I've struggled with whether or not to publish this on my blog. It is about an intensely personal, yet very shared experience I had just over six months ago. It's taken me a while to sort through my feelings, work up the courage to contact the family for publication permission, and figure out just what I'm supposed to do in my life with the events that transpired that night. Perhaps this piece is the answer to that last question. I hope it is a blessing to you.
Something about the way he stumbled
caught my eye. Even with the noise of my children playing in the backseat, the
buzz of conversation from my cell phone, the distracted thoughts bouncing
around in my brain, and the task of getting us safely home in the twilight –
something about his fall caused me to pause. I hung up the phone, turned the
car around, and pulled in the driveway to within 15 or 20 feet of where he lay.
As I surveyed the situation and replayed what I had seen, my mind exploded with
‘what if’s’. What if he had fallen because he had been shot? What if the tank
that was hitched behind his running truck, with its driver’s door agape, was
leaking a toxic chemical? What if this was a trick to lure trusting passersby
into a trap? What if? What if? What if? I prayed silently for wisdom, and
scanned the area. My senses were all attuned, but the overwhelming thought that
ruled all others was that I had to help this man.
I told my girls to sit tight – that
I’d be back in a minute – and got out of the car, letting the door close
quietly behind me. Before I’d even let any words asking how he was escape, I
already knew the answer. I heard him take a shallow, rattling breath as I
walked over, knelt down, and put my hand on his shoulder. I shook him gently,
asked if he was alright, and only got silence in return. Swallowing hard, I
slipped my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed 911. The rest is a bit of a
blur.
I recall the reassuring voice
of the dispatcher, who seemed so utterly confident in me that I couldn’t help
but believe that I could do the things he was asking me to do. That I could
roll this stranger over, check for breathing, do CPR. Mostly, he made me
believe that we could keep him alive - together. And, he was right. After what
seemed like an eternity (but was really more like three or four minutes) an EMT
arrived on scene and took over doing the chest compressions and rescue
breathing with a confident, practiced air – so different from my awkward,
unknowing attempts.
She asked me to retrieve his
cell phone from his pocket and find a family member to call. I fumbled around,
trying to discern the right number from his call log. This felt like a complete
violation of this stranger’s privacy – even more than the rescue breathing and
CPR had been. That was somehow clinical. This felt personal. I was a bit
relieved when I was unable to reach the faceless ‘Jane’ whose number I had
dialed. Then I felt guilty, thinking of how much I would want to know if it was
my family member lying there.
Within a few minutes more, the
ambulance arrived. The intimate silence of the driveway was suddenly shattered
by a crew of professionals, each one doing his or her job efficiently and
nobly. I saw them shock him. I felt lost in the hum of activity, and headed
back to my car. I was pulling out into the road as they loaded him onto the
board and into the waiting ambulance. It all seemed like a dream, but I recall
the EMTs thanking me – saying what a miracle it was I had been there when he
fell, and had stopped to help. A miracle.
I spent the rest of that evening in
a daze, processing my thoughts and trying to figure out what it all meant. I
have believed in God since my childhood, and witnessed His power in many
situations. But, by His grace, I had been allowed on this night to be a part of
His mighty works. I had been allowed to participate in a miracle.
At some point the 911 dispatcher
called to let me know that the man had made it to the hospital and was still
alive. Though his prognosis was uncertain, he wanted me to know that any chance
of survival the man had was because I had just happened to be in the right
place at the right time. The next day an EMT called and let me know that -
against all odds - this unknown stranger was still alive. Alive, indeed, and
with a family that wanted to meet me.
A few days later, the name I had
seen on his cell phone became more than just bits of digital data on a display
screen. Standing in the waiting room, I felt instantly connected to her as we
embraced. She shared with me that the doctors had declared him dead a few hours
after arriving at the hospital that first night. The roomful of family and
friends had been told that he was gone. As she sat in the silence of his room,
grieving the loss of her beloved husband, she had felt an insistent pulse
arise. Ignoring it at first as the fanciful wishes of someone unprepared to
trade in the title of wife for widow, she had only dared to believe once she
looked up and saw his ashen face flush with color. The doctors had rushed in,
asking what had happened. Her tearful, joyous response was that it had been a
miracle. E.R. doctors and nurses who had witnessed the events of the evening
had had no choice but to agree. Another miracle.
This man, who had been in a fitful
coma ever since returning to life, was a testimony to God’s healing power, and
I was getting to be a part of it. I had been privileged to be there when
he fell and start CPR. Privileged to hold his hand and pray for him while the
EMT worked. Privileged to meet his family and hear their wondrous story of him
coming back from death. Privileged to pray with them, and to be drawn into
their lives. I was privileged, above all else, to witness the mighty hand of
God as He worked a miracle that boldly showed even doubters and unbelievers His
unshakable power. I was thrilled because the world needs more of that. I needed
more of that my in my own life, too.
The day after I had visited him and
basked in the light of the miracles of his story, the doctors told the family
that his MRI results showed very little meaningful brain activity. A few days
later, he was moved to the palliative care wing of the hospital. The next day
he passed away - surrounded by his wife, children, brothers, mother, and
friends. I do not have any right – in light of their suffering – to speak of my
own devastation. Yet, it was as palpable for me in the following days as my
excitement over his miracles had been. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had
somehow participated in an unfinished work, and I didn’t understand it.
I learned long ago that God doesn’t
answer to me. His ways are not my ways, and His thoughts are not my thoughts.
But, that doesn’t stop me from asking questions and seeking answers. I prayed
earnestly, pleading with God to help me understand why He had chosen to have
the man die, when his testimony and the story of his experience could have
touched so many lives and hearts. I felt burdened for the family he left behind
– his grieving mother, wife, and teenage children. I prayed over and over again
for some way of understanding why I had been brought to that place at ‘just the
right time’, and been allowed to participate in something that I had come to
think of as almost a miracle. It was at that point – when I had come to
doubt the perfect and complete acts of the almighty God– that He reminded me of
the truth.
It was a simple scripture that I had
read a thousand times before, but never understand so well until that moment. Precious
in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints – Psalm 116:15. Upon
reading those words late one night, it suddenly occurred to me that every
moment of this man’s life and death hadn’t been overlooked by God – as I
was starting to believe – but, rather, overseen. I was
reminded of the story of Jesus coming to visit Mary and Martha after Lazarus’s
death. Though He knew before He even left on His journey to their home that He
could (and would) bring Lazarus back from the dead, the scriptures are very
clear that He wept anyway – moved by his compassion at the grief of the two
sisters and their friends and family. I believe it was that same compassion
that drove God to order the events of that evening when my life intersected
another in a very powerful way.
Because this man was precious in His
sight, God hadn’t wanted him to be alone as he lay dying. Because he is a
tender heavenly father, God allowed the man’s earthly family time to grieve and
reconcile with their new paths in life. Because He is ever-ready to woo the
hearts of men, God allowed this amazing, faith-filled family a week to
demonstrate what mercy, love, grace, and peace look like – a powerful testimony
indeed. And, because He knew I needed it, God allowed me to participate in the
greatest miracle of all – helping escort one of His beloved into the throne
room.
I have finally come to believe that
there is no such thing as an ‘almost’ work of God. His perfect plan was
completed 2000 years ago on a barren, wind-swept hill outside of
Jerusalem. There is nothing – not time, distance, or circumstances – that
can take away our access to that all-sufficient work through Jesus. No life is
hopeless, no person unseen, and no act of God will ever be an ‘almost’ miracle
because of the moment that Christ proclaimed, “It is finished.”
