Senility Acceptance?

God grant me the senility
to forget the people
I never liked anyway,
the good fortune to run
into the ones I do,
and the eyesight
to tell the difference.

Problems?

There is only one group of people who don't have problems and they're all dead. Problems are a sign of life. So the more problems you have, the more alive you are

- Norman Vincent Peale

Joy

Joy has nothing to do with material things, or with a man's outward circumstance...A man living in the lap of luxury can be wretched, and a man in the depths of poverty can overflow with joy

- William Barclay

Happiness

The greater part of our happiness or misery depends on our dispositions, and not on our circumstances. We carry the seeds of the one or the other about with us in our minds wherever we go

- Martha Washington

Fragility

Anything can happen to anybody. In the last movie I did, "Above Suspicion," I played a paraplegic. I went to a rehab centre and I worked with the people there so I could simulate being a paraplegic. And every day I would get in my car and drive away and go, "Thank God that's not me." I remember the smugness of that, as if I were privileged in a way. And seven months later, I was in this condition. The point is, we are all one great big family, and any one of us can get hurt at any moment...We should never walk by somebody who's in a wheelchair and be afraid of them or think of them as a stranger. It could be us - in fact, it is us.

- Christopher Reeve

Tokens of New Life Beyond Death

In his book The Jesus Creed, Scot McKnight shares the moving story of Margaret Ault. When Margaret was just about to complete her Ph.D. at Duke, something unexpected—but quite welcomed—happened: she fell in love. She went on a date with a man named Hyung Goo Kim, and the proverbial sparks flew. But almost as quickly as the sparks became a fire, they were doused with water. Hyung Goo informed Margaret that he was HIV positive. Needless to say, Margaret was devastated. In her own words, "I'd just met someone I liked, and we were definitely not going to live happily ever after. I felt like I had been kicked in the gut by the biggest boot in the world."
Still, she and Hyung Goo were married. In his book McKnight asks the question many of us would ask: "Why would anyone invite into the core of their being so much pain?" He then goes on to share that the answer unfolds in the rest of Margaret and Hyung Goo's story. He writes:

When Margaret was in graduate school at Duke, she and Hyung Goo loved to walk in the Duke gardens, and so knowledgeable did they become of its plants that they "supervised construction" of a new project. They walked through each part of the garden routinely and had names for some of the ducks. In their last spring together, the garden seemed especially beautiful [to them].

Hyung Goo died in the fall and Margaret returned to the gardens in the spring where a memorial garden of roses was being constructed in his honour.

McKnight then points the reader to a series of quotations from Margaret's book Sing Me to Heaven, where she reflects on the days she returned to the gardens. She writes: 

Where peonies were promised, there were only the dead stumps of last year's stalks; where day lilies were promised, there were unprepossessing tufts of foliage; where hostas were promised, there was nothing at all. And yet I know what lushness lay below the surface; those beds that were so brown and empty and, to the unknowing eye, so umpromising, would be full to bursting in a matter of months.

Is the whole world like this? Is this what it might be like to live in expectation, real expectation, of the resurrection?

Was not Hyung Goo's and my life together like this? Empty and sere, and yet a seedbed of fullness and life for both of us. He died, and I was widowed; yet in his dying, we both were made alive.

After quoting Margaret's words, McKnight concludes:

Where does she find strength to grip such faith and such hope? It is found in [her question]: Is the whole world like this?

The answer, "Yes, the whole world is like this: the whole world offers us tokens of new life beyond death and disasters." It offers the promise of new life beyond the grave, a life of renewed love in the presence of God. Why? Because Jesus was raised from the dead.

Scot McKnight, The Jesus Creed (Paraclete Press, 2005), pp. 286-288

Rejoicing in All Circumstances

Bob Reccord reflects:
As I write this book, I'm having to exercise the faith of dealing with the prison of pain. Unexpectedly, I suffered a severe cervical spinal injury. The pain was so excruciating, the hospital staff couldn't even get me into the MRI until they had significantly sedated me. The MRI showed significant damage at three major points in the cervical area. The orthopedic surgeon's assistant later told me, "Bob, your neck is a wreck." He said there was hardly any way I could avoid surgery.
Because of the swelling of injured nerve bundles, the only way I could relieve the pain was to use a strong, prescribed narcotic and to lie on bags of ice. Sleep, what little there was, came only by sitting in a reclining chair.
Approximately 48 hours from the onset of the injury, doctors estimated that I lost about 80 percent of the strength in my left arm. Three fingers on my left hand totally lost feeling. Even the slightest movements would send pain waves hurtling down my left side and shoulder. To add insult to injury, physicians said I had to step away completely from my work (which I love), and begin to wear a neck brace … 24 hours a day for five weeks.
About halfway through that experience, I found myself sitting on the screened-in porch behind our home. The day was cold and blustery, but I was committed to being outside, just for a change of scenery. Suddenly a bird landed on the railing and began to sing. On that cold, rainy day, I couldn't believe any creature had a reason to sing. I wanted to shoot that bird! But he continued to warble, and I had no choice but to listen.
The next day found me on the porch again, but this time the atmosphere was bright, sunny, and warm. As I sat, being tempted to feel sorry for myself, suddenly the bird (at least it looked like the same one) returned. And he was singing again! Where was that shotgun?
Then an amazing truth hit me head on: the bird sang in the cold rain as well as the sunny warmth. His song was not altered by outward circumstances, but it was held constant by an internal condition. It was as though God quietly said to me, "You've got the same choice, Bob. You will either let external circumstances mould your attitude, or your attitude will rise above the external circumstances. You choose!"

Bob Reccord, Forged by Fire: How God Shapes Those He Loves (Broadman & Holman, Nashville, TN, 2000), p. 112

Improving Fitness

I feel like my body has gotten totally out of shape, So I got my doctor's permission to join a fitness club and start exercising. I decided to take an aerobics class for seniors. I bent, twisted, gyrated, jumped up and down, and perspired for an hour. But, by the time I got my leotards on, the class was over.

Boy Forgets How to Stop His Bike; Father Learns to Slow Down

[My son] Kyle had mastered riding [a bicycle] with training wheels and was eager to try [a two-wheeler] …. That sparkling blue Schwinn bike with the chrome handle bars wasn't exactly a Harley, but it went fast enough for a five-year-old to be simultaneously scared to death and higher than a kite.
After some false starts and a few erratic swerves that just missed the neighbour's mailboxes, he eventually got the hang of controlling the bike …. Soon enough the side streets of our little neighbourhood were his speedway. With every lap he looked a little more sure of himself, and I began to wonder if he would ever quit and give it a rest.
Then I noticed that he was not so sure of himself. The anxious look on his face grew more serious with each lap. Something was wrong. Suddenly, he ran the bike up the curb and onto the grass in front of our house and leaped off, tumbling head over heels, while the bike careened to a halt.
I ran to see if he was okay, and he looked up at me and said, "Dad, how do you stop?" He had known how to use the brake when still on training wheels, but in the rush of being free of the constricting training wheels he forgot what he used to know how to do. So after another lesson on stopping and several more crash landings, he eventually remembered how to slow down and stop.
My [life] looked a lot like Kyle's first bike ride. Hooked on the fast pace of [life], I got dangerously out of control. It took a crash to help me slow down and learn to stop.

Keith Meyer, Whole Life Transformation (IVP Books, 2010), pp. 97-98

Woman Idolizes Her Parents' Approval

In his book Counterfeit Gods, Timothy Keller writes, "Idols generate false beliefs such as 'If I cannot achieve X, then my life won't be valid' or, 'Since I have lost or failed at Y, now I can never be happy or forgiven.'" Then he illustrates this point with the following illustration:

A young woman named Mary was an accomplished musician who once attended my church. For many years she had battled mental illness and had checked in and out of psychiatric institutions. She gave me permission as her pastor to speak to her therapist …. "Mary virtually worships her parents' approval of her," her counsellor told me, "and they always wanted her to be a world-class artist. She is quite good, but she's never reached the top of her profession, and she cannot live with the idea that she has disappointed her parents."

Medications helped to manage her depression, but they could not get to the root of it. Her problem was a false belief, driven by an idol. She told herself, "If I cannot be a well-known violinist, I have let down my parents, and my life is a failure." She was distressed and guilty enough to die. When Mary began to believe the gospel, that she was saved by grace, not by musicianship, and that, "though my father and mother forsake me, the Lord shall take me in" (Psalm 27:10), she began to get relief from her idolatrous need for her parents' approval. In time her depression and anxiety began to lift, and she was able to re-enter her life and musical career.

 

Timothy Keller, Counterfeit Gods (Dutton, 2009), pp. 148-149

Dying Man Finds Hope in Jesus

In his book Deserted by God?, author and pastor Sinclair Ferguson shares the following story:
The first physician to die of the AIDS virus in the United Kingdom was a young Christian. He had contracted it while doing medical research in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe. In the last days of his life, his power of communication failed. He struggled with increasing difficulty to express his thoughts to his wife. On one occasion she simply could not understand his message. He wrote on a note pad the letter J. She ran through her medical dictionary, saying various words beginning with J. None was right. Then she said, "Jesus?" That was the right word. He was with them. That was all either of them needed to know. [And] that is always enough.

Rules

Pedantry and mastery are opposite attitudes toward rules. To apply a rule to the letter, rigidly, unquestioningly, in cases where it fits and in cases where it does not fit, is pedantry ... To apply a rule with natural ease, with judgment, noticing the cases where it fits, and without ever letting the words of the rule obscure the purpose of the action or the opportunities of the situation, is mastery

- George Polya -

How Much Land Does a Man Need

Russian author Leo Tolstoy wrote a short story about a rich man who was offered the real estate deal of a lifetime. For 1000 roubles he could have all the land he was able to walk around in a day. The only condition was that he had to make it back to his starting point by sunset or he would lose the lot. He rose early and set out. Walking on and on he kept thinking how good it would be if he could claim just a bit more land. Eventually, stopping for a rest, he realized that he had covered a lot of ground and that he would have to hurry to get back by sunset. The lower the sun fell in the sky, the faster the man walked and then ran. Just as the sun began to set he saw the starting point and drew on all his energy to surge forward. He ran hard for the line – then fell. The onlookers rushed to him. Blood oozed from his mouth. He was dead. His servant took out a spade, dug a hole and buried him. The title of Tolstoy’s story is: "How Much Land Does a Man Need?" Its last line reads: "Six feet from his head to his heels was all he needed."

source unknown

Am I A Fireman Yet??

In Phoenix , Arizona , a 26-year-old mother stared down at her 6 year old son, who was dying of terminal leukaemia. Although her heart was filled with sadness, she also had a strong feeling of determination. Like any parent, she wanted her son to grow up & fulfill all his dreams. Now that was no longer possible. The leukaemia would see to that. But she still wanted her son's dream to come true.
She took her son' s hand and asked, "Billy, did you ever think about what you wanted to be once you grew up? Did you ever dream and wish what you would do with your life?"
Mummy, "I always wanted to be a fireman when I grew up."
Mum smiled back and said, "Let's see if we can make your wish come true."
Later that day she went to her local fire department in Phoenix, Arizona , where she met Fireman Bob, who had a heart as big as Phoenix. She explained her son's final wish and asked if it might be possible to give her 6 year-old son a ride around the block on a fire engine.
Fireman Bob said, "Look, we can do better than that. If you'll have your son ready at seven o'clock Wednesday morning, we'll make him an honorary fireman for the whole day. He can come down to the fire station, eat with us, go out on all the fire calls, the whole nine yards! And if you'll give us his sizes, we'll get a real fire uniform for him, with a real fire hat – not a toy – one with the emblem of the Phoenix Fire Department on it, a yellow slicker like we wear and rubber boots."
"They're all manufactured right here in Phoenix, so we can get them fast."
Three days later Fireman Bob picked up Billy, dressed him in his uniform and escorted him from his hospital bed to the waiting hook and ladder truck. Billy got to sit on the back of the truck and help steer it back to the fire station. He was in heaven.
There were three fire calls in Phoenix that day and Billy got to go out on all three calls. He rode in the different fire engines, the Paramedic's' van, and even the fire chief's car. He was also videotaped for the local news program. Having his dream come true, with all the love and attention that was lavished upon him, so deeply touched Billy, that he lived three months longer than any doctor thought possible.
One night all of his vital signs began to drop dramatically and the head nurse, who believed in the hospice concept - that no one should die alone, began to call the family members to the hospital. Then she remembered the day Billy had spent as a Fireman, so she called the Fire Chief and asked if it would be possible to send a fireman in uniform to the hospital to be with Billy as he made his transition.
The chief replied, "We can do better than that. We'll be there in five minutes. Will you please do me a favour? When you hear the sirens screaming and see the lights flashing, will you announce over the PA system that there is not a fire?"
"It's the department coming to see one of its finest members one more time. And will you open the window to his room?"
About five minutes later a hook and ladder truck arrived at the hospital and extended its ladder up to Billy's third floor open window… 16 fire-fighters climbed up the ladder into Billy's room.
With his mother's permission, they hugged him and held him and told him how much they LOVED him.
With his dying breath, Billy looked up at the fire chief and said, "Chief, am I really a fireman now?"
"Billy, you are, and the Head Chief, Jesus, is holding your hand," the chief said
With those words, Billy smiled and said, "I know, He's been holding my hand all day, and the angels have been singing."
He closed his eyes one last time.

source unknown

Operation Cleanses Abuse Victim

Maylo Aames's life was as bad as it could get. Bud, her mother's boyfriend, raped and beat her for years. Maylo's mother ignored the abuse her daughter suffered. Even her father refused to listen to her cry for help. Maylo says, "The older I got, the more I fought with Bud—and the more violent the rapes became. He told me if anyone ever found out what was going on, he would kill me."
Maylo escaped to Hollywood and a life of drugs and alcohol. Eventually she began an acting career and put an end to her destructive behaviour.
A visit to the doctor brought news of internal damage created by the years of abuse. Maylo would also have to undergo an operation for cervical cancer. This increased her rage for the man whose abuse made it unlikely she would ever have children.
Maylo described the operation as a turning point.
Even though I didn't know God, he began to heal me. Before I fell asleep in the operating room, my doctor leaned over and said, "When you wake up, there won't be one spot in you that that man has touched. You will be clean." When I woke, my body was my own. My doctor will never know what a gift he gave me that day.

Maylo Aames, "I Will Not Forget You," Decision, June 2004

Spats Slow Healing

Marital arguments can have a significant effect on the physical health of each spouse, a 2005 study from Ohio State University showed.
The study looked at 42 couples who had been married at least 12 years, during two clinical visits conducted two months apart. At the beginning of each visit, the researchers used a suction device to inflict blisters on the arms of each participant.
During the first visit, the spouses were led in positive discussions. For the second visit, however, the couples were encouraged to talk about things on which they disagreed. The sessions were videotaped to determine the degree of hostility between each couple, and the wounds were monitored for blood flow and fluid accumulation. The hostile couples' wounds healed at only 60% of the rate of non-hostile couples.
The study revealed that a 30-minute marital disagreement can add a day or more to the healing process of a wound.

Source: Robert Roy Britt, LiveScience.com (5 December 2005)

Taming Tongue: Devils Spread Disease

Australian scientists recently discovered what's killing thousands of Tasmanian Devils on the island state of Tasmania. The scientists initially believed the deaths were caused by a virus; however, their research ultimately uncovered a rare, fatal cancer. The named it the Devil Facial Tumor Disease, or DFTD.
What is strange, according to cytogeneticist Anne-Marie Pearse, is that the abnormalities in the chromosomes of the cancer cells were the same in every tumour. That means the disease began in the mouth of a single, sick devil. That individual facilitated the spread of DFTD by biting its neighbours when squabbling for food, which according to Pearse, is a natural devil behaviour: "Devils jaw-wrestle and bite each other a lot, usually in the face and around the mouth, and bits of tumour break off one devil and stick in the wounds of another."
Over the course of several years, infected devils continued to inflict deadly wounds with their mouths. Consequently, DFTD spread at an alarming rate, ultimately wiping out over 40 percent of the devil population.
A similar fate threatens the church if its members persist in the devilish behavior of wounding their neighbours with their mouths.

Source: FoxNews.com (6 Feb 2006)

Coma Patient Miraculously Recovers

Lindsey O'Connor was in the midst of a two-month coma, brought on by complications from childbirth. Her family was told to expect brain damage and believed her death was only a matter of time.
Her husband Tim faced the possibility of a brain-damaged wife, and caring single-handedly for five children, including a newborn. Meanwhile, Lindsey lived in a shadowland of nightmares, awareness and utter frustration. She writes:
I remember Tim holding one of my hands, a neurologist the other, and telling me to squeeze their hands. Unable to do so or to speak, I felt my brain screaming, "Why can't I do this? Maybe I'm dying." Later, my inability to use the call button left me banging a spoon on the bedside table for an hour and a half. No one came. They thought it was the repetitive motor response of a brain-damaged woman.
Two weeks after the initial dance on the edge came a death vigil. As I lay dying, the respirator whirred, pumping air into my lifeless-looking body and then sucking it out. … My limbs were blue and as cold as refrigerated meat. It did not look like I had any upper-level brain function. I was expected to die before morning.
I later learned that 40 or more friends and relatives stood vigil in the waiting room. … Susan, one of my best friends, looked at my gray, barely recognizable body and said, "Death is ugly, isn't it?" … My dad touched my feet and said, "I taught these feet how to walk." He agreed with Tim as he made end-of-life decisions.
Tim anguished over what to do, issuing conditional Do Not Resuscitate orders and rescinding them repeatedly. Then one day, Lindsey woke up. It was weeks before she could speak, but she was going to live.
I went into the hospital on August 30, 2002, and came home just before Christmas, still unable to walk or breathe on my own. In spite of daily physical effects of the trauma, I've learned that radical obedience (in my case, having a baby at 40) is worth any cost, that prayer is inconceivably important, that miracles still happen, and that I have a faith worth dying for. 

Lindsey O'Connor, "While I Was Sleeping," Christianity Today (February 2004), p. 44

Where Did My Mind Go?

How one pastor faced the loss of … well … ah …
by Chris Maxwell
He spoke with honesty. Confessing what he can no longer do, describing how his gifts have departed, admitting new fears and weaknesses, his testimony did not proclaim peace. It told of pain, of pressure, of depression.
"Why do I have to take this medicine?" he asked. "I've prayed for many others to be healed, then watched God miraculously change them. He healed them. Not me."
His name is known. His accomplishments have amazed people. Now he struggles to perform tasks that felt so simple before. Doubt and defeat appear housed nearby.
I listened. We cried.
I encouraged him to release those hurts. I have him keeping a journal to avoid denial or despair. He meets with friends who accept the new man as he is.
And he talks to me. Why? Because of my counseling degree or my gift of encouragement? No. My talents or title didn't open his heart. My sickness did. When he heard me speak about a life-changing experience, he felt I would relate.
My new unwanted identity That's the way it is now. People call me because I've lost my mind, or a least an important part of it. TV and radio hosts interview me and promote my book, Beggars Can Be Chosen. But what do they really want to know? About my brain damage, about how it feels to have seizures, about my MRI results, about my forgetfulness.
I'm not asked to speak about how I've maintained good relationships with my three sons or how I communicate consistently with my wife. Reporters and editors, pastors and congregations want to ask: Does it embarrass your sons to regularly remind you of their names? How does your wife feel when you pause in a conversation because you can't pronounce a simple, common phrase? What do people in the congregation think when they call and hear, "No, the pastor isn't available now; he is resting"?
Several years ago an illness changed me. I had viral encephalitis. Ten days in the hospital, months of therapy, a lifetime of tests and medicine. Now, under the category of epilepsy, the "new me" is a man I would not have chosen to be.
Now I know about aphasia: because of injuries or disease, weakness mentally to grasp or gather.
The former me had no trouble spelling. The new me thanks God for spell check. This brain once had no trouble remembering names or memorizing Scripture. Now? Our members remind me of their names; my three sons repeat what their father forgets; my wife works to accept her new husband who goes by the same name but isn't the man she married.
Know more by knowing less? What a learning experience. New words. Illustrations. I play games to track numbers, rules, or order. The poster at my clinic gave this prophetic utterance: "An impairment of the power to use or comprehend words, usually acquired as a result of a stroke, and sometimes from head injury or brain tumor." They needed my picture beside it.
V.S. Ramachandran's words in "Phantoms in the Brain" mirrored my thoughts: "Parts …. had forever vanished, lost in patches of permanently atrophied brain tissue."
Therapists evaluated, tested, tricked, trained, and drilled my removal of skills. They reached conclusions: "Mr. Maxwell demonstrated mild anomic aphasia marked by word retrieval difficulty, reduced spelling ability, and difficulty taking on new information. Mr. Maxwell needs speech and language treatment to target these deficit areas."
Viral encephalitis affected my left temporal lobe, causing deterioration of nerves within the brain. My new weak points included language, learning, and memory. A friend said, "He is more real, more sincere."
How can brain infection, abnormal electrical discharge of neurons, and flaws in perception and memory make a man more real? Good question.
New obstacles, new limits I have many of those and other questions.
Will I remember to order chicken soup when the waitress calls my name? Do they giggle at my rhythmic reminder as I order a six-inch-turkey-sub-on-wheat with lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, oil, and oregano?
How many times will I walk around a baseball stadium, an airport, or a business center searching for my car?
During my sermons do I admit that I can't remember what to say next, or do I pretend the Spirit inspired my stall? Do people realize my PowerPoint presentations help me, the speaker, more than them, the listeners?
Are my three sons holding anger because their dad gives them a look, expecting them to tell him someone's name?
My wife, Debbie, described my illness to those who never knew the prior me. I was pleased she talked with honesty. I thanked her as I typed and cried.
"This is my second marriage," she said. "God switched husbands on me in the fifteenth year of our marriage." I later wanted, or thought I wanted, to know more. I asked Deb, "Describe your second marriage."
"You have a totally different sense of humor," she said. "You go to bed early instead of watching movies at night. We go to meetings in separate vehicles because I want to stay longer than you can. I need to fill in the blank and depend on my memory more because you forget so often. You have the most trouble remembering peoples' names. You are more emotional, crying more often than you ever did. It is difficult communicating."
Okay. I asked, "Is that all?"
"No," she answered. "You are not flexible at all about schedules."
Since men need a little ego boost, and since I was desperate for at least one positive point, I pleaded for a more balanced synopsis.
"Yes, in some ways you are better. You're less inhibited; you are willing to say anything you feel you should say, but you say it carefully. You are more aware of what you eat."
Dr. Hal Pineless, my neurologist, described my new situation and some of the intangible factors: "Faith in God gave you the realization he would get you through. You were motivated. Stubbornness helped. You set goals, letting nothing get in your way. You also have a supportive wife, family, and church."
He said, "You now have epilepsy. You need to use memory devices like your Palm Pilot. Remember what Clint Eastwood says in the Dirty Harry movies, 'man's got to know his limitations.'"
My first reaction is that the word limitations is a curse. How can I view it as a blessing? A divine calling, a sincere desire to do good, and an inner longing to succeed all inform me that limitations must be overcome. I can't accept it. This "limitation" is sheer disability. To accept it feels like giving up hope, giving up my calling as a pastor and leader. So at first, I want to act as though I'm not what I am.
In time, however, I realized that each of us, in our own areas of sickness and weakness and doubt, relate to the apostle Paul as he correctly faced his own limitations. I noticed that he had serious setbacks while still remaining true to his Director. Though I struggled to read, Paul's confession (2 Cor. 11:24-30) hit the headlines of my new mind: lashes five times, rods, stones, shipwrecks, swimming in the sea at night, on the move, in danger, needing sleep, starving, naked? Elsewhere he describes a "thorn in the flesh" that God did not remove, despite his repeated prayers.
So now I work to join Paul, boasting of weaknesses, acknowledging the sufficiency of God's grace, and trusting the God who "chose the weak things of the world to confound the strong."
What I want to do, I do not When blood flow, neural activity, and mental modification seem to labor in vain, what is occurring? Brain cells arrive at birth in a lifetime supply. Portions of mine remain permanently on pause. A word I expect to say transforms into an unrelated word before my mouth tosses it through the air. A name I said four sentences before sits, hides, and refuses to allow me to locate it until I ask for help, feel embarrassed, and wonder why others think it is no big deal. Previously memorized Scripture keeps its distance.
I'm a different, unique me. But what are the real positives?
I previously taught a congregation to care, to use gifts, to serve. Then, during a season not planned or directed by our strategic visionary management, they got their chance. And many of our people applied those principles as I stuttered, struggled, and wondered why.
A speech therapist reworked my thinking on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Doctors rescued me and became my friends.
Garrett had attended college with me and then served as a leader in our church. When I returned home from the hospital, he watched me weekly, like a babysitter. Maybe he just enjoyed the food our friends brought. Or maybe he knew Debbie needed time away from her new husband.
People cared. Mowing grass, writing letters, cutting hair, serving food, driving this new Chris who wasn't allowed to drive for five months. None cheered when I drove three months too soon. Their rebukes revealed their love.
How do vanished parts of a pastor change a church?
My congregation knew me. At least, the old me. Suddenly, without election or debate, they had a new pastor. Same name, same wife, same sons. Similar, but unlike their former Chris. This one cried daily, paused often, and struggled to remember. This teacher needed to be taught. PowerPoint outlines, Palm Pilot dependence, no calls at certain times: my college professors never informed me we would one day make radical changes for mere survival.
Mary, a writer and counselor and friend, described her new pastor: "It is the strangest thing I have ever seen in my life. Chris can't remember names or words. It's like the 'name file' on the computer of his brain has been deleted. He would know you if he saw you. He just wouldn't be able to remember your name."
The church staff watched me weep, listened to me ramble, helped me spell, and reminded me of names, words, plans. Our secretaries didn't just type and answer calls and copy. They tried to discern how to help. Ministers, leaders, parishioners, prayer warriors, and those who rushed away when their pastor lost his mind all facilitated by reminding me of reality. Sadness and confusion blended with acceptance. Rejection stood beside agape love.
New opportunities God, though, had more medicine I needed. I still need it. I've finally learned to use this emotional madness in the river of gladness. Laughter really does do good like a medicine.
Relatives sent a t-shirt. It announced the new me: "Insufficient Memory at This Time." It should have included my picture. We laughed.
Others mean well when telling me, "Oh, I forget all the time," or "I never could remember names," or "It's not your illness; you are just getting old." My face smiles. My heart doesn't. I think, Age didn't do this; it happened to a man in his thirties; it dove in quickly, altering everything.
But instead of pouting, I joke. Often I'll tell the true story of me walking out during the night of my "near-death experience," carrying tubes and preaching sermons no one understood. I wasn't, let's say, dressed for the occasion.
When I visited that hospital before my illness, the hospital staff called me "Reverend." After that midnight madness, they called me "the preacher with the cute butt." They still laugh. So do I. I forget for a moment about my forgetting.
Naps? People from many countries let America's work-all-day philosophy rob them of their traditional, midday Sabbath. I have no choice. I fade. I shake. I know. Those around me know: naptime. An honor? A privilege? When a person tells me they wish they had such an excuse, I want to shout, "You do not want what I have." But they mean well. I laugh. And fall asleep for twenty-two minutes.
For many in my Charismatic tradition, illnesses like mine cause countless problems. Some hold to the naming-and-claiming doctrine that blames pains on doubt, but others have an unwavering faith that even mess-ups might cause mass revival.
So while speaking at a convention, I said, "If I pass out while speaking, I hope the not-so-spiritually-inspired have the courage to call 911 while revivalists assume I'm slain in the Spirit. My twitches and mumblings might not be an outpouring either. Those seizures always keep us guessing. Medication, instead of an interpretation or revival, should follow." It got their attention. It reminded the new me to laugh.
Dr A. D. Beacham, Jr., a leader in the International Pentecostal Holiness Church, wrote a note answering many of my questions, "I rejoice that God has spared your life. You may, like Jacob, speak and think with a limp, but I suspect that God will use that in a special way."
I believe him. I also seek to achieve continued improvement. Now, though, I must know the new me is the me I am. To remember, I paste it in my Palm Pilot: "Face it! Let God grace it!"
Last month I thought it through again when I was asked to speak at a hospital leadership conference. Maybe my writing informed them. Maybe my speaking inspired them. Maybe my leadership interested them.
No. I knew better. My illness and recovery intrigued them. They could glance at my MRI results and wonder what I might say. They wanted a brain-damaged preacher to stand and speak while they watched, listened, observed.
I chose to say yes, even though I knew. I wasn't saying yes only to them. I said it to my Sovereign Doctor who instructs me to face the fact that my cheese has moved, to face my own disappointment with God, to face my table in the presence of enemies, to face my sinking in the water, to face the new me and still tell the old, old story.
I pray that, like Jacob, I will be blessed in this ongoing midnight wrestling match. And I hope I share it with a world of people whose names I can't recall.

Chris Maxwell is pastor of Evangel Assembly in Orlando, Florida

Operation Cleanses Abuse Victim

Maylo Aames' life was as bad as it could get. Bud, her mother's boyfriend, raped and beat her for years. Maylo's mother ignored the abuse her daughter suffered. Even her father refused to listen to her cry for help. Maylo says, "The older I got, the more I fought with Bud—and the more violent the rapes became. He told me if anyone ever found out what was going on, he would kill me."
Maylo escaped to Hollywood and a life of drugs and alcohol. Eventually she began an acting career and put an end to her destructive behaviour.
A visit to the doctor brought news of internal damage created by the years of abuse. Maylo would also have to undergo an operation for cervical cancer. This increased her rage for the man whose abuse made it unlikely she would ever have children.
Maylo described the operation as a turning point. Even though I didn't know God, he began to heal me. Before I fell asleep in the operating room, my doctor leaned over and said, "When you wake up, there won't be one spot in you that that man has touched. You will be clean." When I woke, my body was my own. My doctor will never know what a gift he gave me that day.

source unknown