My Sweet, Broken Jesus

For most of my adult life, I have struggled with a swallowing problem. Many times I get choked up over the smallest bits of food, like a kernel of corn or too much bread. Taking pills like Tylenol is not something I can do, because it simply won't go down. I have had to have several 'endoscopys'; a procedure that basically stretches your esophogus and allows food to travel more freely to your stomach. Nice, huh?

In October of 2002 I was needing yet another one of these procedures. I checked myself in and began the long, early morning wait for the hospital to prepare for me. While waiting with my wife, I suddenly got very fearful and remember telling Konnie how much I loved her and that if anything should happen, I have made certain preparations. She reassured me that this was no big deal and that I had done it many times before. I then told her, 'Yeah, but even the simplest procedures can go wrong'. Boy, I wish I hadn't been thinking those thoughts, because that's what happened.

During the procedure, apparently my 'food opening', as I call it, was so tight that the Doctor could not get his scope past the opening in order to inflate the end of the scope and stretch it out. But he tried anyway and my esophogus was torn.

I remember coming to and feeling funny. I felt like I had little air bubbles all in my throat. I remember my wife being with me and the Doctor pacing the room on his cell phone. He had ordered an X-Ray to be taken and was getting the results. I remember the words, 'He's got a what!?' Not comforting. I then vaguely remember the Doctor hugging my wife and apologizing.... again, not comforting.... not so much.

The Doctor then told me what had happened and that my problem was something that 'we don't treat here. You'll have to go to Wichita'. Then a bit of fear started to set it because they hauled me off to a waiting ambulance and off we went at a very high speed. I wasn't 'life watched', but 'life driven'. During the 80 plus mile drive, a million things went through my head.... 'How serious is this?' 'Am I going to be ok?' 'What about Kaden and Konnie?' 'My Mom's going to freak!' :-)

After arriving at St Francis Hospital in Wichita, I was taken quickly into ICU (The Intensive Care Unit). It gets that name for a reason, it's very intense. Nurses began hooking me up to what seemed like a hundred IV's and monitors. I was given a catheter (sp?) OUCH! And then everyone left.....

Konnie soon came in to see me and not long after, the Doctor who was now in charge of my case came in. I don't remember much of the conversation, but I remember asking him if I was in serious trouble or not. He said, 'I'll be honest with you. You have a 60/40 chance of survival." With that the tears began to flow as Konnie and I began to share moments that no one wants to go through. All the hopes and dreams of a young married couple with a beautiful little boy at home, began to seem like they may not happen. We cried for quite some time and prayed. Konnie then left because I wanted some people called; My parents especially and some friends.

While by myself, I tried to clear my eyes of all the tears. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know what to think and I didn't know what to pray. I looked up and above the doorway to my room was a figurine of Jesus on the cross. I couldn't help but stare at it. Then I noticed something was wrong with the figure. Half of Jesus' right arm was gone. 'Great,' I thought. 'I got the room with the broken Jesus... that's about right I guess'. I then looked away as if I thought it would jinx me to stare at a broken Jesus.

As family and friends came in and out, and doctor's came by and still had no words of encouragement only caution, I began to look intently on that figure above my door. It finally hit me that indeed this was the Jesus I needed. Not the gold painted Jesus on the cross, but the wooden one in which it showed that He himself was broken. Broken for who? Broken for me. For hours I looked upon this cross and prayed and wept. I knew that some test were coming up that would tell us all if I was to have major surgery that could take my life, or if another cure might be possible.... the cure that only a broken Jesus gives us.

After some time, I forget how long, it was time to see and run the test. My parents had flown in from Houston and were with Konnie. I could feel their prayers. As my bed was wheeled out of my room, I remember looking up at my sweet, broken Jesus and smiling. I knew that no matter what, I was going to be fine; either in death or in life. The test was done and I returned to my room to await the news. The doctor came in as Konnie and I held hands and barely dared to breathe. I remember these words:

"Well, I will be honest with you. It looks like you are healing on your own and we won't have to do surgery. I'll be more honest with you and say that I haven't seen this type of damage heal on it's own, so you are very lucky. We are going to keep you here for several more days so we can monitor your progress, but for now, it looks good.'

Konnie and I smiled through tears of joy and I could not help but give a wink to my sweet, broken Jesus. I didn't deserve it but A miracle had happened and I was being given a chance at life again. Luck? I think not.
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I'm bothered at times that I haven't done 'more' with my second chance in life. I still struggle with silly petty things and I often have to force myself to remember the miracle of that time in my life. I complain about things that shouldn't matter and worry about things that don't matter. I'm still healing, I guess. :-)

I also struggle with the fact that this isn't how it goes for others that are sick. Recently we went and visited Konnie's dad, Frank. He is now but a mere shell of who he once was. Our visit was very hard for Konnie. I will never forget that while we were in the room with Frank, Konnie was tending to him and talking to him. He didn't respond much, but you could almost feel that he wanted to. Suddenly Konnie broke down and began to weep heavily. She got up from her father's bed and went quickly to the bathroom. At that moment, Frank sat up very quickly in a move that stunned me somewhat. He sat up and looked towards the bathroom where his little girl had run to. For just the briefest of moments I believe Frank remembered something. He knew it was Konnie and he knew she was sad, and in just the blink of an eye his clouded memory remembered that he needed to go help and comfort his little girl. It didn't last but a moment and soon he was laying back down. His cruel disease took over again and he, again, looked lost. I began to weep.

Why is it that some are healed and some are not? Why is it that a man's entire life of memories has been robbed from him? Is there no miracle available for him? As Konnie leaned over and began kissing her father on his cheeks I saw an image of Christ. A Christ that doesn't always spare us from disease and knows that none of us are spared from death, but He is there to care for us and kiss our cheeks and comfort us. I think of Brandon Evans... 32 years old and dying in his parents house. I think of all that they must be going through watching their little boy die.... I don't get it and, as I've said before, maybe I'm not supposed to. But this I do get; Jesus was broken not to spare us from death on this earth, but to give us life everlasting. With the life that we have, comes much responsibility. Are we living up to it? Are we helping and loving others? Are we better today than we were yesterday? If you're like me, the answer is 'some days yes, some days no'. But even that is why Jesus was broken; we can't be perfect, but we can strive to be.

I so wish my friend and Konnie's dad could be healed. But I do believe that there is healing that's taking place. I believe that both men, will someday have life everlasting. In times of suffering like this I'm reminded of a song by the Christian artist Bryan Duncan. The song is Strong Medicine. Take a listen: http://www.kstarheel.com/Strong_Medicine.html


Only God knows why certain things happen and their reasons. But be certain that we can know this.... the same sweet, broken Jesus that healed me is there for us all. Whether in death or in life, He is in control and He will never leave us or forsake us. There is hope, there is life and there is a medicine.

The King of Put-Away Things

There was a man who was on in years. By all rights, he was a good, hardworking man who had recently retired from his job of over 30 years. The job had required much travel from him in every country you can think of from Africa to India. He was often gone from home, but seemed to enjoy what he did. His wife was a kind, gentle gal who supported his career that had, in turn, supported her for so many years. They were happy but underneath all the exteriors of a nice house, nice cars and a nice pension, something was missing. Something always seemed to be missing... in him.

They had but one child, a daughter. She was a typical 'only child' in that whatever she needed in life was hers for the asking and taking. She went to the finest schools and wore the finest clothes, mostly given to her by her mom. She grew in life and love, married and had a son.

But the one thing she did not receive much in life was attention from her father. His distance in the family, partly due to his job and partly due to his lack of attention to her needs, had always left her feeling somewhat unworthy; as if she needed to continually prove herself to him. He seemed so obsessed with work and with purchasing certain things, that he rarely put time towards his only child. He always justified this by saying, 'the bills won't pay themselves'.

Recently her marriage had failed and this was a sore spot for her and her father. He didn't know the man very well, but thought it 'poor taste' to leave the man she once begged him to like, even though he warned her about marrying a man she hardly knew. 'I guess my opinion doesn't matter much to you', he would often say to her. Little did he know, it's all that mattered to her. Never mind that her husband was unfaithful to her and left her, it was still made to be her failure in her father's eyes. Try as she might, she never seemed to be able to please him.

One day the man's wife said to him, 'Today our daughter is going to be visiting; I hope you'll be around'. He looked rather uninterested-interested and said, 'Well, I have much to do around here so you two make out for yourselves; I'll see her when I can.' The wife looked down as if she was nervous about the next words she would say. Almost in a half whisper she said, 'She will also be bringing Timmy with her and he would love to spend time with you.'

The man looked cross at her and said, 'Timmy? Is this another of her boyfriends that is no good? The wife then spoke a bit louder to him as if she was bordering on scolding him. 'Timmy is NOT her boyfriend... it's her son. YOUR grandson. How is it that you don't even remember his name'?

The man stared at her, but more stared through her. His grandson indeed.

Upon their arrival the daughter was nervous for she never knew what to say to her dad. She could never get passed his unending look of disappointment in her. She hugged her mom and then her dad without really making contact with his eyes. Nor did he look into hers.

"Hi grandpa", a young voice said. The man looked down and with a half smile said, 'Well, hi there yourself'.

'Do I get to spend time with you today, Grandpa?', the boy questioned with anticipation. 'Well', the man spoke, 'I have much to do in the garage, but I guess you are welcome to be in there if you wish; just don't go messing with too many things'.

The boy smiled and sprinted off towards the massive garage that was large enough for most families to live in. The wife smiled at him and patted him on the back, half in appreciation and half in encouragement; hoping upon hope that he would finally take some time to get to know his grandson.

While they were in the garage the man's grandson could not believe how much stuff was in there. There was a boat, a motorcycle, furniture, a car and a beautiful bicycle that looked as if it had never had a rider. The boy couldn't help but ask, 'Is that your bike grandpa?' The man looked at it and said, 'Yes, and no', he answered.

'What do you mean?', the boy asked confused by his answer. 'Well, that bike was supposed to be for your mom, but I guess I never got around to giving it to her.'
'Why not?' the boy asked.
His Grandpa answered, 'Well, that is a long story and you shouldn't be bothered by it, but let's just say that I decided to put it away instead. Some things just don't get used and they are just put away.'

The boy then looked around at the massive collection of things and couldn't help himself but to blurt out, 'Well, by the looks of things in this garage it seems to me that you are the King of put-away things.'

At first the man smiled at the boy's witty and piffy comment, as if proud that finally someone was appreciating all that he had worked for; for he felt like a King at times while he was amassing this collection of 'stuff'. But then the smile faded into a look of concern. For some reason that title, 'The King of put-away things' began to bother him. He began to look around and notice all the 'things' in his garage.

There was the boat that he had promised his wife they would go sailing in every weekend, but they never did. The motorcycle he promised his friends he would use to go on trips with, but as of yet had not. There was a million tools that were bought with the purpose of building on to his house and giving his wife the green house she always wanted, but it never seemed to work into his schedule. There was at least 2 rooms worth of furniture that he wouldn't allow his wife to give away to a family that needed it because, as he said, 'you never know if we'll need it again'.... as if they didn't already have enough. And then there was the bike. The bike that was to be given to her for her 15th birthday, but wasn't because of some small incident that now he couldn't even remember.

The bike, to him, suddenly represented the broken relationship he had with his daughter. For her whole life she just never quite measured up to his demands; so I guess he was punishing her by what? not giving her the brand new bike he had bought so long ago, he wondered?
A gift that would have sent her spirits soaring, he withheld from her.

Suddenly some tears began to fall from the soft eyes of the hardened man. His grandson quickly asked, 'Grandpa, what's wrong?'

'Oh, it's nothing Timmy', he looked away and said.

'I just got to thinking about some things and realized that I need to do something that I should have done for your mom years ago'. With those words he walked over to the bike, dusted it off and said, 'What do you think champ? Can you ride it?'

The boys face lit up and he shouted, 'you bet I can!' 'Well', the man said, 'it's yours'. And with that, the boy grabbed the bike and took off down the long, winding driveway. It was the first time the man had given anything of note to his daughter or grandson.

After that, the man began to change. He began contacting his daughter and spent time with her and Timmy. He took his wife sailing, went on motorcycle trips with his friends and spent 3 straight weekends cleaning out his garage and gave much of it away to those in need. Soon, he would begin building that greenhouse for his wife.

One day his wife asked him, 'Honey, I've got to know. What has gotten into you recently; you seem so much happier?' He just smiled at her and said that it was something Timmy had said to him and that he no longer wanted to 'put things away'; not just material things, but emotional things as well. For he not only dusted off a bike to give to his grandson, but his hard heart got cleansed as well, and that he would share with everyone.

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Time is short and your 30 years are here.... how should you spend them then? Jesus has told us not to store treasures here on earth. He made it clear what he thought about 'put-away things'. It's the things we give and do for our families and others that have more value than anything we could possibly buy or store up for ourselves. Maybe it's time not for a garage sale, but a garage cleansing.