, totally aware of the dangers but secure in the knowledge that the shepherd is keeping watch, his rod and staff in hand.

What a beautiful image. No scripture encourages me more, but when I realize that it was written for me, about me, it fills me with understanding.

We are those sheep.

We live in a dangerous world, surrounded by terror. Evil men plot against us, to maim us, to kill us, and to destroy our way of life. Follow the world, stray off of God’s chosen path, and, in the end, we will be dragged down a road of destruction with the eternal darkness of hell at the end. Yes, death is all around us and it can strike at any moment. So what are we to do? Where is our shepherd? Who will raise his staff to fight on our behalf?

Do you know the answer?

*

Well this week as you remember the tragedy of 9/11, keep that question in mind, for on that terrible day seven years ago, 2,983 of our brothers and sisters felt the wolves’ teeth tear into their flesh. Evil attacked. And innocent people died.

A cruel picture? You bet it is, but it’s one we must never forget. And if we learn nothing else from their needless sacrifice, let us learn this: Like sheep, we are all vulnerable. We need a shepherd. We need salvation from this lost and dying world.

None of us knows when our time will come, no one knows the exact hour, so before you go to work tomorrow I want you to say a prayer. Ask the Lord Jesus Christ to walk into your life. He is the Great Shepherd. He’s our rock, our fortress against the dangers of this world. Just ask Him. He will gladly come in. And then, when the darkness closes in, when the killing wolves attack, draw as close to Him as you possibly can. Fight for position. Fight! And when your time comes—when it’s your turn to walk into that Valley of the Shadow of Death—your shepherd will be standing by your side. His rod and his staff, they will protect you!

*

In memory of the first responders who died that terrible day—the police officers, the firefighters, the EMT’s and the paramedics…

You didn’t realize when you went to work that morning that your life would be demanded of you, but you would have gone anyway. I know it! You were heroes, each and every one of you. Jesus said, "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." And that is exactly what you did. My God, what devotion! May God hold a special place in His Kingdom just for you. May you dwell in the shadow of the Almighty for all eternity, safe and secure in the Shepherd’s right hand.

* * *

I Couldn't Do It Without You

Just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, so in Christ we who are many form one body, and each member belongs to all the others. We have different gifts, according to the grace given us. Ro 12:4


I have a difficult job—jump when others call, wallow in their blood, manage life-threatening emergencies and occasionally save a life—and I’m proud of it. But my pride has its limits. I depend on others more than I’d like to admit. I could never do this job by myself. No way!

*

"Pat," Captain David Young shouted as I climbed from the ambulance. "You need to intubate him, dude. He’s crashing fast!"

I grabbed my trauma bag and started toward the scene. It looked bad, a Ford pickup wrapped around a tree, its front end crumpled in upon itself like aluminum foil.

"Bring your suction unit too," Young yelled. "He’s full of blood!"

I ran back, grabbed the necessary equipment, and trotted over. "Whatcha got?"

"It ain’t good," Young said. "He was leaning against the tailgate when the truck hit the tree. Flew into the back of the cab headfirst." Young pulled away a blood-soaked trauma dressing. Blood poured from a gash in the center of the victim’s head. He quickly recovered the wound and applied direct pressure. "Like I said, not good."

I climbed aboard the truck and gazed at the victim. His eyes looked lifeless. He breathed in short gurgling gasps.

"What’s his name," I murmured.

"Jose Gonzales," someone answered, "Why?"

"Never mind. Someone open his mouth." Young grabbed the victim’s head and forced open his jaw. I inserted a hard plastic catheter. "Okay," I said. "Turn it on." My partner hit the switch. A long line of bright red blood coursed up the tube. The catheter sucked and hissed, but I was unable to keep up with the steady stream of blood flowing into the mouth. I felt myself begin to panic. "We’re losing him. Help me!"

"What can I do?"

I handed Young the catheter.

"You suction…I’ll intubate."

And so, we did the job. My partner, the firefighters, all of us, we worked as a team. We suctioned. We intubated. We dressed the bleeding head wound and immobilized our patient. We did everything within our collective power to achieve the impossible, but I could tell by his injuries, I knew in my heart, Jose Gonzales was already gone.

*

I transported a young woman a few years later. She spoke of a bad wreck—pickup truck versus tree. She’d been the driver, her cousin, Jose, the victim.

"He almost died," she explained. "The impact threw him forward. He hit his head on the cab. "He lives on Holloway Street now. He’s—"

"Wait a minute," I said interrupting her. "What’s your cousin’s name?"

"Jose Gonzalez."

"Gonzalez?" I felt my eyes widen. "Are you telling me he’s alive?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "His fingers tingle a little, but he’s fine. The paramedics saved him."

*

It wasn’t just the paramedics who saved Jose Gonzales, it was the entire team. My hat goes off to the men on Engine-5, and to all of the other firefighters who work so tirelessly to make my job easier. They make a difference. They save lives. And sometimes, when we work together, we can even accomplish the impossible.

Thank you, guys. I couldn’t do it without you!

* * *

Welcome Home

Therefore, my brothers, be all the more eager to make your calling and election sure. For if you do these things, you will never fall, and you will receive a rich welcome into the eternal kingdom of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. 2Pe 1:10-11

It was powerful!

Bagpipes played as the horse drawn caisson rolled past an army of gray-clad Troopers. Upon its carriage deck lay a flag covered casket that held the body of an old friend of mine. A true warrior. A brother in Christ—Trooper 352: Andrew James Stocks, N.C. Highway Patrol. We called him A.J.

The Caisson moved quietly to the clicking hooves of six magnificent black creatures, well groomed horses in regal parade dress, one without rider to signify loss. The horses stopped. Six Troopers stepped forward and removed the casket. They marched quietly into the building and set it in a place of prominence in the front of the church. And the service was awe inspiring, a beautiful memorial to the life of a true first responder—A.J.: U.S. Marine-Crash Firefighter, N.C. Paramedic, N.C. Paramedic Instructor, U.S. Army Ordinance Soldier, and lastly, N.C. State Trooper. Yes, A.J. dedicated his entire career to the service of others. He lived so that others might live and, in the end, gave his life selflessly in the line of duty. He was and still is a true hero.

I felt myself jump at the offering of the twenty-one gun salute. Tears filled my eyes as I heard the bagpipes play and the peaceful closing hymns. But I felt my life change at the offering of the radio report that ended the service. A strong male voice came over the air. I felt confused. It surprised me.

"Raleigh, Troop C—"

Silence fell over the room. At first I thought it was a mistake, someone’s radio, a Trooper’s handheld crackling to life. But then it came again, crisp and clear, a strong voice from somewhere overhead.

"Troop C—"

Dead silence this time. It wasn’t a radio; it was a real dispatch going over the air for N.C. Troopers everywhere to hear.

"Troop C…Attention! Trooper 3-5-2 is 10-42."

10-42…Ending tour of duty.

A.J.’s work on earth was complete, and with that God moved him to his new home in heaven. I know he’s there because we talked about it. I asked him one day, "A.J., how can you know for sure?" And he answered, "Because Jesus Christ died for my sins."

So now A.J. has a new home, and oh, what a mansion! Can you imagine it? Built by God’s own hands? It must be marvelous. And Jesus said, "In my Father’s house are many rooms. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And I will come back and take you to be with me." He did too. Jesus came and got A.J. that day.

It was his last day on earth, his first day in heaven.

*

I believe A.J. would have been proud of his funeral. I know I was. But you know, something occurred to me as my wife and I walked away from the church. The N.C. Highway Patrol, A.J.’s family, the United States Army, and what, I’m sure, amounted to dozens of unnamed friends and volunteers who worked tirelessly to produce that service, had but three short days to do it. Three days! And look what they accomplished. It was the most touching, the most powerful service I have ever witnessed. So just think: Our God—the maker of all creation—has had an eternity to create our next home. Eternity! What will it be like? We can only imagine. But guess what, A.J. already knows. So wait for us there, A.J., we’ll be home soon enough. In the meantime, rest in peace, Trooper. And, welcome home!

* * *

True Warriors

Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective. Jas 5:16

It’s my routine. Leave the house, drive north 2.5 miles, and then hang a left. The highway is long and straight, and for fifteen miles I’m alone with my thoughts. I use that time to think. And to pray. "Help me to be a good paramedic. Please don’t let me hurt anyone tonight. And, Lord, please help me to be a gentleman."

I clocked in at 7:00 p.m. and right away the calls began. Tough calls. The kind that make me wonder why I still do this job? One patient lied to me, another one spit. A belligerent female cursed at me, blamed me for her plight in life and then outright accused me of racism. And the calls rolled on. I became exhausted, weary from the workload, frustrated by the onslaught of personal insults. But I handled myself well. Remained a gentleman.

Until 4:00 a.m…

I found the vehicle atop a grove of broken pines. Prickly vines tore at my skin as I climbed down the embankment and into her car. "Hello," I said scanning her for major injuries. "My name’s Pat. What’s yours?"

She sat in the front seat screaming, "Get me out of here."

"We will," I said. "But tell me, are you breathing okay? Are you hurt?"

"Get me out!"

I ignored the verbal stabs and continued my assessment—trauma victims sometimes speak irrationally, say things they don’t mean—but I found no major injuries, no reason for her to be so rude.

I explained the situation to her as the firefighters approached the car. She continued to fuss as they pulled open her door, continued to gripe as we immobilized her and carried her up the hill.

Uncooperative and difficult she abused me the whole way to the hospital, pulling at her bindings and yelling for me to cut her loose. I tried to remain patient, continued trying to help. I even stabilized her on a particularly rough section of road—grabbed her belt and held on tight to keep her from rolling as the truck rocked side to side—but she turned it into something else.

"Don’t you do it," she said her voice cold and threatening. "Don’t you do it!"

"Do it? Do what?" I said suddenly realizing her implication. "Are you serious? Are you accusing me of—"

I was shocked.

She opened her mouth and tried to speak, but I cut her off this time. I’d had enough!

"Shut up!"

"What?"

"I said, SHUT UP!"

And she did. She remained as passive as a lamb for the rest of the ride. But me? I marched into the ER angry as a hornet and left just as mad, a trail of verbal destruction in my wake. I got in trouble of course—the ER doc is still fuming.

*

Where did I go wrong? I prayed, didn’t I? I was only trying to help. What am I supposed to do when the whole world turns against me? Attacks me from every side? Well this morning something occurred to me—I need more than routine prayer. I need other Christians praying for me, true warriors who will lift me up every time I go to work.

So here’s a challenge: Call a friend. Ask them to pray for you. Promise to pray for them and do it. And always remember—the prayer of a righteous man is a powerful, effective weapon.

And do me a personal favor—please pray for me. Pray for my partner too. Tonight we go back out and face it all again. Ask God to help me to be a gentleman this time…regardless of what the night brings.

* * *

More Precious Than Gold

Blessed is the man who finds wisdom, the man who gains understanding, for she is more profitable than silver and yields better returns than gold.
Pr 3:13-14

Anger!

It’s part of who I am. My response to the harshness of life. But have mercy on me please, I didn’t choose to be this way…

My youngest son was fourteen years old at the time, healthy and safe, getting himself ready for school when my final call of the night was dispatched. "EMS report for medic-seven," the dispatcher said. "Possible suicide…"

A gallery of colorful images flooded my mind—slashed wrists, gunshot wounds, overdoses. I’d seen them all. Vibrant memories of hopelessness and pain. Horrific expressions of self-inflicted death.

I felt myself cringe.

"You can handle it," I told myself. "It’s just another call."

I forced the images aside and approached the scene. We found her lying at the base of a carpeted staircase, a fourteen year old girl without a breath of life. Her eyes bulged. Her face looked puffy and blue. A collar of swollen red skin encircled her neck.

"Oh, my God," my partner cried.

"She hung herself," one of the police officers explained. "Her little sister found her. Cut her down and ran back to bed. Can you believe it? Poor kid didn’t know what else to do."

The harshness of life. It slapped me in the face. What was I to do but cry?

But I couldn’t cry. My defense mechanism worked too well. I glanced around the room. The other faces displayed emotion. Pain. I felt nothing. No sorrow. No pity.

Nothing.

"It’s just another call," I whispered, my heart grown cold. "Just another call."

*

Weeks passed. Months. My life went on as usual. But then one day, like a freight train charging out of the night, another crisis hit. This one in my home.

My defense mechanisms went to work. I prepared myself for the worst.

"You can handle it," I told myself. "It’s just another call."

But this time something went wrong. Like a pressure cooker blowing off steam, I exploded. I broke down in a fit of uncontrolled grief while my wife, my sons, my in-laws watched, bewildered by the sudden burst of emotion from a man so usually hard.

Embarrassment could not begin to explain the humiliation I felt that day. But I couldn’t help myself, it just happened. Fifteen years of pent up frustration and anger, grief and hopelessness, sorrow and death—they all finally surfaced, and with them a tidal wave of emotion that truly rocked my world.

My family survived that crisis. God poured out His mercy on us…especially on me. I still find myself crying at times when the harsh realities of life slap me in the face, but I handle pain better now. I now know how to let it go.

God granted me wisdom through those two experiences, and new understanding more precious than gold. I learned that no man can hold in the pain forever. It will surface. It always finds a way.

*

Do you know a police officer? A firefighter or a paramedic? Someone who’s out there every day absorbing the pain of others and trying their best to keep it all inside? Pray for that person. Be there for them. Love them. But most of all try to understand them. They were called to serve others—a tough, painful job.

* * *

A Second Chance

Jesus said to her, "I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?"
Jn 11:25

I caught myself smiling. The scene looked perfectly serene. A group of old men sat together in a wide circle on the front porch rocking quietly. Their aged faces reflected serenity. Not a care in the world. I stepped onto the porch and cleared my throat. No one spoke or greeted me. They hardly seemed to notice me.

"Excuse me," I said feeling somewhat confused, quite certain that my EMS uniform would have been enough to announce the purpose of my visit. "Did you gentlemen call 9-1-1?"

"Sure, sure," one of the men responded. "We did."

"Well—" I glanced at him and chuckled. "What can we do for you?"

"I think Harold’s dead," he said pointing across the porch. "He stopped breathing five minutes ago."

"What?"

I set down my equipment and walked over for a closer look. Sure enough, a gray-haired man sat in one of the chairs between two fellow rockers his head slumped against one shoulder as if he were asleep. I saw no sign of life, no movement at all. I touched his neck and felt for a pulse. Nothing.

"Uh, Andy?" I glanced at my partner, Andy Strader. "I believe he’s right."

Andy set down the defibrillator unit and pushed the power button. I grabbed the old man by the arms, slid him to the floor and ripped open the front of his shirt. Buttons flew. Fabric tore. Andy handed me the defibrillator paddles. I placed them on his chest and glanced at the monitor. A squiggly green line traced across the screen.

"Okay," I murmured. "We’ve got V-Fib. We can handle that."

Andy switched the unit to DEFIB and pushed the charge button. The unit began to whine. The low-toned whistle built quickly into a high-pitched shrill.

"Okay," Andy said the capacitor fully charged. "Light him up."

"Here goes. Clear!"

Andy backed away. I straightened my arms, pushed the paddles firmly against Harold’s bony chest, and delivered the shock. Two hundred watt-seconds of electricity discharged into the old man’s body. His back arched. His muscles jerked. And then suddenly, to my amazement, he opened his eyes. He looked about briefly as if trying to gain his bearings, and then turned and gazed at me.
"Who are you?"

"Sir," I said trying to hide my astonishment. "I’m a paramedic."

"What are you doing?"

"You were dead, Harold," one of the old men shouted. "These boys saved your life."

"They did? Well, I’ll be." Harold sat up and rubbed his chin. "Thank you fellas. Looks like you’ve given me a second chance."

*

It’s a true story. Harold died that cool autumn morning—his heart stopped beating and his breathing ceased—but only for a little while. Apparently God wasn’t finished with him. He sent us. And by the delivery of a single shock of electricity He gave Harold a second shot at life. What Harold did with the rest would be up to him.

And you?

Jesus said, "I am the resurrection and the life." He gave you a second chance too. It’s called eternal life. And just like Harold, what you do with that is up to you. But I wouldn’t wait too long in making that decision. Harold got another chance. Will you?

* * *

A Real Miracle

He performs wonders that cannot be fathomed, miracles that cannot be counted. Job 5:9

My job is unpredictable, out of control at times. Just occasionally I need a little help, and sometimes…a real miracle.

“Excuse us. Move please. Move!”

My partner, Larry, pushed through the crowd, an orange airway bag over his shoulder. I carried a ton of uncertainty in my heart. Three men dressed in bunker pants and navy blue fire department tees knelt over a small inert body in the middle of the street. The Captain looked up at us and grimaced. “Boy, are we glad to see you guys. His airway’s as tight as a plugged pipe.”

I glanced at the child’s face. The small brown eyes looked lifeless, his lips the color of a purple Popsicle.

“How long has he been down?” I asked.

“Eight minutes. Maybe more.”

I murmured a prayer. Knelt on the asphalt. A firefighter handed me a bag-valve-mask resuscitator. I placed it over the boy’s face and gave the bag a squeeze hoping to see his chest rise. It didn’t. Larry handed me a laryngoscope. I inserted the tip of the blade into the child’s mouth and lifted his tongue. The fiber-optic bulb lit the back of his throat all the way to the vocal cords. There was nothing there.

“See anything?” Larry said.

“No.”

I knew I’d have to intubate. The endotracheal tube would provide an artificial airway. It was our only hope.

“Let’s tube him.” I held out my hand and snapped my fingers. Larry placed a long slender tube into my hand. I inserted it into the boy’s mouth, passed it down his throat and through the cords, but then it stopped cold as if hitting a wall. “Something’s down there,” I said withdrawing it. “Do some more trusts.”

Nobody moved.

“Come on,” I shouted. “Do it!”

One of the firefighters straddled the child, placed his hands on the boy’s abdomen, and gave five, quick upward thrusts. I tried again. The tube stopped short. I felt myself begin to panic. His airway was completely blocked. The child was going to die.

“Jesus,” I said. “Help me!”

I tried again. Same result. My heart broke. I picked the boy up and ran for the ambulance, climbed into the back, and placed him on the stretcher.

“Let’s go,” I shouted.

Larry climbed in. The truck began to move the siren to wail. We tried our best to clear the boy’s airway, to make some kind of progress, to save his young life, but it was hopeless. There was nothing more we could do.

Suddenly the truck hit a bump. The rear end crashed down on one side and lurched upward. I lost my balance and fell to the floor. I wanted to shout, to scream out in anger and frustration. God had failed me.

“Hey,” Larry shouted. “Look!”

I glanced at my patient. His chest heaved, his small face broke into a pained grimace as he drew a deep breath.

“There it is!” Larry reached into the boy’s mouth, removed a small round object, and wiped away a layer of creamy white saliva. “It’s a grape!”

*

Do you believe in miracles? That little boy should have died. Fifteen minutes without air and life as we know it is all but impossible…but not to God. By the time we left the ER the boy was sitting up talking with his parents, pink and smiling and as healthy looking a child as I had ever seen. Yes, I believe in miracles. I also believe that sometimes all God wants us to do is ask.

* * *

Clear In Any Language

Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you. Eph 4:32

I don’t mind admitting it. I didn’t want to touch him. He sat on the edge of the bed with his leg elevated. His knee looked swollen and red with infection. Yellow pus oozed from between the stitches. My nose drew up. I felt my guts tighten. I swallowed the bile in the back of my throat and approached him.

"Sir," I said, certain I knew the answer he’d give. "Do you speak English?"

He shook his head. I saw fear in his eyes.

I should have introduced myself, made an attempt at friendliness and tried to gain his trust, but I didn’t. I performed a rough assessment careful to keep my gloved hands as far away from the festering wound as possible. After checking his vital signs I sent my partner to the truck for the stretcher and quickly wrapped the wound with dressings. I just wanted to get the job done. Get out. Get on to something else. After all, I thought, this guy doesn’t deserve my help. He’s just like all the rest of them. He’s using us. He doesn’t belong here!

My patient seemed to read my mind. He murmured something and tried to stand, but he didn’t get far. Pain gripped him. He grimaced. His red-rimmed eyes filled with tears. He fell back onto the dirty sheets and squeezed his thigh, crying. I couldn’t understand what he said but it didn’t matter. The pain on his face would have been clear in any language. The poor guy was hurting. He needed help.

Suddenly it occurred to me what I was doing. I paused and stared deep into his panicked eyes, and instantly my vision cleared. I wasn’t looking at an alien, I was looking at another man. He had a handsome face. And brown eyes. He probably even had a name.

"My God," I murmured, "forgive me."

I slowed down, finished dressing the wound, and then paused and looked at him.

"Amigo—" I tapped my chest. Shook my head. "I’m sorry, friend. My name is Pat."

I saw his face relax. His eyes widened. The corners of his mouth drew up in a timid smile. "Si," he said. A gentle nod. "Me llamo German."

Our ride to the ER was simple. After starting an IV and rechecking his wound I sat back and continued my feeble attempt at communication. I stuttered a little, shrugged a lot, and occasionally shook my head, but a couple of times I even laughed. And so did Herman. He still hurt—I could tell by the way he gnashed his teeth every time the ambulance hit a bump—but his fear and distrust? They’d vanished.

As we arrived at the hospital it occurred to me that my patient still smelled. His wound still reeked and his clothes still stank, but I no longer cared. I’d made a new friend. His name was Herman. We’d shared a friendly moment and, in doing so, healed a lifetime of bitterness and distrust.

* * *

We Must Walk By Faith

"We live by faith, not by sight."
2 Corinthians 5:7

I found the bus parked on the side of the road. A small crowd stood to one side, shocked looks on the angry faces. I climbed aboard and found my patient sitting in the aisle in a pile of broken glass, her hands pressed to her forehead, her arms and lap stained with blood. She might have been angry, cursing and shaking her fist at the foolhardy teenagers who had reportedly flung the rock at the bus shattering the window and hitting her in the head, but she didn’t seem to be. She took a deep breath, told me her name, and then quietly submitted as I lowered her hands to examine the wound. And it was deep—a three inch gash above her right eyebrow. A golf ball sized hematoma had already formed. Her eyelid looked swollen, discolored and wet.

"It could be worse," I said taking a wad of water soaked gauze and gently cleansing the site. "But you’re going to need stitches."

"There’s glass in my eye," she said. "I can’t open it."

"Don’t try."

I finished washing the wound and dressed it with fresh gauze, careful to cover both of her eyes to prevent unintentional movement.

"Now—" I took her hands. "Stand up and follow me. My partner has the stretcher at the bottom of the steps."

I saw her face draw up tight. "But I can’t see. How can I—"

"Larissa. Trust me."

"But—"

"Think of it as a faith walk."

"Oh."

Her face relaxed. She nodded as if she understood. I helped her stand and then backed down the aisle, coaxing her with quiet words of encouragement. Her first few steps seemed timid, unsure, but as her faith in me grew she gained momentum and together we walked down the steps, through the door, and outside into the humid night air.

The back of the ambulance was cool and bright. I checked her vital signs and started an IV. We made small talk—about the event, about her wounds—but eventually the conversation turned to faith.

"You’re a Christian, aren’t you?" she said, more a statement than a question.

"Yes," I responded. "I am."

"Will you pray for me?"

Now I’m no saint, not even by a stretch. I don’t pray with every patient I get into the back of my ambulance. I’ve argued with many, fought with a few, and battled my own prejudices more times than I can remember. But her words? They were like cinnamon candy to my ears. A sweet feeling came over me. I knew what I had to do.

"Of course I will."

And we prayed—two people from different worlds meeting in the most unlikely of circumstances, holding hands and praying as if they’d known each other for years. You know, they say God works in strange ways; I see it more as creative brilliance. His love breaks down barriers. It shatters human defenses. It brings people together who would otherwise never meet.

"You know what’s fascinating?" I said when I raised my head from prayer. "You haven’t even seen me yet and, still, you trust me."

I saw Larissa nod. Then she smiled. And I couldn’t see them but at that moment, beneath the bloody bandages, I’m sure her eyes twinkled.

"We walk by faith," she murmured, "not by sight."

* * *

I've Realized My Calling

“I urge you to live a life worthy of the calling you have received. Be completelyhumble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love.” Ephesians 4:1-2

“How old is she?” I asked.

“A hundred and one next month. Here’s her DNR.”

The nurse handed me a piece of yellow paper. I took it and studied it. It bore the familiar red “STOP” sign and the bold command: Do Not Resuscitate! It had been signed by a licensed physician and was well within date. I nodded. The order looked legitimate. And after all, I thought as I glanced at my patient, there was nothing I could do for her anyway. She lay in the nursing home bed, unresponsive. Each guppy-like breath she took appeared to be her last. I touched her wrist. It felt warm. A weak pulse tapped beneath the dry, papery skin, but I knew it was just a matter of time before it stopped. Her eyes looked empty. Fixed and drained of all life.

“Thank you,” I said, my heart strangely pricked. “We’ll take good care of her.”

I heard sniffles as we loaded her onto our stretcher, muted sobs as we rolled her to the ambulance.

"Goodbye,” someone called. “We love you, Hattie.”

I felt a rainbow of emotions as we pulled away from the scene—sadness, wonder, guilt. The old lady’s time had come and there was nothing I could do. But as I sat and watched her respirations slip away it occurred to me that I was witnessing something special, something many people never have a chance to experience—the final moments of another person’s life. What a privilege to be there, I thought, alone with Hattie in the back of my truck. It was as if I had been invited.

I felt a sudden yearning to reach out to her, to hold her hand and whisper in her ear. And I knew what I wanted to say but, I wondered, would she hear me? They say hearing is the last sense to go. I felt guilty as I considered what to do. Who am I, I asked myself, to take advantage of her now? She’s dying. She can’t possibly defend herself. But what if no one ever told her, I wondered? What if she’s never heard the truth? This could be her only chance to hear it. It would certainly be her last.

I made my decision.

“Hattie,” I said, whispering in her ear. “Can you can hear me? I just want you to know that you’re not alone.” I squeezed her hand. “Jesus loves you. He’s with you now.”

To my amazement I saw a small tear well up in the corner of her eye. It rolled down her wrinkled cheek and dripped into the folds of the pillow case.

Hattie didn’t die en route to the hospital. We made it to the ER where she lived another forty-five minutes, clinging to life, fighting for every breath until her lungs finally gave out and the cardiac monitor traced a clean flat line. Her life ended peacefully. No advanced procedures. No heroic acts. It was a quiet death. A simple one. And I stayed with her until the end.

*

I never planned to become a paramedic; I had grander ideas, more lofty goals. But it seems God had a different plan for my life, something He wanted me to do. And it’s in the special moments, like this one with Hattie, that I’ve realized my calling, to reach out to others and to be with them in those most private moments when they need someone most.

I felt sad as I walked out of the ER that night and climbed back into my truck, but I felt something special too. I felt love. Hope. I felt new purpose. I had witnessed the end of a human life, and mine had been the last voice she had heard on this earth.

* * *