Hello, God?

This morning our pastor's eight year old son sat in the worship service with us. About the time for the announcements, the pastor's cell phone rings. He makes a joke that his son must be calling to tell him it's time for lunch. We both look down at Josh and there he is holding Nick's cell phone, and yes, he had just dailed his dad's number! Of course he denied this, but the "recently dailed numbers" feature doesn't fib!

Life Beyond a Red Dirt Road

My Personal Testimony

I accepted Christ as my Savior when I was sixteen years old. My parents had been raised attending church, my mother in a white clapboard nondenominational congregation near Charleston, West Virginia, and my father in a Baptist church in Hamlet, NC, however, my father was a weekend alcoholic and we rarely went to church. After being transferred to a different school in 1976, I was invited to attend youth activities at Massey Hill Baptist Church. The friend who would introduce me to Christ would become my best friend and much later, my husband.
My first encounter with Jesus occurred when I was around ten years old in a dream. Our household atmosphere was at best unpredictable and sometimes even violent due to my father’s disease of alcoholism. I awoke one night and saw Jesus standing at my bedside. He was the Jesus from a child’s picture bible. He was wearing the white robe with the purple stole and He was by far the most beautiful, peaceful, gentle image I had ever seen. Years later, I would teach a class on the names of God. My favorite name of God is Jehovah Raah, the Lord is my Shepherd, because He first came to me as my protector. Before I met the Savior, I met the Shepherd, because Jesus always meets us where we need Him most.
Throughout my spiritual journey I have been active in churches, teaching Sunday School, bible studies, and Vacation Bible School, and singing in choirs. My personal growth has come from bible study, prayer, corporate worship, Sunday School, and through service. Since 1976 I have been active in church, but my life changed dramatically in 1994 when I married my best friend and the love of my life, Nick. Nick is the godliest man that I know and I am honored to serve beside him. Our life revolves around the church and the God that we serve and love. Our families are sometimes puzzled at the life we lead, but we are committed to following God’s plan for our life.
During 2005 and 2006, I was challenged with a very serious threat to my health. Throughout the surgeries, physical therapy, radiation treatments, and months of healing, I was given many quiet hours for reflection. I prayed often that God would just restore me to my previous “life before I broke my ankle…”, but I realized after much time, that God’s purpose for my struggles was to transform me. I know that my experiences have refined and purified my faith. We don’t really know what we are made of until we meet a crisis face to face. During my ordeal I made contact with hundreds of medical personnel and other patients, and through the Holy Spirit I was able to convey the love of Christ and demonstrate His healing power and the awesome effects of prayer. One of the nurses at Duke Hospital commented one day on my positive attitude and I replied, “Of course I’m doing well, I have thousands of people praying for me!” I could almost physically feel myself being lifted up to the Lord for healing. The pain of my surgeries has been at times almost unbearable, but our God is so awesome He takes pain and suffering and transforms it into praise.
If I had to describe my spiritual goal, I would have to say that like Paul, my desire is to be “crucified with Christ; nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me: and the life which I now live in the flesh, I live by faith of the Son of God, who loved me, and gave himself for me.” Galatians 2:20 (KJV). And at the end of my life here on earth, I would like my legacy to be that I accepted the call of God and that I was found faithful.

Ocean Breezes and Beach Sand

January 2007
The waves raced up to meet me. The water, although warm for January, sent a shiver through my toes and I felt myself giggle. I needed this, the warm sun, the cold water, the air thick with salt and humidity. I haven’t felt beach sand and salt water on my feet for over two years. As I turned to walk down the shoreline, I could feel my soul begin to heal and my body return to wholeness.

October 2004
Fall is my absolute favorite season. I love the arrival of cool air and turning leaves, fairs and festivals, and Thanksgiving. This year I was working hard, too hard. For several years I had worked as a personal chef and caterer. I also conducted Southern Living at Home parties. I usually prepared two meals a week at church for around three hundred and fifty people. This year I was also taking extra jobs on weekends. Around the second week of October, I woke up with a funny feeling in my right hip. Recently I had been experiencing a lot of nighttime sensations in my legs (I thought I had restless leg syndrome). I went on with my scheduled shopping trip for the week’s meals: several hours in two mega stores followed by sorting and organizing the food in the commercial kitchen. The next two days I spent my usual eight hours standing in the kitchen and my hip was beginning to hurt. I went to my general practitioner and began the dance toward diagnosis: X-rays, MRI, blood tests, etc. I kept on working, cooking and trying to do my home parties, in the meantime, both legs had begun to hurt. The MRI showed some compression in my lower vertebrae. My doctor thought I had a herniated disk and referred me to a neurosurgeon. I thought if needed I could possibly have surgery in January when everything slowed down. It was now the middle of November and I was busy planning for the annual Thanksgiving Feast at our preschool for 450 preschoolers, parents, grandparents, and teachers.

On Monday, November 14th, I had spent the afternoon baking fresh apple cakes for the Wednesday night supper. My husband asked me to assist in Upward Basketball evaluations that evening at our church gym and when we were in the parking lot, I stepped off the curb, my leg gave way, and I broke my ankle, beginning a two year period of surgeries and therapy.

After five weeks in a cast I graduated to a walking boot. I was able to use a walker to make short trips to the bathroom or living room, but my lack of mobility kept me housebound except for doctor’s appointments. In early January I should have been foot racing, but instead my legs were growing weaker and I was unable to get in and out of my bed without assistance. My visit to neurologist had been delayed due to my injury, but I was finally sent for another MRI. This MRI showed a meningioma on my spinal cord. This tumor was causing the numbing sensations in my hips and legs and had ultimately caused my fall. I needed surgery immediately.

No one prepared me for the after effects of spinal cord surgery. My doctor merely stated that the recovery time would be lengthy. I didn’t know that I would not be able to feel my legs, control my bodily functions, or even pull myself up in the bed. I spent five weeks in the hospital and rehabilitation center and weeks in outpatient therapy.

By the time I was able to return to church in my wheelchair, four months had passed. Eventually I was able to leave the wheelchair for a cane and then walk unassisted. However, this freedom was brief, as I started to feel some familiar sensations in November of 2005. An MRI revealed that the tumor had returned. This time I was referred to Duke University Medical Center and the diagnosis was frightening. Another surgery could not guarantee complete recovery and mobility, but without the attempted removal of the tumor, I would not walk. Although there were a few scary moments the surgery was a success. I spent three weeks at Duke and then three weeks in rehab. As a precaution, I was given radiation treatments. That year, we put five thousand miles on our car traveling between Fayetteville and Durham. During these two years, I had four surgeries, twenty-nine radiation treatments, and weekly physical therapy. My MRI in November 2006 showed no tumor even though my neurosurgeon left a remnant, it was undetectable on the image. Finally, I had regained my life.

At first, I was angry at God. My friends had moved on without me, their lives a busy flurry, my life, quiet, spent mostly at home or some medical clinic. My catering business and my consulting business were gone. I could no longer meet the physical demands of cooking in a commercial kitchen for hundreds of people. We were strained financially due to the thousands of dollars in deductibles, unreimbursed procedures, traveling expenses, and my loss of income. Even my hardwood floors were ruined by my wheelchair and walker. I prayed daily that God would restore everything that was taken from me.

As I continued to struggle with my losses, God began to change me. I began to see that His plan for my life was not restoration, but rather transformation. I couldn’t work, but I could reprioritize my spending habits, I mean, how much Polish pottery do I need to be happy? I had been busy working for God’s kingdom, but in the process, I had neglected the one thing He wants us to put first and that is our relationship with Him. My physical weakness forced me to slow down, allow others to minister to me, and to focus on that inseparable bond to Christ. God had enabled us to meet every financial need, although, I don’t know how. My hardwood floors can be refinished, but until then, the scratches remind me how far I have progressed.

Through my ordeal, I have learned that storms will come and how we weather them makes us who we are. Yes, I have many scars, metal rods and pins in my spine and ankle, and nerve damage in my back, but I can walk, a guarantee I was not promised. With each “clean” MRI, I am reminded to be thankful, not just during the season of thanksgiving, but every day.

Training Wheels

When I married my husband at the age of 33, I thought I understood what marrying a minister involved. I envisioned myself giving teas and luncheons for the ladies of the church and serving on the decorating committee. What I didn’t consider was 1) this was the twentieth century, and 2) my husband was not the pastor of a country church, but rather, the youth minister in a metropolitan area. My first inkling that I was unprepared for this mission came about two weeks after the honeymoon. My husband was not at home on a Friday evening and I took a call from a church member. She wanted a babysitter and wanted me to provide her a list of suitable teens. I explained that I really didn’t know any of the teenagers yet. “Well, then, can you sit for me, because I’m supposed to meet my girlfriend at the movies in thirty minutes?” Of course, I declined, and wasn’t I relieved when my husband later verified that babysitting was not one of his expectations of me. Lesson number one: everyone has their own idea of your responsibilities.

Not too long after that, I answered our front door to find a child from church standing there looking red faced and breathless. She explained that her dog had run away and her mother wasn’t at home and could I help her find it. We started out together, but after a few minutes I realized that the child was no longer helping me look for the dog, but instead, had stopped in a neighbor’s yard to play. Why was I out in the heat of summer “helping” this child? About the time I turned for home, a man stopped his car in the middle of the street and asked me if I was looking for a Dalmatian. After I confirmed that I was he proceeded to curse at me because the dog tried to bite him. Okay, lesson number two, dogs eventually come home by themselves.

Over the course of the next three years I would endure many youth trips on smelly church busses, nauseating amusement park rides, lodging in rustic cabins and dormitory rooms, and countless meals of pizza, however, the most humbling experience of all involved a ride in my husband’s truck. Teenagers love to eat, so most activities included food. One Saturday night we were planning a murder mystery party in the fellowship hall. I was making one of their favorites, taco salad. I had only one glitch, the fellowship hall and kitchen was being used on Saturday afternoon so I was going to make the taco meat at home. No problem, I thought. I made up the taco mixture in small batches and then transferred them to one big pot my husband used on the outside cooker for his Brunswick Stew and BBQ Sauce. The pot would easily fit in the bed of the truck and I could reheat it at the church.

Men love their trucks, don’t they? My husband is no exception and has had several different trucks during our marriage. This one was especially unique because it was a restored 1972 Chevrolet that had been his grandfather’s. Needless to say, I hated it. Unlike new vehicles, the steering wheel was where it was, you couldn’t adjust it. Being boldly beautiful, I didn’t really fit well in the driver’s seat, so I avoided driving it at all costs.

When it was time to start out for the church, I covered the big pot with aluminum foil because we didn’t have a lid for it and sat it in the back of the truck. Driving through the neighborhood was fine, but once we got out on the main highway, I noticed that the foil was flapping up from the pot. My husband pulled over to the side of the road. One of us was going to have to ride in the back of the truck and hold onto the pot to keep it covered. My husband wanted me to drive, but besides hating to drive that truck, I wasn’t wearing my contact lenses, so I climbed into the back of the truck. The drive from our house to the church was only about six miles, but we had to take not one but two of the major roads in our town, on Saturday afternoon on a payday weekend. People stared, waved, and some even honked as we made our way to the church. I had not ridden in the back of a pick up truck since I was a teenager, and let me tell you, it’s not as much fun as it used to be. My taco meat and I arrived unharmed and our youth event was a success. The whole incident was but a memory, or so I thought.

Every week during a designated point in the service, the children would be called down to the altar, my husband would give a five minute object lesson, and then he would escort them to another part of the building for their own “church” session. The next morning my husband started his message with this, “Raise your hand if you saw my wife riding in the back of my pick up yesterday.” Now, I sing in the choir so everyone can see me clearly as my face turns purple and at least one hundred people raise their hands! I don’t know how many of those people actually spotted me in the truck, but even after ten years, this is still a favorite story at our church. More than one husband has threatened his wife with “You’re riding home in the back of the truck if you don’t behave!” Lesson number three, my life is never boring.

And the main lesson is this, regardless of how many false expectations I had of church life, my job is to be a supportive and valuable helpmate to my husband, and to be prepared for whatever adventure arises.