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.

* * *