Pat Patterson Devotions

“Merry Christmas!”

2011-11-21T07:31:00.001-05:00

“Thevirgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and they will call himImmanuel” —which means, “God with us.” Matthew1: 23

I never cared for the Christmas breakfast. It was a mandatory affair atthe college where I worked, an event that occurred every Christmas just before semesterbreak. To me, it was always kind of a waste of time. A little boring really. Butthe Christmas breakfast of 2001 was anything but boring. In fact it changed mylife.

“Can I have your attention, please?” The Dean of Health Sciences tappedher microphone. “It’s time to eat. Now I hear Pat says a good prayer,” shecontinued, smiling and looking my way. My eyebrows rose. “Pat? Would you saythe blessing for us?”

All eyes turned my way.

“Umm—” I gave an embarrassed shrug. “Sure.”

I felt honored as I accepted the microphone, but also a bit confused. Whotold her I said a good prayer? And if I did pray, would people be, well…offended?

I shrugged, asked them to bow their heads and began. I thanked God forAmerica, and that in the wake of 9/11 we still had our families our homes andour lives. I thanked Him for our jobs, and for freedom and friends and peace. Ithanked him for the food, and everything was going well, but then I went anddid it. His name rolled off my lips.

“And thank you most of all for Christmas, and for what it still means tous. That two thousand years ago our savior was born, The Lord Jesus Christ.” Iended the prayer in his name, and closed with a hearty, “Amen.”

When I opened my eyes I realized we had a problem. No one moved. I sawconfusion on many faces, anger on many others. Most looked stunned, several definitelyoffended. I felt like running for the exit doors, but then I saw a timid smileappear on one person’s face. And then another. And then slowly, and meekly atfirst, someone began to clap. Soon others joined in, and after a moment halfthe room was caught up in celebration. The other half still frowned.

Now I felt stunned. But then several people wandered over. “Thank you,”someone whispered to me. “Oh, thank you!” another exclaimed. “That was sogreat!”

A friend walked up to me shaking his head. “Are you nuts? Don’t yourealize the Dean’s a Jew?”

“Jesus was a Jew,” I replied. “Merry Christmas!”

You can’t say Christmas around here anymore; it’s now the holiday seasonor some nonsense like that. And they never asked me to say the blessing again,but that’s okay, I learned a valuable lesson that day: Some people are truly offendedby His name, others are filled with courage. So this “holiday season” as youget caught up in the bustle of buying gifts and running here and there, share hisname with others, and then tell them, “Merry Christmas.” Some will be offended,but others will be filled with hope. It’s not the holiday season—it’s Christmas.

“Merry Christmas!”

Been there. Done that.

2010-08-20T21:10:00.000-04:00

"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

2010-05-29T10:37:00.003-04:00

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?

2010-04-20T10:37:00.005-04:00

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

2010-03-22T16:56:00.000-04:00

“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

2010-02-25T18:54:00.024-05:00

"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...

2010-01-29T19:01:00.025-05:00

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!

2010-01-23T10:52:00.004-05:00

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.

Follow Me!

2009-11-23T19:44:00.002-05:00

Then Jesus said to his disciples, “If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.” Mt 16:24

“Follow you? That’s impossible. I can’t do it!”

On 20 October 1944 the leading elements of the 3d Battalion, 34th Infantry—one of the units of the U.S. Army's 24th Division—hit the Philippine island of Leyte on a beach defended by Japanese soldiers occupying a number of large, well-camouflaged pillboxes. The objective was simple: establish a beachhead in order to take the Philippines and break a vital supply line of the Imperial Japanese Navy.

The soldiers hit the beach and almost immediately they found themselves pinned down by heavy machine gun and rifle fire. The beach landing stalled. Casualties began to mount.

To save his men, Regimental Commander Colonel Aubrey S. Newman rose in the midst of the battle and shouted, “Follow me!” And his men did. They swept forward against the Japanese defenders and crushed them. They took the beach and altered the course of the war.

When I first became a Christian, following Christ seemed easy. I read the Bible and went to church. I prayed every day and tried my best to live a good life. And it felt good. Life was easy. But when the honeymoon ended I began to backslide, and for thirty years I walked around half-blind, seeking whatever I pleased and claiming to be a Christian. I learned to frown. I grew a stiff neck. My heart turned cold to God.

But one day while searching His Word, seeking answers to why my life had grown so meaningless, God spoke to me.

“If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.”

“Follow you?” I cried. “I can’t!”

“You must.”

“But, Lord, you don’t understand. I’ve tried to follow you. I can’t keep up with you!”

“That’s because you’re carrying too heavy a load,” I heard Him say. “Drop everything. Follow me.”

When Colonel Newman’s men hit Red Beach that hot October day they left their families and their worldly possessions behind. They left behind their problems, dropped everything they owned, and picked up their weapons. Then they followed their commanding officer into battle, and the beachhead was won.

The Battle of Leyte raged for seventy-seven more days. American forces suffered a total of 15,584 casualties, of which 3,504 were killed in action. Colonel Newman was critically injured, but in the end his victory on that hot Red Beach proved to be a turning point in the Pacific campaign of World War II. The United States obtained an important foothold in the Philippines, and a vital artery of the Imperial Japanese Naval forces was severed.

To follow Jesus Christ means to live a life of obedience. To put on the full armor of God every day, and then like Colonel Newman’s soldiers, to stand up and follow your commanding officer into battle.

Jesus said, “Follow me.”

He gave a direct order. Will you obey Him? Drop what you are doing today. Take up your cross and follow Him into battle. Victory is assured, for Christ has already won.

He Is Always There

2009-09-29T22:53:00.004-04:00

Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.
Heb 11:1

"I can’t see you," I whispered. "I can’t hear you either. But I know you’re there, Lord, I can feel you all around me."

She was born in 1880, the daughter of a Confederate Army officer, a normal healthy child. But at nineteen months of age she developed a serious illness that left her unable to hear. Or see.

Her formative years were difficult. She had no practical connection to the outside world. Instead she lived in a world of silence, a dark void with no ability to communicate except through tantrums and fits of rage. At the age of six the specialists deemed her incorrigible with no hope for a normal life. After all without eyes and ears it would be impossible for her to thrive. She could never make it.

But then a miracle occurred. A remarkable young woman walked into her life, someone acutely aware of the difficulties of the deaf and blind. The Teacher, as she came to be known, taught the child to communicate with her hands. She started by using her own fingers to draw the letters W-A-T-E-R in the palm of one of the child’s hands, while holding the other under a spigot of flowing water. And it worked. The child made the connection. Her education began.

She soon learned the English language, and became proficient at reading Braille. She learned to communicate with others, to type, and even to write. And against all odds she went to college, earned a Bachelor’s degree, and then made a successful career as an author, lecturer and esteemed political activist. In short, she made a profound difference, and she did it all without ever having seen or heard the world around her.

As I consider the life of the late Helen Keller, I am reminded of the difficult challenges that face anyone desiring a close walk with God. We can’t hear His voice, we can’t see His face, and yet, it is still possible to know Him intimately. To understand how He thinks. To comprehend His will.

"But how?" some may ask. "If I can’t see him, how do I know he’s there? "If he never speaks to me, how do I know he’s real?"

By learning to communicate with Him. Our eyes and ears add the finishing touches to our understanding of things, add depth and color and dimensions that vividly brighten our lives. But they can also draw our attention away from God. Think about Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. They listened to the serpent, then they looked at the tree. Enticement gave way to sin, and death entered the world. What if they’d never seen the fruit? Or never even heard the tempter? What would have happened?

No, it is not with our eyes or ears that God chose to reveal Himself to us, but by reaching deep within us to stir our spirits and build up our faith. For only by faith can a man ever walk closely with God. But faith takes time. Hard work. You develop it by spending time with God in prayer, by diligently studying His Word, and by reaching out to others in search of His Spirit within them. And when that faith begins to grow you discover vast treasures all around you that you never knew existed.

I’ve never seen God, and I’ve never heard his voice, but I recognize the touch of His hand. I sense His awesome presence. He opens my eyes and ears to add the music and colors to my life. This builds my faith, and fills me with assurance that He is always there.

Once I knew only darkness and stillness... my life was without past or future... but a little word from the fingers of another fell into my hand that clutched at emptiness, and my heart leaped to the rapture of living.

–Helen Keller

Eternally Grateful

2009-08-26T15:12:00.003-04:00

Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly as you teach and admonish one another with all wisdom, and as you sing psalms, hymns and spiritual songs with gratitude in your hearts to God. Col 3:16

"Songs, hymns and spiritual songs? I don’t know, Lord. I don’t feel much like singing these days. I’ve tried to be a good Christian, but lately I don’t feel that richness dwelling within me. Where’s the joy you promised? Please explain it to me so that I can understand."

I prayed that prayer not long ago. After years of trying to lead a decent life and discover what it means to be a Christian, I finally reached the point where I felt haunted by my lack of joy. Something was missing from my life, and that scripture made no sense to me at all. Until recently…

"I read a good article yesterday. Think you might like it."

"Oh yeah—?"

I caught a gleam in my friend, Dan’s, eye. We were sitting in a local café. We had already chatted about sailing and about work and about our families, but as he opened his Blackberry and began to scroll through the files I could tell he had something important to share.

"A good article? What’s it about?"

"The different virtues," he said, "and the spiritual wealth hidden within them."

I listened as he continued. He mentioned loyalty and faithfulness. Self-discipline, integrity and strength.

"But the greatest virtue of all," he explained, "is gratitude."

"Gratitude?" That didn’t resonate with me. How about love? Or compassion? "How could gratitude be the greatest virtue?"

"Well," he said, nodding and tapping his Blackberry screen, "think about it—you and I are extremely blessed just to be here."

"Yeah, today I might agree with that, Dan, but there are other times I might not. I don’t always feel blessed. In fact sometimes I feel downright ungrateful."

"Then you need to hear this," he said. "It’s from a book called, A Short History of Nearly Everything, written by a man named Bill Bryson. Listen to what he says…

‘You have been extremely - make that miraculously - fortunate in your personal ancestry. Consider the fact that for 3.8 billion years, a period of time older than the Earth's mountains and rivers and oceans, every one of your forebears on both sides has been attractive enough to find a mate, healthy enough to reproduce, and sufficiently blessed by fate and circumstances to live long enough to do so. Not one of your pertinent ancestors was squashed, devoured, drowned, starved, stranded, stuck fast, untimely wounded, or otherwise deflected from its life's quest of delivering a tiny charge of genetic material to the right partner at the right moment in order to perpetuate the only possible sequence of hereditary combinations that could result - eventually, astoundingly, and all too briefly - in you.’

"The point is," Dan said, "the odds against your being born were astronomical. You shouldn’t even be here. But you’re part of God’s plan. You might even say, He invited you to be here. So you have a lot to be grateful for."

This morning I witnessed perfection. The sky, just an hour before devoid of any light, burst forth with living color. The eastern horizon glowed with the warm tinted hues of morning. A light fog drifted skyward from the trees and meadows as if God Himself were lifting it to Heaven.

As I drove along thinking of the beauty and the majesty behind it all, I was reminded of my conversation with Dan and suddenly it all made sense to me. God had invited me to be there, at that exact moment in time, to behold that beautiful sunrise. He wanted me to see it.

Each of us received a personal invitation from Almighty God—to be born, to live on this planet, and to enjoy His marvelous creation. Are you humbled by this? I am, for I now realize my purpose—to love God, to teach and admonish His people, and to praise Him with psalms, hymns and spiritual songs. I have been filled with riches and joy, and for that I am eternally grateful.

What about me?

2009-07-03T13:09:00.003-04:00

“Do not love the world or anything in the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For everything in the world—the cravings of sinful man, the lust of his eyes and the boasting of what he has and does—comes not from the Father but from the world.” 1 John 2:15-16

Okay, I admit it—I love the world. I always have, it’s a great place to live. But there was a time when it had me in chains, dying to get out there in it, to live a little. But my situation wouldn’t allow it. And God? He never seemed to answer my question, What about me? So I decided to put my foot down. One of two things was going to happen: he’d talk to me, or I’d run until I dropped. I had to get his attention…

“Lord, do you hear me?” I took off down the lakeside trail shaking my fist at him as I ran. “Are you listening to me? There’s so much I want to see. So many things I want to do. All of my friends are having fun. What about me?”

Silence.

“Why won’t you answer me? All I ever do is work. I deserve more.”

More silence.

“It’s not fair!”

And, boy, I sure showed him! I ran until I couldn’t take another step, but still God remained silent. Finally I stopped in the middle of the trail and doubled-over, dejected and frustrated, sweating and gasping for air. Physically and emotionally I felt drained. Spiritually I was spent.

“Oh, God,” I cried, tears flooding my eyes. “Where are you?”

A funny croaking sound answered me. I turned and watched a frog leap into the lake. “Very funny,” I muttered. “Is that the best you can do?” Then a deer caught my eye. She lifted her head from the water’s edge, glanced at me and trotted into the woods. “Hmm.” A fish jumped and landed with a splash. “What is this?” I murmured. And then I noticed this dragonfly. Crazy thing buzzed past my face, landed on a small branch less than three feet away, and sat there staring at me. I felt puzzled. Was someone trying to tell me something?

Then a high-pitched mechanical sound caught my attention. Distracted I looked up. A fancy motorboat zoomed across the lake. I glanced back at the dragonfly. It sat perched on the end of the stem watching me. I felt a strange paradox in my heart. Then another boat cruised past. My face hardened again. I wanted a boat so bad I could taste it. I balled up my fist and opened my mouth to yell at God, but something stopped me—His voice. It came to me, powerful and resounding, and yet as gentle as a whisper…

You listen to me now. This world…all those things you so desperately want and can’t get your hands on…don’t you see? You love those things more than you love me.

My problems were still waiting for me when I got home, but something about me had changed. I ran into the woods that morning angry, frustrated, and shaking my fist at God, but I walked out at peace, quietly acknowledging Him and thanking Him for my life.

Are you angry with God? Do you ever shake your fist at Him? Demand your rights? Then maybe you love this world just a little too much. Put your foot down. Run out there and find Him. And when some silly bug lands on a branch in front of you and boldly stares you down, close your mouth and listen for God’s voice. Then follow Him out of that deep, dark forest. He has a better life waiting for you…a life of contentment, of hope, and of joy.

* * *

I Am Not Ashamed

2009-06-03T19:09:00.003-04:00

“For I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ: for it is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth; to the Jew first, and also to the Greek.” Romans 1:16

“Excuse me—”

He was huge. Powerful. Broad chest and shoulders clothed in a white karate ghi. He looked every bit the part. In fact he scared me at first. I was small and wiry, he was a professional fighter, and he had just broken a pile of concrete blocks…with his head.

“Uh, Mr. Barlow?”

“Yes?” Frank Barlow turned and looked at me. “I’m in kind of a hurry,” he said. “How can I help you, son?”

“I, uh, I just wanted to ask you something—” I paused, hesitated, then just spit it out. “Do you know Jesus?”

Mr. Barlow appeared stunned, caught off guard, but then he chuckled and retaliated as a humored smile broke the stiffness on his face. “Son,” he said, “I don’t have time for religion right now. I have more important things on my mind.” I grinned sheepishly. I knew when I was licked. Besides I didn’t know what to say or do next. For that matter, I had no idea why’d I even asked him the question to begin with, it was just something I felt compelled to do. “Okay,” I said. “I really enjoyed your presentation.” Mr. Barlow nodded, smiled at me, and walked away. I never saw him again.

A few months later my mother told me a story. She had been at gathering of Christian women that day, a lady’s luncheon of sorts. “We had a guest speaker,” she said. “He was a karate expert.”

“Really?” That caught my attention. I was enamored with the notion of karate. Of black belts and fists. Of breaking boards and blocks and people’s heads with nothing but hands and feet. “Who?” I exclaimed. “Who was it?”

“His name was Frank Barlow.”

“Frank Barlow!”

“He gave his testimony,” she explained. “About how he’d become a Christian. About how he was on his way back to his car after a karate exhibition when this high school kid came up to him and asked him if he knew Jesus.”

“Mama, that was me!”

“I know,” my mom said with a smile. “I just thought you might want to know you had an impact on his life. He accepted Christ.”

That was thirty-five years ago. For more than twenty of those years Mr. Barlow operated a dojo in my hometown, called “Judo and Karate for Christ.” Today he is a Karate Master, with a 6th Dan black belt in Shorin Jiu Te Do Karate, and expertise in numerous other disciplines. But today something else is different about him too…today Frank Barlow knows Jesus.

I recently received a note from an angry reader. She asked me to stop cramming my religion down her throat. She was referring to the devotionals that I frequently post online. What she doesn’t understand though is that I can’t stop. It took me thirty-five years to realize the depth of the gift that I’d been given—everlasting life. And it’s as real today as it was way back then when I found the guts to ask Frank Barlow that simple question—Do you know Jesus? It changed his life. So now I want everyone to know, including you. For you see, I’m not ashamed of the gospel of Christ. Jesus is The Messiah. The living Son of God.

Are you a Christian? Is there someone you know who needs to know the truth that Jesus Christ is the way, the truth, and the life? Then tell them. If a skinny eighteen year-old kid can turn a powerful karate expert around by asking him a simple question, then imagine what you could do.

The Shroud of Turin - Is It the Lord?

2009-05-30T10:10:00.008-04:00

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

Jesus Christ was beaten. He was scourged. He was nailed to a wooden cross and raised into the air to die. And when it was over his friends removed his body from the cross, wrapped him in a burial cloth, and laid him to rest in a tomb. And it was done. But what his disciples found when they returned that first Easter morning changed the world. The tomb was empty. Except for one thing. The piece of fine white linen in which they’d placed his body…it was still there.

Today an ancient artifact exists that many believe to be that cloth. Others disagree. But no one knows for sure, because its origin remains unknown. The Roman Catholic Church considers it a holy relic, others a clever hoax. It’s a true mystery. It’s called The Shroud of Turin.

“What we are doing here,” said Dr. John Jackson, U.S. Air Force Academy, leader of the Shroud of Turin Research Project (STURP), “is seeking the truth…we want to apply the scientific method.”

And they did just that. Forty specialists traveled to Turin, Italy from all over the world. They unloaded crate after crate of scientific equipment, and spent five exhausting days examining the Shroud. They used microscopes and spectrographs. They removed pollen samples from the threads. They used visible light, ultraviolet, x-ray and infrared. Produced undistorted photographs, as precise as optics allow. And they applied the scientific method, never stopping to rest, while the weight of global responsibility weighed heavy on their shoulders. And in the end their work proved priceless, for what they found dazzled the world.

The Shroud is a well-preserved linen cloth 14’ 3” long and 3’ 7” wide. It bears the sepia-colored image of a nomadic shepherd, an anatomically correct likeness of a man tortured in every way consistent with the scriptural account of Christ’s passion. At arm’s length the form appears hazy and indistinct, but from a distance it takes on the shape of a man, his face and bodily features remarkably real, riddled with bloody wounds that paint a ghastly portrait of death.

Upon completion of their work, Jackson and his team took their findings back to their research facilities and labs, and over the course of three years developed the following statement:

“We can conclude for now that the Shroud image is that of a real human form of a scourged, crucified man. It is not the product of an artist. The bloodstains are composed of hemoglobin and also give a positive test for serum albumin. The image is an ongoing mystery and until further chemical studies are made, perhaps by this group of scientists, or perhaps by some scientists in the future, the problem remains unsolved.”

Could the Shroud be the burial cloth that covered the Lord Jesus Christ? Well over the next few weeks I will share with you some of my discoveries. Knowledge I gained on a journey that began thirty years ago when, for sixteen remarkable weeks, I worked in the shadows of geniuses—Dr. John Jackson, Leader of STURP, and Professor Vernon Miller, Brooks Institute of Photography, the Chief Scientific Photographer for STURP. These two remarkable men took me under their wings, taught me the meaning of scientific discovery, and shared with me riches I will treasure the rest of my life.

The Shroud of Turin—Is It The Lord?

* * *

The Wonder of Easter Morning

2009-03-29T13:51:00.008-04:00

"They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we don’t know where they have put him!" John 20:2

Anguish. Pain. Traumatic shock. Death! Do you understand what Jesus Christ did for you? The price he paid for your soul? Well let’s take a look and see what happened, because it’s Easter once again. And it’s time you knew the truth…

He knew what was coming: His darkest hour. A time of unbridled evil the likes of which the world had never known. It was his appointed time, time to stand alone against the forces of darkness, and the thought of what was coming was more than he could bear.

"Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me, yet not my will, but yours be done."

Surely his heart pounded as he uttered that prayer. His head throbbed, his chest ached, and his blood pressure rose so high that a mixture of bloody sweat and oil oozed to the surface of his skin. He shivered as he knelt in that shadowy garden, cold, alone, and frightened, aware of the excruciating death that awaited him, now just hours away.

"Father," he prayed, "the time has come."

An angry mob arrived bearing swords and clubs. They surrounded him, arrested him, and then led him quickly away. He stood for their questioning, their mockery and their scorn, and then submitted to their cruel sharp whips as they beat him again and again. His torturers laughed and cursed, striking him without end until his battered skin fell away in ribbons of bloody flesh. "Hail, King of the Jews," they taunted, throwing a purple robe across his back. They thrust a crown of thorns upon his head and struck it with their staffs. The blows jarred his senses and drove the needle sharp thorns deep into his scalp. Then half-dead and humiliated he was led before his judge and forced to stand in submission as Pilate announced his fate.

"Crucify him!"

Oh, what horrific images must have ricocheted through his mind. He was to be crucified, nailed to the very piece of wood that they were strapping across his back. He picked up the heavy patibulum—the upper beam of the cross—and started to walk, but his tortured body could take no more. His knees buckled. He fell. The timber pushed him down and pinned him to the ground, shoving his face into the dirt and crushing the bridge of his nose. His nostrils filled with hot dusty soil. Agony gripped his soul.

"You," the chief guard shouted, pointing into the crowd. "Pick it up! You’ll carry it the rest of the way!" A stout African stepped forward and lifted the heavy board. "Now get up," the guard shouted, striking Christ atop the head. "Get going. Move!"

Christ struggled to rise. He dragged his tortured body through the city gate and up the steep dirt path that led to the top of the hill, Golgatha, that horrible sun-bleached mountain that bore the face of a skull. Could he hear the enemy taunting him, I wonder, whispering in his ear? Could he see the other two crucified there? The post to which he’d be nailed? How awful must that sight have been. But how remarkable his courage. Up the hill he trudged, each step harder than the last, until he made it to the top and paused to catch his breath. But his executioners showed no mercy. Wasted no time. They knocked him to the ground, pinned his hands and feet, and then placed a spike against each wrist and let the hammers fly.

Clang! Clang!

The cold steel spikes pierced his hands and pushed the bones apart, and fiery jolts of energy shot inward to his chest. Agonizing was the pain. Paralyzing the effect. Spasm after spasm gripped his core. His trunk began to quiver, his teeth to chatter and cringe.

"Raise him," the chief guard shouted. "Get him up there, now!"

The soldiers grunted as they lifted the heavy beam with Christ attached. He hung by the nails in his freshly pierced wrists. And the pain was blinding. The agony beyond belief. Six feet high they raised him, seven, maybe more, until the patibulum dropped into position atop the mighty post.

"Grab his feet."

The soldiers bent his legs, held his feet against the post. Clang! Jesus cried out in agony. Clang! Excruciating pain crippled his core. His heart pounded, his mind screamed for reason. His tortured feet quivered, his hands grew cramped and numb. The soldiers backed away. The people mocked and scorned. And Christ was left to hang on the post—

"Crucified!"

His chest wall, paralyzed by painful impulses and the weight of his outstretched arms, spasmed and heaved. He stood up on his impaled feet to catch a breath of air, but the pain was overwhelming. Relief impossible to find.

"My God…why have you forsaken me?"

Jesus hung on the cross for hours, battling to breathe, while soldiers gambled for his clothes and animals nipped at his feet. And slowly but surely, deep in shock, weak from blood loss and pain, the human Christ began to wither as his body slipped away. His heart became congested with blood, his lungs heavy and stiff. And soon the act of breathing, even shallow gulps of air, became impossible. The carbon dioxide in his blood reached toxic levels. Soon organs systems began to fail, and tissues began to die.

Most human beings would have lost consciousness by this point, but Jesus? He was more than a simple man. He was the Son of God. And somehow, miraculously, he stayed lucid to the end. He gazed down upon the crowd, at his enemies and his friends, then he drew a shallow breath and murmured his final prayer.

"It is finished."

Finished. All the anguish and pain. That terrible asphyxiating death. Yes, finished. Completed. Jesus Christ paid for our sins, paid the debt in full. But all that would be meaningless if not for Easter morning…

"Come! Quickly," Mary Magdalene shouted. "I have seen the Lord!"

Jesus’ disciples raced to the cave. They peered inside the tomb. "Where is he?" they must have whispered, stepping inside the room. "I don’t see him anywhere. He’s not here!" But on the bench where Jesus’ body had been placed they saw the linen burial cloth, and another piece of cloth that had been wrapped around his head. It was folded up by itself, lying neatly to one side.
Folded up? Lying neatly to one side? Is this a picture of violence? Unbridled evil or rage? What happened inside that tomb? We may never know, but we do know this, that tomb could not contain the Lord. For Easter morning is not about pain or suffering. It’s not about sorrow and death. It’s about life. Resurrection. The culmination of God’s ultimate plan. It’s about that wonderful day that Jesus Christ rose, to overcome death forever.

Do you see now? Do you understand the crucial price that Christ paid for your sins? Well raise your hands and rejoice, for Jesus Christ is risen. He’s alive! It’s the wonder of Easter morning.

* * *

Exactly What He's Doing

2009-02-28T17:21:00.006-05:00

Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on our own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him and he will make your paths straight. Proverbs 3:5-6

If someone had told me nineteen years ago that I’d still be a paramedic today, and a teacher, I would have said, "No way. I have bigger plans for my life." But thank God, He knew better…

Tricia was an outstanding student. So dedicated. So sincere. Seventeen years old with the warm, bubbly personality of a high school cheerleader and some of the best study habits I had ever seen, but try as I may, I just couldn’t imagine her elbows deep in a bloody EMS call. She looked too fragile. She’d never make it on the street. So I could hardly believe what I was about to hear.

"Mr. Patterson, you’ll never believe it!"

"What?"

"You remember how you taught us to do the Heimlich maneuver? On a conscious person with an obstructed airway?"

"Yeah?"

"Well it works," she exclaimed. "I saved a man’s life!"

"You what?"

"I’m serious! We were at Taco Bell eating lunch? And this man? He stood up at the next table grabbing his throat? And it was, like, so obvious he was choking, you know? So I asked him, ‘Can you cough? Can you talk?’ He shook his head. ‘I know the Heimlich Maneuver,’ I said. ‘Turn around!’ He did. And then I just did what you taught us—I wrapped my arms around him and gave him five abdominal thrusts. And guess what, this big wad of food came shooting out of his mouth! Can you believe it? I mean, I really did it! I saved somebody’s life!"

Yes, I had a plan for my life, but God knew better. And He used little Tricia to prove it. He led me down a different path than the one I would have chosen, and while we were walking He used me in ways I never could have imagined—to teach people, to mentor them, and amazingly, even to help them save a few lives.

Do you have big plans? Well before you spend another day chasing your dreams, seek the Lord. Acknowledge Him and see where He leads you. And then one day if you realize that He used you to accomplish mighty deeds, don’t be surprised—He’s an awesome God! And He knows exactly what He’s doing.

* * *

Wake Up, Lord. Save Me!

2009-02-12T18:15:00.003-05:00

The disciples went and woke him, saying, "Lord, save us! We’re going to drown!" He replied, "You of little faith, why are you so afraid?" Then he got up and rebuked the winds and the waves, and it was completely calm. Mt 8:25-27

"How long was she under?"

"Five minutes?" the teenager cried. "Maybe more, I don’t know!"

I scooped my patient out of the water and laid her on a dry portion of cement beside the pool. The pretty little pig-tailed girl with chubby cheeks and dimples looked to be about eight years old, and as cute as a button, but her lightly freckled face looked dull and colorless, her eyes as lifeless as a plastic baby doll’s.

"I only took my eye off of her for a minute," her sister exclaimed. "I’m so sorry! Is she going to be all right?"

"Quick," I said tearing open the plastic wrapper for an Ambu-bag. "Get the monitor." My partner grabbed the EKG monitor and removed the electrode cables. "Somebody start compressions." I placed the resuscitator unit over the patient’s mouth and gave the bag a squeeze. Her chest rose and fell. Water trickled from the corner of her mouth. One of the firefighters removed his helmet and knelt by my side. He placed his hands on her chest and started pushing against her breastbone with a verbal cadence of one, and two, and three…

"Folks," I heard my partner say, "please stand back. Give us room." He pulled the backing off of a sticky electrode pad and attached it to one of her legs. He repeated the process on each of her other limbs while the firefighter and I performed CPR. "Okay," he said turning on the unit. The EKG monitor beeped. A harsh, erratic, jumpy yellow line traced across the screen. "Let’s take a look." He placed a hand on the firefighter’s arm. "Hold compressions."

The firefighter stopped. I held my breath. The EKG line flattened out, hiccuped once, and then grew into a regular patern of uniform complexes. Oh, thank you, Jesus!

I gave our patient two more full ventilations and then watched in amazement as she opened her eyes and began to cough and choke. We rolled her onto her side, careful to protect her head and neck as the clear pool water drained from her mouth and nose. "Non-rebreather," I said reaching out and snapping my fingers. Someone placed a hissing oxygen mask into my hand. I placed it over her face and waited, speaking quietly to her and praying silently as I coaxed her back to life. "Come on," I said. "You can do it. Come on back to us, come back." And slowly but surely she did. She pinked up. Her eyes opened. And then as if waking from a nightmare and realizing it was all just a terrible dream she closed those innocent blues again and began to cry. I closed mine too, but I began to pray. "Thank you, Lord. Oh, thank you, Lord."

Lord, I’m struggling. I feel like I’m drowning down here. I can see the surface but I just can’t seem to get there. Help me! Give me your hand, Lord. Please save me!

Have you been there? Where the cares of this world make you feel like you’re about to drown? Well next time you find yourself in the midst of a raging tempest with the wind shrieking and waves crashing all around, remember you’re not alone. Jesus is right there with you.
"Save us," his Disciples cried. "We’re going to drown!"

And look what Jesus did. He woke from his sleep. He stood and boldly rebuked the storm. And the wind and waves subsided. And peace fell over the scene.

* * *

Finished But Not Over

2009-02-05T09:29:00.001-05:00

But when they came to Jesus and found that he was already dead, they did not break his legs. Instead, one of the soldiers pierced Jesus’ side with a spear, bringing a sudden flow of blood and water. Jn 19:33-34

Why did he do it? He could have called down a legion of angels. Destroyed the entire Roman army and easily saved himself. So why didn’t he? What’s this all about anyway? Who was this man, Jesus?

"Cut them down!"

"But, sir, they’re still alive."

"Then get the mallet. Break their legs!"

The cross. It was such an evil game. And the Legionnaires played it well. They knew exactly where to place the nails to elicit maximum pain. The perfect angle to bend the legs. The cruel effects of traumatic shock.

The horrible wooden mallet swung. The convicted criminal’s lower leg bones cracked. He screamed in agony as his battered limbs gave way. His weight fell against his tightly bound wrists and the slow process of suffocation began. The second victim’s death was much the same. The mallet flew. He emitted a terrible scream. His bent legs collapsed beneath him, and his constricted chest could no longer breathe. Asphyxiation set in. But then they came to Jesus…

"This one’s already gone," the Legionnaire exclaimed.

"Make sure of it!"

"Sir, you saw what happened! When he took his last breath. The earth shook. Thunder rolled. The sky turned dark as night. You saw it! Surely this man was the Son of God!"

"Give that to me!" The chief guard grabbed a long sharp spear and thrust the tip into Christ’s bare chest. A mixture of blood and water flowed from his wounded side. But there was no movement. No crying. The spirit had already left his body. Jesus Christ was dead.

"He’s finished," the guard shouted. "Cut him down."

And that was it.

Why did he do it? Why? Because he loved us that much. Jesus could have saved himself but he chose to die, to offer himself as a living sacrifice for you and me. He suffered that horrible, painful death so that we might live forever. In the eyes of the world it was over. Jesus lost. But don’t be fooled. It may have been finished when Christ drew his final breath on the cross, but it was NOT over. His death was just the beginning. The best was yet to come! For this man, Jesus Christ? He was the Son of God, and he was about to reveal God’s ultimate plan.

* * *

"It is finished."

2009-01-26T19:06:00.001-05:00

And they crucified him.

Mk 15:24

I’ve been a paramedic for seventeen years. Witnessed the brutality of man. I’ve seen people shot and stabbed. Heads crushed. Limbs twisted and broke. I’ve even seen a small baby girl dipped into boiling water by an insane mother. But this? What we did to the Lord? I can’t even fathom it.

"Crucify him!"

The hammer fell. Clang! The point of the spike drove through the bones of his wrist and into the wooden patibulum. The victim screamed. A hot spasm shot up his arm and exploded at the base of his skull. A wave of pain seized him, so intense it dulled his senses and stole his breath. He writhed and cried and groaned as the Roman soldiers pinned his other arm to the beam and repeated the process. Clang! Again the same results. Blood spewed from the wound. His fingers groped and bent like spastic claws. His breathing came in shallow ineffective bursts.

"Now his feet," the Legionnaire shouted. "One on top of the other!"

The torturers grabbed his tired swollen legs. They bent his knees. They placed one foot atop the other and then hammered a single nail through the top of each foot. The sharp steel penetrated the flesh, pushing the bones apart and pinning his feet tightly against the wooden beam. An indescribable wave of excruciating pain raced up his legs, shot through the small of his back, and gripped his spine. The damaging blow hit his brain, a powerful nervous impulse that shocked his nervous system and locked his chest in spasm.

"Okay," the guard shouted. "He’s crucified. Raise him!"

The head of the cross began to rise. Jesus felt his torso shift and slide down the length of the splintered cross transferring the weight of his entire body to the nail holes in his tortured wrists and feet. The cross reached vertical. It locked into place. Jesus hung there in agony, barely able to breathe, his chest wall pulled tight. And for the next few horrible hours, as he looked through blurry eyes down on the world, a terrible battle raged. He’d stand up on the nails to relax his chest wall enough to breathe, but only for a moment. His feet screamed for mercy. His tired thigh muscles cramped and burned. Exhausted and no longer able to stand the pain he would collapse and fall once again upon his wrists. And the excruciating cycle repeated itself. Again and again. Back and forth he shifted his weight searching for relief but finding none.

And so it went for hours, until our savior’s battered body could take no more. Deep in shock he finally succumbed and lost all strength in his legs. He fell full force upon the nails within his wrists. His arms pulled at their sockets. His wrists writhed with pain. His chest wall tightened for the last time, and an intense pressure began to crush his heart. The organ quickly congested. Began to struggle and fail. And finally, as his precious lungs filled with fluid and drew their last and most difficult breath, Jesus murmured his final words…

"It is finished."

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but no portrait could ever reveal the true price Jesus paid for us at Golgatha. For you see, he was human, human in every way—they beat him, and scourged him, and nailed to a cross, and he died—but he was much more than that. He was the Son of God. They took him down, and placed his body in a tomb, and they even posted a guard, but forty-four later hours when they rolled away that huge entrance stone and looked inside, he was gone. Jesus Christ. The Son of God. He overcame death that you and I might live.

And now, it is finished.

* * *

The Cross

2009-01-19T22:14:00.000-05:00

Finally Pilate handed him over to them to be crucified. So the soldiers took charge of Jesus. Carrying his own cross, he went out to the place of the Skull (which in Aramaic is called Golgotha). Jn 19:16-17

So there he was: Whipped nearly to the point of death, lacerated and punctured, his back and chest a cross-hatched pattern of torn bloody stripes. Blood seeped from every inch of his torso and legs. His head dripped from the deep puncture wounds that covered his scalp. And his crown? A nasty skull cap of tangled limbs and thorns encircled his head, gouging the tender flesh and causing unimaginable pain.

"He’s tougher than I thought," one of the scourgers exclaimed. "Most men would have died from that beating."

"Get out of the way," the chief guard shouted pushing him aside and cutting Jesus loose. Jesus fell to the ground exhausted and short of breath. "Now pick it up," the guard demanded, "or you’ll get more!"

Jesus picked up the gnarly piece of heavy timber they’d dropped by his side. He lifted it onto his shoulders and started walking, stumbling across the court.

"Move," the chief guard growled. "Get going, you!"

But Jesus couldn’t take another step. His tortured body cried for mercy. Weak and weary, deep in shock, he fell to his knees. And that awful patibulum. His cross. It weighed his shoulders down and pinned him to the ground, shoving his face into the dirt and crushing the cartilage at the bridge of his nose. His nostrils filled with hot dusty soil. Agony gripped his soul.

"He’s shot," a Legionaire scoffed. "Look at him."

"You there," the chief guard shouted pointing into the crowd. "Pick it up! You’ll carry it the rest of the way!" A stout African stepped forward and lifted the heavy board from Christ’s shoulders. "Now get up," the guard shouted striking him atop the head. Jesus cried as the needle sharp thorns gouged deeper into his scalp. "Get going," the guard yelled. "Move!"

Christ struggled to rise to his feet. He strained to see. Blood covered his face. Pain clouded his senses. He continued up the road dragging his tortured body through the city gates and up the steep dirt path that led to Golgatha…

The place of the skull.

I wonder what Jesus was thinking about at that moment. Death? The agony yet to come? Well the Gospels tell us that on the night before this all began, Christ knelt in the Garden of Gethsemane to pray. But he didn’t pray for himself, he prayed for us.

Why? Didn’t he know what was coming? I can assure he knew what was coming. Luke tells us that his agony was so intense, his sweat fell like drops of blood. A physiological phenomenon, called hemohydrosis. Something that occurs only rarely when the tiny capillary beds in the victim’s skin come under such intense pressure that the blood literally seeps through the capillary walls and into the ducts of sweat. Oh yes, he knew what was coming. And yet instead of running away he knelt and prayed, for his disciples first, and then for you and me.

So in his darkest hour as he mounted that horrible skull-shaped hill, I’m certain he knew what was coming. But he was thinking of us.

"Stretch him out!"

The guards wasted no time. They threw the battered Jesus atop the wooden cross. They grabbed his arms and legs. Pulled them tight.

"Now, crucify him!"

And three horrible nails appeared. Ugly nine inch spikes formed on a blacksmith’s anvil for one purpose: To crucify the Lord.

Have you ever stopped to think of the true price Jesus Christ paid for you? Well this frightening adventure is not over yet. It’s really just beginning. And as you anticipate the finale, that bloody spectacle of Roman sport they called crucifixion, consider this: He did this for us. He did it for you.

* * *

The Scourging

2009-01-12T16:15:00.000-05:00

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!" Jn 19:1-3

Do you realize what Christ did for you? The suffering he endured? Well in EMS we see a lot of cruelty. A lot of mean cases, and a lot of needless blood. But most of us will never see anything to compare with this…

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

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

"Ha," the chief guard growled. "You call yourself a king? Let’s see what you got."

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 Roman soldiers weren’t savages. Not at all. They were artists, skilled in the art of torture, and they carried out their jobs with practiced precision. They knew just how much punishment to inflict, and exactly how to do it to evoke maximum pain. It was a well rehearsed performance, a punishment equal to the crime.

"Proceed!"

The first scourger stepped forward gripping his lethal weapon. "King of the Jews, huh?" He spat on Christ’s back. Whacked the side of his head. "Take this, your majesty!" He swung with all his might. The wicked instrument flew. Its deadly thongs whipped through the air then struck with exacting purpose, ripping and tearing at Christ’s bare flesh. Blood spewed forth. The scourger stepped back grinning; the second one stepped in. He repeated 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 cried out in agony. His flesh fell away in bloody chunks leaving behind a mural of horrible stripes. The battered skin swelled and oozed. Capillaries leaked. Shock soon set in and his blood pressure began to drop.

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

The soldiers cut him loose and The King of Kings stood on shaky legs, his physical body robbed of strength, his spirit pushed to its near limit. "Here," a guard said stepping forward and placing a purple robe across his back. "A gift. A garment fit for a king."

"No, here," another guard bellowed. "Take mine." He brought an ugly crown of twisted thorns and shoved it onto Christ’s head. "Behold, your majesty. Your crown!"

Then they placed a staff in his hands, and the crowd of soldiers knelt before him and mocked him. Then they grabbed the staff and hit him over the head with it, again and again, crying, "Hail, king of the Jews. Hail!"

Of course I didn’t witness this terrible event, but the Bible paints a clear picture of what happened. Pilate took Jesus and had him flogged. He was scourged. A common form of punishment in Christ’s day, and one well documented in the history books.

Today my coworkers and I still see a lot of blood—battered skulls, broken limbs, gunshot wounds and burns—and these images will be forever written on my mind as terrible reminders of the savagery of man, but for me one image remains the most vivid of all. And it’s not a pretty one. It’s the picture of my Lord walking away from that ill-conceived whipping post and picking up that awful cross. Lacerated. Punctured. Beaten and bleeding to the point of death. Most people would have died from those injuries alone, but not Christ. He still had a job to do, and this torture was only beginning.

The worst was yet to come…

* * *

Respond! Your life depends on it!

2009-01-05T20:34:00.000-05:00

As Jesus was walking beside the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon called Peter and his brother Andrew. They were casting a net into the lake, for they were fishermen. "Come, follow me," Jesus said, "and I will make you fishers of men." Mt 4:18-19

Imagine if you called for help and nobody responded. How terrified would it make you feel to realize you were all alone? Well what I’m speaking of here is far more important than that.We’re speaking of eternity. I’m talking about someone’s life…

"C’mon, partner, we need to go!"

"Unh uh, I’m not going."

"Right. Put your boots on, man. I’ll be in the truck."

"I’m serious. I wanna see the end of this game."

His partner gazed at him, incredulous, as if trying to see the humor in a sick joke without a punchline. At first his face revealed confusion, and then a small degree of anger, and then outright disbelief. "You what?"

"I want to see this game."

"Medic-seven?" the dispatcher exclaimed. The station radio crackled as if to emphasize the frustration in her voice. "Are you en route yet?"

"Don’t answer her."

"What? We can’t just ignore this, man. We have to go!"

"Look, I’m not wasting my time on another silly call. It’s a cardiac arrest for crying out loud. There’s nothing we can do for the poor guy anyway."

The radio crackled again. "Medic-seven?"

"Seven to dispatch—stand by please." His partner’s expression deepend. A stern frown soured his face. "Are you insane? Do you realize what you’re doing?"

"Sure I do."

"Medic-seven!"

"Seven," his partner answered, his voice revealing total confusion. "I-I’m sorry, but you’ll have to send another unit. It’s my partner, he’s…well he’s refusing to take this call." A few seconds of uncomfortable silence passed before the radio erupted in a swarm of heated responses. The dispatcher, their supervisor, the fire department squad unit already en route to the scene—everyone fighting for radio space trying to understand the madness taking place. His partner stared at him dumbfounded. "I can’t believe this, man! Someone’s life is on the line and you’re just gonna sit there and watch that game?"

"Sit down and relax. Ignore it. It’ll go away."

Sound ridiculous? Well sure it does. But what if it really happened? I mean what if you dialed 911 and nobody came? Be pretty scary, huh? Well don’t worry, no serious first responder would ever consider ignoring an emergent call. In fact, as a whole, EMS personnel are some of the most dedicated people I know. They jump into action whenever the tones sound, regardless of the weather, or the time of day, or of how crummy they might be feeling at the moment. They jump, and as a result lives are changed. Many are saved. And yet I wonder, do these people care as much for themselves as they do for others?

You guys understand what I’m talking about. All of you firefighters. You police officers and paramedics. And all you ER nurses and doctors. You understand the importance of diligence. That another’s life may hang in the balance each time you’re called to act. You do it because you care. But I have a question for you—what about you?

Jesus said, "Here I am! I stand at the door and knock."

Will you dare to answer it? Will you respond with the same diligence that you would an everyday call? I mean, listen! This is the call of your life! It will determine your ultimate destiny. Where you’ll spend eternity. So will you open the door? Answer Christ’s call and let him in? Or will you sit there and ignore him and hope he simply goes away?

When Peter and Andrew heard Christ’s call they jumped. They followed him. And on their backs Christ built his church. If Jesus Christ is knocking on the door of your heart today, please don’t ignore him. Do as they did. Respond to his call. You must, for someone’s life depends on it…

Yours!

* * *

Leave me a comment. I would love to hear from you!

Do You Believe This?

2008-12-29T12:07:00.001-05:00

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

2008-12-22T16:38:00.001-05:00

"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

2008-12-15T03:01:00.000-05:00

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!

2008-12-08T03:01:00.000-05:00

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

2008-12-02T03:01:00.000-05:00

"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

2008-11-25T03:01:00.000-05:00

"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

2008-11-18T03:01:00.000-05:00

"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

2008-11-11T03:01:00.000-05:00

"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?

2008-11-04T03:01:00.000-05:00

"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?

2008-10-28T03:01:00.000-04:00

" 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?

2008-10-21T15:01:00.000-04:00

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?

2008-10-14T15:01:00.000-04:00

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

2008-10-07T03:01:00.000-04:00

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

2008-09-30T03:01:00.000-04:00

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!

2008-09-11T03:01:00.001-04:00

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

2008-09-09T03:01:00.000-04:00

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

2008-09-06T03:01:00.000-04:00

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

2008-09-02T03:01:00.000-04:00

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

2008-08-26T16:33:00.000-04:00

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

2008-08-19T16:40:00.000-04:00

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

2008-08-12T16:55:00.000-04:00

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

2008-08-05T21:38:00.000-04:00

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

2008-07-29T23:29:00.000-04:00

"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

2008-07-22T23:47:00.000-04:00

“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!

2008-07-16T00:00:00.000-04:00

"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

2008-07-09T00:38:00.001-04:00

"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…

* * *