Been there. Done that.

"For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoeverbelieves in him shall not perish but have eternal life."  John 3:16

You’ve got problems. And at times it seems like no one understands. But there’s someone who does. He’s been there…done that…and his love for you is difficult to imagine.

Picture yourself alone, praying for a friend. Your concern is so intense that your head begins to pound. Your blood pressure rises, and your hands begin to shake. Capillaries burst. Blood drips from your tear ducts and pores. And yet, despite your grief and turmoil, you remain in earnest prayer, your love for your friend so deep you are willing to give it all.

Suddenly a mob appears, carrying weapons and stainless steel chain. They lock you in shackles and force you to move, mocking you and striking you as they lead you away. They strip you of your clothing and bind you to a post. The wood is rough against your skin, a solid stump to which they tie your arms. Your muscles tighten. Your pulse races. You pant and cringe at the terror about to unfold.

Two men approach carrying gruesome whips. The tools are medieval and crude, with multiple leather thongs tipped by pieces of iron. They take turns beating you—over and over again—the cruel whips ripping at your skin until the flesh on your back, legs, chest and arms lies open in red, dripping stripes.

Someone cuts the bindings and you fall like a sack to the floor. Your breath comes in short labored gasps. Your skin oozes and burns. The damage is done, and from these injuries you will most likely die. You will enter a period of shock, and in time, unable to deal with the massive tissue damage and blood loss, you will slowly slip away. Your capillaries will clog. Your organ systems will fail. Death will be quiet and slow. But your punishment is not over; it has only just begun.

Your torturers force you to stand. They throw a robe across your back. The fabric soaks up your blood, and almost immediately clots begin to form. The threads intertwine with the raw bloody flesh, gluing the robe to your back and shoulders, the sleeves to your lacerated arms. Then comes your cap, a wicked ring of three-inch thorns that they thrust upon your head. The needle sharp points bite deep into your skin. One eye closes, gouged by a wayward thorn.

Next a wooden beam is dragged into the room, a ninety pound timber you can hardly manage to lift. They make you pick it up. Carry it outside. A crowd is waiting for you, a jeering angry mob. People spit at you as you pass. They curse and laugh and joke. You try your best to keep moving, but your weakened shoulders and legs cannot manage the load. Your knees buckle. The timber pushes you down, smashing your cheek into the grimy pavement, tearing your lips and nose.

“Get up,” someone shouts. “Let’s go!” But you can hardly move. Another man is chosen. They force him to carry your beam. You follow him up a long, steep hill, a tall rocky crag that resembles a bleached white skull. Exhausted and weary, you finally reach the top. They grab the robe and jerk it from your back. The clots rip away, the venous bleeding resumes, and what’s left of your precious life fluids drips to the dusty ground.

A pulverizing blow finds the small of your back. The wind is knocked from your lungs. You double over in pain. Then they throw you to the ground. They pull you onto the gnarly beam and pin your arms in place.

Clang!

A cold iron spike pierces the bones of your wrist. Blood spews. Your fingers grope madly at the air.

Clang!

A wave of inconceivable pain shoots up your arm and explodes at the base of your brain. The hammer rises and falls again. Another terrible clang!

Helpless, in agonizing pain, all you can do is watch as your other hand is nailed to the board. And then six sweaty men drag you across the ground, lift you into the air, and drop the beam onto the notch carved atop the post. And there you hang at the edge of the cliff, a piece of raw meat two feet above the ground. People crowd and poke you. The spikes crunch the bones in your wrists. The brutality is maddening, the effect beyond reason or hope. Rough hands grab your feet and legs. Bend your battered knees. “Pull his feet together,” one shouts. And two more spikes appear. Clang! Clang!

The pain is excruciating, the loneliness complete. Flies attack your bloody wounds, dogs nip at your feet. Your chest heaves spasmodically, a full breath is far from reach. Your lungs grow heavy and edematous, your breath becomes shallow and weak. Shock is the only thing keeping you alive, but soon your tortured heart fails. And just before you die you gaze down at your torturers, and the people all around.

“Father, forgive them,” you cry. “They know not what they do.”

*

Christ suffered an excruciating death, but did you realize he was not a helpless victim. As he hung upon that cross—nailed at the hands and feet, his lungs filling with water and blood, and his spirit slipping away—he could have called down an army of angels. Fought back. Easily won. But he chose to remain obedient, because he knew his Father’s plan of salvation. His free gift for you and for me. “For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.”

You have tough problems, it’s true, but remember this—you also have a Savior who completely understands, and that night as he knelt in the garden in prayer, he was thinking of you. So trust him with your life. Pray for his help today. Jesus Christ has been there. Done that. And he did it all for you.

I Just Wasn't Ready

In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. Ephesians 6:17

“Congratulations,” a good friend said to me, rushing up and warmly shaking my hand. “What took you so long?”

I chuckled and shook my head. Mike had asked a sincere question, and it deserved an honest answer. “It’s simple,” I responded. “God knew I just wasn’t ready.”

You see, every year my church ordains a new group of deacons, men elected to take on the task of caring for the body of Christ. To be servants. It’s an important job, and it does require a small degree of personal sacrifice, but it’s not difficult. Still, for the first twenty-eight years of my membership, God knew I just wasn’t ready.

I first joined my church in 1981. I met my wife there and we dedicated both of our children. I served on numerous committees, taught classes and mentored young married couples. I parked cars, collected offerings, worked the nursery and sat in the pews countless times. I did everything a good member was supposed to do, but still, somehow, I never felt truly fulfilled. And somewhere along the way I began to change.

My life turned dark. I grew distant. And for the longest time I wanted nothing at all to do with the church. I stopped attending. Ran from God. All the time professing to a Christian, a true believer in the Lord Jesus Christ. But in reality I had become a hypocrite, a weak, watered-down Christian fighting to earn my place in the world. To succeed. To live the American dream.

“Am I really saved?” I began to wonder. “Is Christianity real?”

I started picking fights with God. I challenged him. Demanded answers and got in His face. And one day when I felt like everything was hopeless, I reached the breaking point and cried out to Jesus:

“You tell me to follow you…well I can’t do it. I can’t keep up with you!”

“You can’t keep up,” I heard him say, “because you’re carrying too much baggage. You love this world too much.”

“Well what do you want me to do, Lord?”

“Pick up your cross and follow me.”

“But I don’t know how!”

And then, it was as if blinders were removed from my eyes. I suddenly understood that I couldn’t pick up my cross and follow Christ because I had become too weak. I had no strength left. No longer could I survive as a Christian by my power alone. I needed a fresh infusion of strength. And that’s when an old passage came to mind, a spiritual order from Ephesians, chapter six:

“Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand.”

I began to meditate on that passage. Studied the armor of God. And I soon began to realize why I’d become so weak. I had been toying with the God’s armor instead of putting it on. Choosing one piece of armor one day, another piece the next. I never put it all on at the same time, and rarely, if ever, did I pick up the sword of the Spirit. God’s Word.

I decided to make a commitment to God, to begin reading his Word. Not occasionally, but every day. And I’ve been faithful. From Genesis through the Old Testament and into the Gospels of Christ. I have read, and studied, and memorized, and prayed, and God has changed me. I feel hope. Peace. And for the first time in my life I feel what I believe must be, true joy. It’s a feeling I can’t explain except to say that my heart feels light. My burdens have been lifted. And no longer do I feel the oppression of darkness. The morning light seems brighter. My way appears crystal clear.

I still don’t feel like I’m ready to stand before the congregation of my church—to share the Gospel of Christ and to serve the Lord’s Supper—because I know myself too well. But I also know what God has taught me, and the long road I have traveled to learn what it means to be a Christian. God’s timing is always perfect. His plan righteousness never fails.

So, yeah, it took me a long time, Mike, a long time to realize why I’m here. For forty years I served my self. But today, by God’s grace, I’m learning to serve others.

Do you feel weak? Unable to take up you cross and follow the Lord? Well it could be a piece your spiritual armor is missing. Find out which piece, and then put on the full armor of God. Do it every day. Only then will you find the strength to take up your cross and follow the Lord Jesus Christ.

Is It the Lord?

I wanted to see it for myself. I needed to know. Was it what Christ really looked like? Could it truly be his shroud?

It’s centuries old. It bears the likeness of a man tortured, scourged and crucified in every way consistent with the Gospel accounts of Jesus Christ’s passion. Many believe it to be his burial cloth. Others disagree. But after years of exhaustive studies its origin remains unknown. A true mystery. It is either the most clever forgery ever created by the hands of man, with details and encoded information impossible to reproduce with today’s technology, or it’s authentic; the actual burial cloth of the Lord Jesus Christ. It resides in the city of Torino. It’s considered a holy relic. It’s called The Shroud of Turin.

Then Simon Peter, who was behind him, arrived and went into the tomb. He saw the strips of linen lying there, as well as the burial cloth that had been around Jesus’ head. The cloth was folded up by itself, separate from the linen. John 20:6-7

No one knows what happened that first Easter morning—whether the angels gently awakened Jesus, or if he arose in a burst of radiant energy—but we do know that Peter and John found an empty tomb. The piece of fine white linen in which they’d placed his body was still there. And the short length of cloth that had been wrapped around his head lay folded up neatly by itself, separate from the rest.


OCTOBER 1978 “What we are doing here,” Dr. John Jackson explained, “is seeking the truth…we should start by applying the scientific method.”

And they did. In October 1978, thirty scientists met in Turin, Italy with a common goal—to determine the details, the authenticity, and indeed the actual origin of The Shroud of Turin. They unloaded crate after crate of equipment, set up shop within the cathedral, and examined the Shroud for five exhausting days. They took photographs, densitometry readings and pollen samples from its threads. They used microscopes, visible light, low energy x-rays, ultraviolet and infrared films. In short, they applied the scientific method, keeping an open mind at all times with the constant weight of global responsibility heavy on their shoulders. And when they had finished, the real work began.

“Pat?” Professor Vernon Miller of Brooks Institute of Photography stopped me one day after class. “Do you want an opportunity of a lifetime?”

“Opportunity?” I said with a casual shrug. “Sure. What is it?”

“I’m looking for two assistants next semester to help me with my studies. I’ve already spoken with Bill. We have a lot of research to do, and I could sure use your help.”

“Bill and me? Research? About what?”

“The Shroud.”

“The Shroud?” The Shroud of Turin was big news. Vern had just returned from Italy as Chief Scientific Photographer for the Shroud of Turin Research Project, and he was quickly becoming a legend. His photographs had kicked off a media frenzy and a new era of understanding as to the meaning and origin of the Shroud. His offer intrigued me. “Are you serious?” I said. “Yes!”

So my best friend, Bill Hendricks, and I got to work. We examined Vern’s negatives. Produced print after print after print. We performed scientific experiments. Scorched linens, and examined ancient Biblical icons. We traveled to Colorado Springs, and for three long days worked with Dr. John P. Jackson, physicist, and leader of the Shroud of Turin Research Project. We discussed the crucifixion, hung a volunteer victim upon a makeshift cross. We studied direct contact theories and produced three-dimensional images from original negatives of The Shroud. And so it went. For sixteen weeks. And Bill and I learned more about the Shroud of Turin than most people will ever know. We stood in the shadows of two great men, geniuses who had seen and touched The Shroud.

I felt privileged to have been a part of this wonderful experience. It changed my life. But after thirty years of continued studies and extensive lecturing of my own, I continued to feel a deep yearning. I needed to know—Was it authentic? Could the Shroud of Turin really be the grave cloth that wrapped my Lord?


APRIL 11, 2010 Thousands stood before me. Thousands more behind. Pilgrims. Regular people like me. We spoke different languages, but most of us smiled, for we shared a spirit of expectation. What we were all about to see…what we were all about to experience…it was bigger than any of us. Its relevance hard to imagine. But I had to know.

We waited two hours before finally reaching the chapel. My son, Phillip, entered before me. My wife, Kim, and I followed him inside. We entered the Cathedral of San Giovanni Battista, the resting-place of The Shroud. It was dark and full of people, but a reverent silence filled the room. Some knelt in pews praying. Others stood in silent wonder. At the front of the chapel I noticed a warm glow. It was up there. I could almost see it. I felt my stomach tighten. My heart leapt with excitement.

The slow moving line suddenly quickened. My skin became warm. My heart began to race. The line moved forward, past the pews and around a corner, and then I saw it. Under guard. Behind bulletproof glass. A long sepia-colored cloth adorned by a thick wooden frame.

The Shroud.

We stopped to the side and waited our turn. I could not believe I was finally there after all those years, about to see the Shroud of Turin. I had always been a believer, but there still remained some doubt. Could this be the cloth that Peter found? Am I gazing at the Lord?

Our turn came. We stepped in front of The Shroud. A nun dressed in white began to address our group, sharing details in a language I could not understand, but it didn’t matter. I wouldn’t have heard her anyway. I stood in total amazement. Let my eyes roam over the details of the ancient cloth. Thinking. Absorbing. I had mere moments to gaze. I couldn’t waste a second.

I knew every inch of cloth by heart. Every bloodstain, crease and fold. And the image of the body was perfect. Subtle. Difficult to distinguish, but there. From the wounded wrists and feet, to the bloody scalp and spear-pierced side. Just like in the pictures, the negatives and prints over which I had labored, every detail rang true, clearly pointing to the scriptures. To Christ’s passion. His terrible death.

I fought to compose myself. Strained to comprehend my feelings. For thirty years I had waited, and at that moment as I stood before The Shroud of Turin I found myself in awe. Wondering once again…Is this the Lord? Is this really His shroud? Does it matter?

And then it hit me. It didn’t matter. Either way, my faith in Christ was secure. But what did matter, I suddenly realized, were the years of wonder and curiosity that had led me to that moment. The innocent pursuit of a young man that had begun in Vern Miller’s office so many years before. For in my search for the truth about The Shroud I had gained deep understanding. Knowledge of what my Savior had accomplished for you and me. Knowledge I could share with others about the depth of His love, and the true cost of our sins.

Jesus Christ anguished in the Garden. Suffered the brutal scourge. He was beaten, mocked and crucified. An innocent man condemned to a violent death. But in the end He arose. And the burial cloth that had been wrapped around his body? Well, Simon Peter “…saw the strips of linen lying there, as well as the burial cloth that had been around Jesus’ head. The cloth was folded up by itself, separate from the linen.”


Did I gaze upon the Lord that day? Did Phillip and Kim and I stand before Christ’s image as we paused in that hallowed hall? We will never know. Not on this side of Heaven. But for me it no longer matters. Jesus suffered. He was crucified. And He rose again to conquer death. And if He left His image on that cloth to remind us of what He accomplished, so be it. Either way my faith is secure. I know without a doubt…Jesus Christ is the Lord.

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“What Killed the Man in the Shroud of Turin?”

A PowerPoint presentation by Pat Patterson. For details, or to schedule a speaking engagement for your church or organization, please contact me at psquare@nc.rr.com

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The Horror of the Scourge

“Then Pilate took Jesus and had him flogged. The soldiers twisted together a crown of thorns and put it on his head. They clothed him in a purple robe and went up to him again and again, saying “Hail, King of the Jews!” John 19:1-3

Do you realize the suffering that Jesus Christ endured for you? The horror of the scourge? As a paramedic I have seen a lot of cruelty, vile cases and a lot of senseless blood, but I have never seen anything to compare with this. Never!

“Spread his arms,” the chief guard roared. “That’s it, now lash them tight. Tight, I said! Tighter!”

He knew what was coming, and the anticipation alone would have been enough to make most men cry for mercy, but not Jesus. He stood like a man. He knew what he needed to do and he did it. He loved us that much.

“Ha! You call yourself a king?” the chief guard growled. “Let’s see what you got!”

Can you picture it? The King of Kings tied to a splintered post? His hands and arms bound with leather straps? An angry mob pushing in on him, longing to see him bleed? You know Jesus told his disciples how he would die—that he would be handed over to the Gentiles, mocked, insulted, spat upon, flogged, and crucified—but they didn’t understood what he meant. Are you beginning to?

The scourgers readied themelves, one to each side, each with an evil grin on his face and a cat-of-nine-tails in his hand. But these men were not simple savages, hungry animals longing to devour human flesh; they were artists. Roman soldiers skilled in the art of torture. They used practiced precision. Inflicted maximum pain. It was a well rehearsed performance, a punishment equal to the crime.

“Ready,” the guard shouted. “Proceed!”

The first scourger stepped forward gripping his lethal weapon. “King of the Jews, huh? Take this, your majesty!”

With all of his might he swung the wicked instrument. The deadly thongs whipped through the air and struck with exacting purpose, ripping and tearing at Christ’s bare flesh. Blood spewed from his wounds. His body writhed with pain. The scourger stepped back grinning and the second one stepped in, repeating the brutal onslaught as if part of a terrible game. And back and forth they went with their sick, sadistic sport, whipping and lashing, and lashing and whipping, and on and on and on…

Christ’s flesh fell away in bloody chunks leaving behind a mural of horrible stripes. His butchered skin swelled and oozed, capillary beds leaked within, and soon hemorrhagic shock began, setting into motion a downward spiral that would ultimately lead to death. Yes, Jesus probably would have died from these wounds alone, but his time had not yet come. He still had one task to complete.

“Enough,” the chief guard roared quickly tiring of the game. “Cut him down. He’s done.”

The soldiers cut Jesus loose. He stood on shaky legs, his physical body robbed of strength, his spirit pushed to its near limit.

“Here,” a guard bellowed stepping forward and placing a purple robe across his back, “a garment fit for a king.”

“No, take mine!” Another guard shoved a crown of twisted thorns upon Christ’s head. “Behold, your majesty—your crown!” And then someone placed a shepherd’s staff in his hands. And they dropped to their knees in a show of mock respect. And they went on with their cruel taunting, mocking and scorning and laughing and striking him with their fists, and then snatching the staff and hitting him over the head with it again and again to drive the needle sharp thorns deep into his scalp. “Hail, King of the Jews,” they shouted. “Hail!”

He could have broken loose at any time and called a thousand angels to come and stand by his side, but Christ chose to remain. To take the punishment. For he understood that you and I needed a savior, and that without his sacrifice we would have been lost forever. He chose to accept our punishment, a lashing to the point of near death. But the scourging was just the beginning of his ordeal, the worst was yet to come—a wooden cross, a terrible lonesome walk up a hill called Golgatha, and three iron spikes to ensure an excruciating death.

Jesus loves you more than you could ever know. So this Easter morning, as you consider your salvation and rejoice in the meaning of everlasting life, remember the price that Christ paid for your sins. The gruesome, painful torture that he endured. But remember, too, that after all of the blood and suffering, the mockery and humilitation, and the last gasping breaths of a dying man nailed to a cross, there came victory. Total victory. For Christ arose, and in doing so, he defeated death once and for all.

Yes, he arose. Hallelujah, Jesus Christ arose!

*

Pay Careful Attention

"We must pay more careful attention, therefore, to what we have heard…How shall we escape if we ignore such a great salvation?"
Hebrews 2:1-3

He had every right to ignore me. He was a grown man, intelligent and responsible. And it wasn’t like he was complaining of crushing chest pain or shortness of breath. It was only indigestion. At least that’s what he thought. Still, I wish he’d paid better attention to me. If he had, things might have been different…

“Son, it’s just a little heartburn. I’ll be fine, really.”

I studied my patient. For seventy years of age he looked about as fit as man could be. He appeared a little anxious and just a wee bit pale, but considering that he’d just received news of a family member’s death I figured the poor man had every reason to have indigestion. But I couldn’t ignore the feeling there was something more going on with him. I just wasn’t convinced.

“I hope you’re right,” I said, “but you need to understand that there’s no way we can know that for sure. The symptoms you’re describing could indicate something more serious than heartburn.”

“You mean a heart attack?”

“It’s possible.”

“Hogwash.”

“Sir, I’ve been a paramedic for a long time. I’ve treated a lot of people. We can’t rule out a cardiac event.”

“I’m not having a heart attack!”

“Okay. All right. You’re not having a heart attack. But something’s wrong or you wouldn’t have called. At least let me ride you to the ER and get a doctor to check you out. Better safe than sorry.”

“I’ve got a lot on my mind, that’s all. My cousin just died. My wife’s been sick. And I really don’t have the time or energy to sit in that emergency room all night. Thanks for your concern, but you boys can be on your way now.”

I sighed and glanced at my watch—11:15 p.m. We’d been on the scene for almost twenty minutes. It was time to start wrapping things up. “Andy?” I glanced at my partner. “Any ideas?”

Andy nodded and held up his cell phone. “I’ve got the E-R doc on the line for you. It’s Dr. Smith.”

“Oh, good idea.” I thanked Andy and took the phone. “Dr. Smith, we’re treating a seventy-year-old male complaining of substernal pain that began about two hours ago while watching television. He describes it as burning in nature and initially rated it as a ‘six’ on the ‘one-to-ten scale.’ After aspirin and two rounds of nitroglycerin it’s down to ‘two.’ I explained the possibility that he could be experiencing a cardiac event, but he wants to write it off as heartburn. He’s refusing to come with us.”

“How are his vitals?”

“Vital signs are fine, and his ECG looks okay, but—” I paused and glanced at my patient, “—he’s got that pale uncertain look about him. I get the feeling there’s something more going on here than simple indigestion. I was wondering if you’d mind talking to him.”

Dr. Smith agreed. I handed my patient the phone. I watched him and waited patiently as he conversed with the doctor. He nodded a few times, described his symptoms again, and then shook his head from side-to-side and frowned. “You have all been very kind, and I appreciate your concern, but I’m not going to the hospital tonight.” I watched him nod a few more times, and then he looked at me and handed me back the phone. “He wants to speak to you.”

I took the phone. “He’s adamant,” Smith said. “I tried talking some sense into him but he refuses. Have him sign the right forms. There’s nothing else we can do.”

We had him sign the right forms—releasing us from liability—and then walked back to the truck. We stowed our gear and returned to base. Neither one of us said much. I felt heaviness in my heart. I’d done right, tried the best that I could, but who can change the mind of man who’s already decided?

I lay my head on the pillow. The station grew quiet. I slept for three full hours before the shrill screech of the alert tones awoke me. I sat up and pulled on my boots as the PA speaker crackled and came to life. “Medic-seven,” the dispatcher said her voice anxious and sharp. “Cardiac arrest.” She gave the address. I recognized it immediately. The old man’s face popped into my mind—sweaty and stubborn and pale—and I got a sick feeling in my gut. We hurried back to his house and carried our gear inside and did everything we could to save him, but there’s no raising the dead. Only God can do that.

You have every right to ignore God’s call. No one can deny you that. But pay careful attention—Jesus said, “Remember, therefore, what you have received and heard; obey it, and repent. But if you do not wake up, I will come like a thief, and you will not know at what time I will come to you.”

We are all indebted to sin. Everyone destined to die. But the good news is Jesus paid the price for us, so that through his death and resurrection we might receive eternal life. Do you know Jesus Christ? If not, will you accept this priceless gift today? The wages of sin is death, and you will never escape it…if you continue to ignore his call.

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Answering the Call

Inspirational Devotions From a Tested Paramedic.

Answering the Call is a collection of inspirational stories based on my experiences as a street paramedic in Durham, North Carolina. Each unique story is written as a devotional with an insightful application section that offers the reader a glimpse into God's Word. Use it for your daily devotions. As a guide for your small group study. Or simply to share in my experiences and better understand the lives of paramedics and other first responders.

Are you seeking a closer walk with God? Wondering what comes next? Answering the Call can help you find your way. It reveals the simple truth that Jesus Christ is Lord, and that to follow him is to find true meaning in life. Christ is calling you now. Will you be answering the call?

“The promise is for you and your children and for all who are far off—for all whom the Lord our God will call.” Acts 2:39

Answering the Call...Available from Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas: http://www.christiandevotionsbooks.com/

Answering the Call...

Inspirational Devotions from a Tested Paramedic. Jesus said, “Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.” The First Responders in your community do just that. They sacrifice comfort and safety to protect the lives of others, always waiting, and always wondering when they will find themselves answering the next call. I wrote this book for them, but it applies to anyone who searches for courage and hope, struggles with a difficult relationship, or suffers through pain or loss.

Answering the Call is a collection of inspirational stories based on my experiences as a street paramedic in Durham, North Carolina. Each unique story is written as a devotional with an insightful application section that offers the reader a glimpse into God's Word. Use it for your daily devotions. As a guide for your small group study. Or simply to share in my experiences and better understand the lives of paramedics and other first responders.

Are you seeking a closer walk with God? Wondering what comes next? Answering the Call can help you find your way. It reveals the simple truth that Jesus Christ is Lord, and that to follow him is to find true meaning in life. Christ is calling you now. Will you be answering the call?

“The promise is for you and your children and for all who are far off—for all whom the Lord our God will call.” Acts 2:39
Answering the Call
Paperback: 200 pages
March 1, 2010
ISBN-13: 978-0-9822065-3-9
Price: $9.95

If you would like to read a sample, please click on the following link: http://answeringthecalldevotions.blogspot.com/2010/02/chapter-1.html. If you have any comments or questions please email me at psquare@nc.rr.com. Thank you and enjoy reading!

We Must Stop the Hemorrhage!

If we deliberately keep on sinning after we have received the knowledge of the truth, no sacrifice for sins is left, but only a fearful expectation of judgment and of raging fire that will consume the enemies of God. Hebrews 10:26

A red blood cell is so tiny that over five million of them exist in every drop of blood. That’s 30-trillion in the average sized adult. Thirty trillion! Now that may seem like overkill, but it’s not. For in the vast ocean of formed elements that fill our arteries and veins every one of those red cells is vital for life, so important in fact that God created a second type of cell, called the platelet, to keep the red cells from leaking out. Platelets are sticky. Tenacious. They work together, to form a tight mesh, and ultimately to stop the hemorrhage…

“EMS report for medic-seven…Hemorrhage.”

The loudspeaker made me jump. We were receiving another dispatch, and I just had removed my boots. I pulled them back on and began to lace them up as the dispatcher continued.

“We’ve got one bleeding at 415 Maple Street. Police on scene request a code-three response. Code-three.”

Code-3 means get there fast, someone’s about to die. I finished tying my boots and hurried toward the ambulance. My partner was already behind the wheel with the engine running when I climbed into the passenger seat. I clicked on my safety belt, then I switched on the emergency lights and keyed the truck’s radio mic.

“Medic-seven en route. Responding Code-three.”

“10-4. Medic- seven,” the dispatcher continued, “be advised, you have a twenty-five year old male bleeding heavily. The caller states he punched his fist through a sheet of plate glass. The patient is not breathing.”

“Ten-four.” I replaced the mic and glanced at my partner. “Sounds bad. Let’s go.”

My partner drove out of the bay and hit the gas. I pulled on a pair of blue latex gloves, hung my stethoscope around my neck, and then sat back to think. Would it be a simple laceration? A horrific bloody mess? I’d seen enough trauma to realize the severity of the call. We’d need to act fast, to stop the bleeding before it was too late.

My partner made a hard turn onto Maple Street and slowed the truck. I switched off the siren and lights. He drove to the end of the street and set the brakes. I jumped out and grabbed an orange bag containing trauma supplies and IV fluids. Then I started for the house with my partner by my side.

Halfway up the sidewalk we heard angry shouting. On the front steps a loud scream. Then a soul piercing wail echoed from within the house. “No, no, nooooo!” I stepped onto the front porch and walked carefully across the broken shards of glass that littered the planks. The door hung on its hinges, its plate glass window smashed. I walked into the house and stopped. My patient lay in the center of the room in a wide pool of blood. His blank eyes stared at the ceiling. His skin looked dull and pale.

“Oh Lord! Oh Lord!” A weak kneed middle-aged woman stood on the other side of the room shouting, supported by family members struggling to hold her up. “God,” she cried, “no, no, no, not my baby boy!”

“She found him about ten minutes ago,” one of the cops reported. “I don’t think you can do anything for him, but we called you just in case.”

“No,” the woman cried, gazing at me through tear-stained eyes. “My boy, my boy, tell me he’s okay. Please tell me he’s not dead!”

But he was dead. There was nothing my partner and I could do. The man’s blood had already been spilt. It was too late to stop the hemorrhage.



You know when God designed the human body he created a marvelous mechanism to control bleeding. Platelets respond to the site of injury. They adhere to one another. They form a tight mesh. And once piled upon by circulating fibers, an impenetrable barrier forms. It’s called clotting. But if the damage is too severe and the clotting mechanisms fail, there’s no stopping the hemorrhage. Death will surely come.

Our life in Christ is much the same. If we grow too attached to the world, if we deliberately continue in sin, our souls begin to bleed. So we must become like those platelets. Sticky and tenacious. Obedient to God’s Word. And we must encourage one another by adhering to our fellow believers and working together to stop the hemorrhage in our lives before it is too late. If we fail to do this, more souls will bleed to death and silently slip away.

Don’t allow that to happen. Stop the hemorrhage in your spiritual life. Christ’s blood was shed on your behalf. Accept his marvelous gift of life, and live.