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.

* * *

I Dare You!

"At the name of Jesus, every knee should bow…and every tongue confess Jesus Christ is Lord." – Phil 2:9-11

When I first saw her I thought she was a ghost. She lay beneath a pile of bloody sheets, her wrists opened by a crisscrossed pattern of oozing lashes. With pasty white skin and a fixed unseeing gaze, she looked beyond help, a lost spirit in a living corpse drained of blood. Her name was Noel. She wanted to die.

I knelt beside the bed and took her hand. I was surprised at how limp it felt limp, how lifeless. Her skin felt cool and dry, her pulse, weak and slow. I aligned my face with hers. Her red-rimmed eyes seemed to peer right through me as if I weren’t even there. I felt a dark, foreboding presence as if death loomed all about us. As I gently dressed her wounds I explained her circumstances, that whether or not she agreed with me, I would be transporting her to the hospital.

"No," she whispered. "Just leave. Just let me die."

"I can’t do that," I said. "When you hurt yourself, Noel, you lost the right to make that decision. Look, come with me, it’ll give a chance to talk, just the two of us. My partner will give us an easy ride. All we’ll do is talk, I promise. Maybe say a prayer."

Noel’s head turned. She gazed at me with eyes full of confusion. I knew what I should do, I knew what I needed to say, but fear stopped me short. I glanced at the other rescue workers. The firefighters. The cops. What would they think of me? What do I do? Lord, I silently prayed, give me strength.

Say it, a voice beckoned me. Be bold, man. Just say it.

I couldn’t.

As if led by an unseen hand, Noel climbed out of the bed and followed me from the room. Our ride to the ER was simple. No oxygen masks came out of the wall. No IV bags were spiked. No ECG monitors were attached and no medications were pushed. It was just a simple ride. But as we rode together in the back of that old ambulance we talked; and as we talked we shared; and as we shared together I felt an overwhelming need to tell her. We were finally alone. What did I have to lose?

"Noel," I said, my heart racing. "Jesus loves you."

*

I saw my partner’s chin drop when he opened the rear doors of the ambulance. His eyes flew open in shocked surprise. But I understood the source of his confusion. Noel literally beamed. Her previously washed out face looked strong. Pink. She had been transformed, from death to life, by the mere utterance of a word. For you see, we held hands and prayed in the back of that old truck, and Noel gave her life to Christ.

Why is it so hard for us to say the name? Why do we cower, wondering what others will think? Because it’s the most powerful word in the universe. The Bible tells us He has a name above every name, and that at the mere mention of that name every knee should bow, and every tongue confess that He is Lord. Every Christian must remember that. There’s power in the name of Jesus, marvelous, life-changing power, hope, and salvation. Jesus died and rose that we might live. He’s my savior, and now He’s Noel’s too. Is He yours?

*

Now a challenge: If you know Jesus Christ it’s your turn. Go out and tell someone else about Him. And be bold, man. Say it. Say the name, Jesus.

I dare you!

* * *

A Good Drunk

"If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing that?" Mt 5:46

Yeah I’m a Christian, but I had me a good drunk the other night…

No, really. Found him lying in the middle of the street, bump on his head and a bottle by his side. He was about fifty something, dressed in simple clothes and stinking like a sack of dirty laundry. With slurred speech and the sweet, slushy scent of cheap alcohol lingering on his breath, he was about as common as can get…

…a real good drunk.

I chuckled. I’m a paramedic. I’ve seen it all before. It should have been a simple call—pick him up, throw him on the stretcher, and give him a ride to the ER for observation, oh, and by the way, pray for him—but it wasn’t that easy. He became belligerent. Then he wanted to fight me. Then he went and opened his mouth. I won’t tell you what he said. Christians don’t use words like that. Or do we?

Well before you go pointing your finger at me, that man’s words hurt. He hurt my pride! He made me angry!! What was I supposed to do, just stand there and take it? No way! I flung the words right back at him as fast as I could. After all, he deserved it. I was only trying to help him.

Right?

Well, we all know the answer to that question. I was wrong. Dead wrong.

You know I’ve been a Christian for over thirty years, and you’d think by now I’d know better, but for me it’s not that simple. I seem to make one mistake after another, failing the Lord in so many areas of my life that recently a thought has been heavy on my mind:

What does it really mean to be a Christian?

Does it mean never missing church? Attending the right Bible studies? Smiling at other Christians, and never uttering a foul word? Well, I believe Jesus answered my question when He said, "Love your enemies, and pray for those who persecute you."

"But, Lord?" I say. "Are you serious? Even him?"

If I close my eyes, I can picture Jesus hanging on the cross. If I use my imagination, I can see myself kneeling at His bloody feet. But if I put aside my pride, my arrogance, and my selfish ambitions, I can imagine that man kneeling by my side—dirty clothes, stinking breath and all—and suddenly, suddenly, everything becomes crystal clear. We’re both sinners. Christ died for both of us.

I failed that test last Saturday night, it’s true, but Jesus used my failure to teach me a valuable lesson. He showed me what it really means to be a Christian, and He used a good drunk to do it…

* * *