Is it appropriate to pray about current events?
Is it appropriate to pray about current events in our time? Sometimes, because of the intensity of everything going on in the world, you may decide that it’s too much—I’ll just let God handle it; after all, He’s sovereign.
I’ve learned that when I don’t gauge what I’m hearing in the news by the Word of God, a sense of despair can creep in, seeking to weigh me down with fear, worry, and hopelessness. The feeling of oppression that accompanies being overwhelmed can constrict your faith and pressurize you into backing away from praying for our nation. Like the Israelites of long ago, you might feel like a grasshopper before the seemingly insurmountable circumstances facing the country and exploding around the world, and as a result, this can cause you to recoil from praying about what’s going on.
In the Bible, the majority of the men sent in to spy out Canaan were overwhelmed by what they saw. They said, “We are not able to go up against the people, for they are too strong for us” (Numbers 13:31b).
And yet Caleb declared, “We should by all means go up and possess the land, for we will surely overcome it” (Numbers 13:30b). Because of his good report, Caleb was commended by God who described him as having a different spirit in following after Him fully (see Numbers 14:24).
I’ve heard several Christians say that they don’t like to intercede about current events because they’re concerned they might pray against the will of God. “After all,” they confide, “we’re in the end times. The Bible says that things will go from bad to worse. If we pray for things to change, aren’t we in danger of praying against the plan of God?”
Jesus said that the thief comes to steal, kill, and destroy (see John 10:10), and many of the events we witness today absolutely involve stealing, killing, and destroying. When you pray to inject light and truth into situations or pray to hinder or thwart evil, you are not praying against God but against the author of stealing, killing, and destroying—the devil. Of course, as you pray, be alert to the Holy Spirit— He knows the details more intimately than you ever could, so let Him direct how you pray.
You may not be able to impact every current event going on in the world, but if you don’t pray, one thing is certain—you won’t impact anything.
You may be familiar with the story about the man who walked down a beach after thousands of starfish washed ashore. He stooped frequently as he walked to pick up another “sea star” to throw it back into the waves. A companion, seeing the multitude of beached starfish in both directions, asked him, “Look at all those things! Picking up a few dozen and tossing them back into the water won’t make any difference!”
The man straightened back up with another starfish in his hand. Tossing it into the ocean, he replied, “It’ll make a difference to that one!” You may not be able to impact every current event going on in the world, but if you don’t pray, one thing is certain—you won’t impact anything.
But if you are still concerned that you might pray the wrong thing at the wrong time—after all, it may be the end times when things will go from bad to worse—consider this: The Lord Jesus didn’t condemn the man in the parable for pulling his sheep out of a pit on the Sabbath—the day when all work ceased (see Matthew 12:11-12). Instead, this man’s labor of mercy in freeing his innocent animal was acknowledged by Jesus as appropriate despite timing of the Sabbath rescue. In light of this, are we called to turn a blind eye to creeping agendas of lawlessness meant to steal, kill, and destroy our neighbors and countrymen when we have been given the power in prayer to bind and to loose? (See Matthew 18:18.)
The Bible declares that you are more than a conqueror (see Romans 8:37), even now, even when things seem to be spinning out of control. As you refuse to cast away your confidence (see Hebrews 10:35), you will find that the prayers you pray will become bolder, more targeted, and more saturated with Scripture.
It is written in two places in the Old Testament that God sought for an intercessor but found none (Isaiah 59:16, Ezekiel 22:30). Be found of Him, willing to take a stand in prayer about those things in the nation and the world that grip your heart. Then, if Jesus does return in your lifetime, He will be able to say that He did, indeed, find faith on the earth, for He found it in you.
Dorothy
However, when the Son of Man comes, will He find faith on the earth? Luke 18:8b
Read MoreKindness observed
My church will be launching into its annual vacation Bible school today. There will be a four-day session each week for the next two weeks for kids from teensy-tiny to eighth grade, and it will be jam-packed with amazing kid-things to do and outstanding Bible drama and worship every day.
Last year I was one of a multitude of volunteers. My job was to check kids out of their cars in the morning and help to make sure they made it to their various groups safely.
This is what I wrote about my experience at my church’s kids’ camp last year:
I just finished working with my church’s vacation Bible school this week. Now, I’m not in the state of Texas, but my church may as well be! Almost everything it does is BIG, especially this summer outreach to kids. My job was to help direct traffic as parents dropped off their children, aiding as kids hopped out of vehicles, and directing them to “walkers”—individuals from age fifteen to eighty—who walked them to the crosswalk and then to their stations.
As I participated in this massive movement of munchkins, I was very aware of the friendliness of the volunteers serving all around me. Kind words, gentle humor, and great encouragement filled the atmosphere as hundreds—no, literally thousands—of kids said goodbye to their parents and hello to the fun-filled environment awaiting them.
And I observed parents in their cars, vans, SUVs, pickup trucks, and jeeps respond to the thoughtful smiles, waves, and well-wishes just as much as their children. I watched, in more than one case, as tension seemed to drain away from a frazzled mom when a volunteer acknowledged her with a smile and a parting word of encouragement.
And I thought, “This is how we are to operate every day.”
- Conduct yourselves with wisdom toward outsiders, making the most of the opportunity. Let your speech always be with grace, as though seasoned with salt, so that you will know how you should respond to each person. Colossians 4:5-6
- Let your gentle spirit be known to all men. The Lord is near. Philippians 4:5
Despite the chaos swirling in the world, we can walk in confidence that our God is on the throne. And we can also know for a fact that He longs to show forth His love and stability through us as we engage more and more consistently in everyday random acts of kindness.
If your church is holding a VBS this summer—or you know of others that are—pray for those events. The adults and teens volunteering their time could use your prayers for strength, grace, stamina, and wisdom from God as they reach out to boys and girls and younger teens who may have never clearly heard the gospel before in their lives. Pray that God will prepare the hearts of these kids for an encounter with Him.
May the hand of God be upon every church campus involved this summer in presenting the gospel to our newest generation.
Dorothy
Read MoreA tale of two tales, Part 5: Not alone
…for He [God] Himself has said, I will not in any way fail you nor give you up nor leave you without support. [I will] not, [I will] not, [I will] not in any degree leave you helpless nor forsake nor let [you] down (relax My hold on you)! [Assuredly not!] Hebrews 13:5b, AMP
This hope we have as an anchor of the soul, a hope both sure and steadfast and one which enters within the veil, where Jesus has entered… Hebrews 6:19-20a
Tuesday evening, August 5, 2003, the day after by-pass. I sat up in my hospital bed, wires and tubes attached everywhere, and watched the news. Time was blurred, and I was aware of the fact that I had completely lost a day or so, but here I was, done with surgery and ready to mend. And then something on the NBC Nightly News jolted me. “The FBI has issued a warning about bombs being smuggled into the country in briefcases, laptops, and cell phones.”
Last night! I remembered. I woke up last night after by-pass in that dark ICU room with nurses fluttering around me like ministering angels…and I heard from God…and saw what this news report is talking about!
Wee hours of the morning, Tuesday, August 5, ICU. I awoke from the sleep of death with a deep, crushing pain in my chest. I’ve been hit by a truck! I thought, and then remembered—I just had by-pass. And as I lay there, pondering, I became aware of Someone Else who had been crushed. He was crushed for our iniquities; the chastening for our well-being fell upon Him, and by His scourging, we are healed (Isaiah 53:5b). That Scripture became my inward fixation; I pulled as much of that chapter as I could from deep within me, repeating it to myself over and over, like a drowning woman clinging to a rope. And as the nurses ministered, I focused on the One who was crushed for me—and an amazing transaction took place. I became aware of His intense pain that day on Calvary and felt my pain being swallowed up by His. Yes, the pain was there, but I could feel Him bearing it. And the more I mused on His battered body on that cross, bearing my pain, grief for the One who died such a brutal death flooded me. I grabbed the blonde nurse attending me. “Why couldn’t Jesus have gone to this hospital? You guys would have helped Him!”
“O-Kay….” she said. I may have been drugged, but I could tell an “are-you-ever-weird” tone of voice when I heard one. But I didn’t care in the least.
I settled back down and saw a series of three scenes. After each one, I prayed that I would remember it and repeated them all to myself to commit each one to memory. I felt they were significant.
Scene 1: I was in the lobby of a world-class hotel in a big city (I thought it might be New York). I saw a man set a briefcase on a bench under lush plants, leaving it there. “What’s that?” I asked the Lord. “It’s a bomb,” He replied. Less than 24 hours later, I heard about the same thing on NBC.
Scene 2: I was in an empty baseball stadium. I saw three men on the field by the stands who appeared to be from the middle-east. Because they were wearing dark blue baseball caps, I had a feeling we were at Dodger stadium in LA. I asked the Lord, “Who are these men?” He replied, “They are terrorists.”
Scene 3: I was outside the administration building of my school district. I saw three people confined to wheelchairs. One was the female coordinator of Social Studies and Communication Arts, and the other two were men I didn’t recognize. I asked the Lord, “Why are they in wheelchairs?” He replied, “Because of the work load and the extreme stress they are under, they are being crippled.”
I prayed over each scene and committed to pray even more when I was clearer-headed. Later, in 2008, I ran into the coordinator in Scene 3. I shared with her what I had seen that night. As she repeated the date, August, 2003, a look of recognition and shock came over her face and the color drained out. She identified the men—her fellow coordinators—and remembered the strain and anguish of that season in their careers. “Yes, we were suffocating under the stress in the district; we wondered among ourselves how we would ever make it…you saw that?”
“Yes, and I prayed for you while I was in the ICU. The Lord cares about you three; I guess He just wants you to know how much.”
Sunday, August 3, 2003. At the Sunday night prayer meeting at church, I prayed with others about the time I would be “out” in surgery the next day. My body would be hooked to a machine to circulate my blood and breathe for me while my heart was stopped, but I—the real me—would be out there somewhere. I asked God to do whatever He wanted with me during that “time out” period—whether it was to just rest or to visit with Him or to fight devils—I was ready and available, and I trusted Him for His protection and leading.
Interpersonal attack, summer 2003. After I learned I would be needing by-pass to avoid sudden death, things seemed to ramp up in the spirit against me. I have learned that this is a favorite tactic of the devil to bring despair, defeat, and discouragement right when you need massive doses of faith, hope, and joy. But good news—I’ve also learned that the Lord is faithful to navigate you safely through it all. In a nutshell, this is what I encountered:
- My dad’s fear for my health back-lashed against me in the form of anger and harsh criticism of the way I was approaching surgery and aftercare
- My sister’s plate was already over-filled with the warzone in her own home with an irrationally-explosive, drug-abusing son (who is now doing much better)
- An acquaintance felt the need to warn me that she thought the surgery would make me worse
- A self-proclaimed prophet—a friend of a friend—told me that if I had surgery I would dishonor God by my blatant unbelief—and it would probably cost me my life
- A relationship I’d been in had disintegrated—he moved on and was starting to see other women in my circle; I was beside myself with torment, anger, and hurt
- I learned I had been the subject of false accusations and misrepresentation from outside my current circle
- I became gripped by a deep sense of aloneness in my life
I felt like I was unraveling at the seams. The heaviness of that summer before surgery was beyond any other demonic attack I had ever experienced. As I sat on my living room floor sobbing, I realized that the enemy was targeting me for stealing, killing, and destroying, and that I had to pull out the big guns against him—utter forgiveness of those who had wronged me. I made up my mind—everyone—no matter what their offense—was forgiven. I would hold nothing against them. I couldn’t afford to enter into this life-and-death procedure with even an ounce of unforgiveness in my heart.
Physical attack, summer 2003. In addition to the strange interpersonal assault I was undergoing, I experienced a couple of odd physical attacks, as well—par for the course for the devil. My elderly cat Amos had been cut while being groomed, and in early July, while his stitches were being removed, the tech clipped him and my peaceful old cat chomped down hard on the first thing he could—my thumb. He pierced it clear through with his fangs and immediately my thumb swelled to the size of a Romano tomato. After a tetanus shot and a ten-day dose of horse-pill sized antibiotics, my thumb shrank back to normal and I could proceed with giving blood to be used for any transfusion I might need. (Every drop was needed—and not a drop more.)
Then, the weekend before surgery, I was preparing for my hospital stay when suddenly the power went out. But this was no weather-related outage—something was on fire! I went to the basement and smoke was coming from behind the electric panel. I called 911, horrified at the big scene that soon landed in front of my house with trucks, lights, sirens and a parade of firemen traipsing downstairs—but the fire was quenched.
Early June, 2003. The harsh reality of what was ahead of me enshrouded me. I sat at my kitchen table, dropped my head, and prayed, “God, I have no husband. Would You be my Husband and find me a good doctor?” He did. I discovered later that the cardiac surgeon I used was ranked second best in the world for cardiac anomalies, the best coming from Japan. A Saudi prince had even flown here to go under the knife of this highly-specialized surgeon.
Late May, 2003. My allergy/anti-anxiety pill prescribing doctor was humoring me. He sent me down to have a stress test, flippantly announcing they would find nothing—but if, in the slim chance they did, I would then undergo an angiogram. I had a feeling I’d be having that procedure.
My sister was swamped at work; my dad lived four hours away; my best friend had a full work load; no one was free to wait with me as I prepared for the agonizingly unknown. Heaviness draped over me like a dull, leaden blanket. I was alone.
The techs attached wires to key points on my body, prepping me for the stress test. A nurse explained the procedure and then abruptly stopped. “Dor? Frick?” She peered into my face. Only high school, camp, and college friends called me that.
I looked at her and she said, “Dor! It’s me! Susie!”
And there she was, standing beside me, straight and strong, smiling and fussing over me with medical professionalism and the connected-depth of shared, conquered trauma.
As I started the test, she told me that she had become fascinated with nursing while in the hospital with her broken back; she married her camp sweetheart; they had kids; and they attended church.
Not too long into the procedure, it became clear that my heart was not functioning properly. She stopped me, got me prepped for cardiac cath, and as we waited, the girl who once-upon-a-time thought she didn’t need God held my hand and prayed for me. The girl who long ago vomited into my hands ministered life and help to me. The girl with whom I once waited at the foot of her cliff now waited with me at the foot of my own cliff.
And God had not left me alone.
Read MoreA tale of two tales, Part 4: Is it unknown or scary? God can turn it
And so tale one closed with Susie knowing the essential fact that she needed God. Tale two culminated twenty-seven years later, in 2003. I will be breaking tale two into two parts: the physical part first, and the spiritual, emotional warfare waged against me in the second part. And throughout that entire season of my life—at first very unknown and very scary—God was working it all together for my good, both in the physical aspect and in the spiritual realm.
Way before 2003 when I was 48, I had a sense that something wasn’t right with my heart. It started in my early thirties. I remember teaching away, in my last class of fourth graders, when wham! I was hit in the chest with gripping pains. I’d hold onto my desk as I stood in front of the kids, quietly praying and trusting God for help. Then as quickly as it would start, it stopped.
Several times over the next ten to fifteen years the same thing would randomly happen. Finally, in my mid-forties, I’d had enough. I went to the doctor.
After a history of my family and health—no heart problems on either side of the family, I didn’t smoke or drink, I was underweight (at the time!), and I was the picture of health—the doctor prescribed allergy meds. No heart check. Just pills.
Well, those pills did help; my eyes weren’t as itchy as they had been, but chest pain still randomly struck.
I returned to the doc again. This time he prescribed anti-anxiety medication. I was secretly outraged, but I didn’t know how to “fight city hall”. Believe me, I’m learning to advocate for myself.
I had a very active lifestyle, but in my early forties, I noticed I was losing steam. It got more intense; I was exhausted with little exertion, but since the chest pains were so infrequent, I thought I was just out of shape. I would try to keep up and did to a point, but would experience long seasons of utter fatigue.
But the whole time, I had that niggling thought in the back of my mind: Get your heart checked.
God is so good! He knows how to take all the garbage the devil throws our way and then He remolds it into amazing deliverance and help. How He does it, I have no clue—but that’s why He’s God and I’m not. And am I ever glad of that!
I am a coffee drinker. I drink lots of it. Used to drink even more—the strong stuff—often espresso drinks. I love my mochas! But, as with many women, caffeine can aggravate the tissue in your breasts. It doesn’t cause cancer, but it can trigger fibroid cysts.
In 2003, I found a humongous, painful lump in my right breast. It was different than any I had ever found. I went to the doctor (a different one) who had known my history of cysts, and he was very concerned following the barrage of mammograms and ultra-sounds. Things didn’t look good; this could be a cyst, but chances were, it might be disguising something more malignant. I needed surgery.
My dad came to town to take me to the hospital; he was at my home that night before the planned lumpectomy. But I was an eighth grade teacher with a full schedule, and had to make four days of detailed lesson plans. I was at work till very late, only to greet my dad briefly when I got home, and then get ready for bed—and surgery in the morning.
Dad was in the guest room asleep as I sat on the edge of my bed around 11:30 or 12. And then, WHAM! I was kicked in the left side of my chest by a mule! I clutched my heart, prayed, bound the devil in Jesus’ name, pled the blood of Jesus, and commanded the pain to cease.
God, what do I do? Do I go to the hospital and then call the hospital in the morning and say I can’t go to the hospital—I’m in the hospital? What should I do?!?
The pain slowly faded and peace came upon me. I would sleep and trust God—and in the morning tell the doctor what happened.
The next morning, after telling my dad about the incident, I told the nurses at the hospital, “I don’t want to be impolite and die on the operating table, so I must tell you, I had kicking chest pains last night.”
A cardiologist was called in, and finally I had my first EKG. And sure enough, it showed that my ticker wasn’t quite right. I told that doctor! I thought, feeling vindicated and not in the least concerned—I knew that God was now taking care of the situation.
I went through the surgery—instead of a gargantuan tumor, they found of cluster of seventeen cysts all twisted together—and removed them, and I was good to go. And I had a quest to pursue—find out about my heart.
Through a flood of tests and procedures and a very frightening angiogram (also known as a cardiac cath) in which the cardiologist could not find one of my coronaries and was cursing under his breath and jamming the scope and storming away only to return and jam again—I prayed, God, either help him now to find it or make him quit. No one’s puncturing my arteries!
He quit. I was glad. And in a far more peaceful environment a week later, in a different test, they found the problem. My right coronary artery was attached to the left side of my heart and wound between my aorta (the candy cane-shaped part) and my pulmonary artery, blocking the flow of blood to the right side of my heart when my heart-rate increased—whether through exercise, stress, anger—whatever.
However, here’s the interesting thing: The only known symptom of my condition is not chest pain—it’s sudden death.
A year after heart surgery—by-pass—I was still experiencing exhaustion and random chest pain. Finally in 2007, I went to an allergist and discovered the cause. I had asthma. And then in 2009, my contractor discovered the mold that had been brewing in the house due to previously-addressed plumbing issues, and now, after removing all the mold, and two great allergists (one human and the other, Almighty), my health is getting better and better all the time.
Here’s the deal:
- Mold in my house aggravated the unknown condition of asthma.
- Asthma slowed me down enough to keep my heart from going into overload. (Sudden death typically happens due to a wrongly-routed coronary in the forties. Before that age, there’s usually more room for expansion between the vessels through which the smaller artery runs.)
- Because of random chest pains (due to asthma), I prayed frequently over my heart for its health and longevity.
- Because of my love of coffee, I was a cyst factory, which “coincidentally” landed me in the hospital for surgery where someone would finally listen to me and order an EKG the morning after I experienced the granddaddy of all asthma-induced chest pains.
Romans 8:28 states very clearly, “And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose.”
God can take the worst that the devil devises against you and turn it around for your good. God’s not behind giving someone a house full of mold or asthma or chest pains or cysts, but He knows how to take the raw material of an attack from the devil and rewire and reroute it into your victory and for your good.
If you are dealing with the unknown or the scary, rest assured: God will cause it all to work together for your good because you love Him and you are called according to His purpose. Stand on that truth, and let it be the pillow on which you lay your head at night. You are loved by the Lover of your soul, and He will be your strength, your help, and your deliverer. Amen.
Dorothy
Tomorrow: Not alone
Read MoreA tale of two tales, Part 3: On the edge of the cliff without God
Warning: For my friends with squeamish, delicate, or Puritanical sensibilities, proceed if you wish, but be advised. I will be sharing the events of that summer morning in 1976 as clearly as I can remember after 38 years and will leave very little out.
The night before, Susie, a 16 year-old backslidden Christian who joined our group as a junior counselor, said these words to me: “I’m president of student counsel; I’m popular, and I’m doing just fine on my own. I don’t need God.”
The next morning, at the crack of dawn, a couple of girls bounded up to the sleeping counselors, seeking permission to go on an early morning hike.
“Mmmmphh,” I mumbled. Susie volunteered to go with them, so I told them to be back by breakfast.
Off they went while I drifted back to sleep. That slumber was short-lived, however; what seemed to be mere minutes later, Laura, my co-counselor, and I were awakened to the sound of a cry of terror, a loud crash, and the ensuing shrieks of seventeen teen-aged girls.
We leaped up out of our sleeping bags, expecting to see a huge water or pillow fight and all of the accompanying chaos that fifteen year-old girls can create.
Instead, what we saw sent an icy chill up my spine on that quickly warming July morning.
There, under the cliff near the girls’ strewn sleeping bags, lay Susie on her back, screaming in agony, scratching the air and kicking furiously as if at some unseen demon. Strings of profanities were spewing out of her mouth between cries for help. The girls ran around in horrified pandemonium as Laura and I ran to the site.
“She fell! She fell!” one of the hikers burst out, crying hysterically. “She fell from up there!” I looked to the top of the cliff where she pointed; Susie had fallen the thirty-five foot distance and landed on her back right in the center of an old, abandoned campfire circle, her head just an inch or two from a large stone bordering the old site, her legs and arms also just inches from the other hefty boundary rocks. One thing we didn’t notice right away, however, was that she had landed right on top of a jutting slice of bedrock across the lower part of her back. Susie was out of her mind with panic and pain.
We corralled the girls and gave the more rationally-behaving ones the job of organizing everyone else in breakfast, clean up, and break down of our site; Susie needed medical attention as soon as we could contact camp, and that meant leaving the river as soon as possible. (Remember, this was 1976, before cell phones.) The girls leapt into action and were absolute champs in gaining an atmosphere of proactive peace and self-control.
I stayed with Susie while Laura had the daunting task of sprinting a mile or so away to the nearest farmhouse to find a phone where she could call camp.
Meanwhile, Susie’s crying and profanities mixed with apologies and pleas for mercy from God. I prayed with her, listening to discern what the Lord would have me to do. She was in shock, so I covered her with a light sleeping bag and spoke calmly to her. “Let me get up!” she started screaming. “I want to get up! I can walk!”
I continued listening—probing in my spirit—to hear what God wanted me to do. I had heard of miracles; I knew the Lord was very capable of pulling one off right now for Susie, and I thought that would be extremely cool.
But instead, I sensed caution; He reminded me of my first aid classes and the warning not to move a potential back or neck injury victim, risking further damage to the spinal cord. So there I stayed with Susie—who was still alternating between profanity and repentance—as I brushed away the big fuzzy flies that were gathering.
At some point in our wait for help, she needed to relieve herself. What do I do now? I wondered. If her spine moves, it could be worse, but I can’t let her pee all over herself!
I made the decision to give her dignity while attempting to keep her spine as stationary as possible. I unzipped her jeans shorts, and as carefully as I could, I scooted them and her panties below her hips and gently placed a camp frying pan beneath her. Mission accomplished. She was relieved, and I pulled the panties and shorts back up as far as I could to cover her without moving her. That frying pan, however, was pulled out of commission and headed back to camp in the trash.
Laura had returned by now; an hour had gone by; and no rescue team had shown up. The couple in the farmhouse allowed Laura to use their phone; she called camp and reached the guy in charge of transportation. She told him, “Susie had a little fall; we think she may be hurt, and we need to have you come get us right away.” You see, our first aid training had focused on keeping calm and in control; harsh, panicked words could escalate the victim’s alarm and make things far worse. But, Susie wasn’t at that farmhouse; she was under the cliff, and Laura’s calm words sent a false signal of “no big deal” to the guys who could help us. They had another cup of coffee and cleaned up a bit of business before they left. I learned a valuable lesson from this: Never sugar-coat the threat to your security or safety if you want action. This applies, incidentally, right now in our nation.
Three hours after her fall, the guys strolled down the quarter-mile path to our site leading from the place where Big Red and the van were parked. The minute he saw Susie and understood the situation, Rod, the guy in charge, began weeping. “I am so sorry!” he took me aside and said. “I thought that it was no big deal! She’s always visiting the infirmary with something or other; I thought this was just more of the same!”
One of the other guys sprinted the quarter-mile path to Big Red and removed the wooden gate from the rear of the old truck, trekking back at top speed with it under his arm. We padded it with sleeping bags, and the guys, Laura and I, and a few strong girls circled Susie, and at the count of three, we lifted her as a unit onto the padded gate. Then we carried her as level as we could down the quarter-mile path to the cargo van. We followed the same synchronized procedure to place her on the floor of the van, carefully securing the padded gate beneath her. Laura assured me that she and the girls would take care of the rest, and I rode in the back of the van with Susie while Rod high-tailed it to the farmhouse to call the sheriff for assistance.
The call was made, and we drove to the black top highway where we were met by two vehicles. One led us, top speed with sirens blaring, and the other followed, lights flashing, to the county hospital.
At this point, Susie was growing a pale shade of green. “I’m gonna be sick,” she croaked. I surveyed the floor of the van for anything to help; nothing. And then I remembered—my bandana! I was wearing a bandana—pirate (or ‘70’s hippie) style—around my head. I pulled it off, cupped it in my hands, and instructed Susie to only turn her head to the side and not to move her back; I would catch the vomit.
She did—over and over again—while I caught every bit of it in that beloved bandana. And miraculously, she neither moved her back nor choked on the vomit.
I was never more relieved to see a place than I was to see that emergency room. Attendants were at the back door of the van, moving Susie with professional expertise onto a waiting gurney. Rod left me at the hospital to return to the campsite to help with packing and transporting the group back to camp. I tied up the bandana and its contents into a soggy bundle and dropped it in the trash receptacle by the entrance of the hospital.
As I waited there alone, I couldn’t help but reflect on the conversation the night before. “I don’t need God,” she had boldly asserted. And now, she needed Him. And He was willing to help her. Instinctively, I knew that God didn’t cause my young friend to fall off of that cliff despite her defiance; however, I believed He had met her at the foot of that precipice—and that He would not fail her or forsake her.
Soon I was startled into the present again when a stern doctor addressed me. “Are you the one who gave care to Susan after the fall?” he demanded.
Uh oh, I squirmed. “Yes, sir,” I whispered.
“Well, let me tell you, young lady—her back was broken in a very precarious place; any pressure or movement one way or the other, and it would have cost your friend her mobility; it would have left her paralyzed. But what you did ensured that her fracture didn’t damage her nerves, and she will be fine and walking around in a brace in two weeks. And after that—she’ll be as good as new.”
In my numbness, all I could do was nod and thank him.
I have no idea how I made it back to camp; the rest of that session is a blur. But when I returned home between third and fourth sessions, my mom came into my room and sat on my bed to talk, oblivious to the ordeal I had just been a part of. And for the first time since Susie’s fall, I cried. I broke down and sobbed and poured out my heart to my mom as she rocked me and held me tight.
The doctor was right; after fourth session I visited Susie, and she was up and about in her back brace, all smiles and energy. The sweet humility was back, too; she had time to think and pray and process, and although she was unsure how quickly she would jump back in to church, she knew—beyond a shadow of doubt—she needed God.
Tomorrow: Is it unknown or scary? God can turn it
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