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.

* * *