The Road Let’s Travel

 

Blessed be Your name, on the road marked with suffering.
Though there’s pain in the offering, blessed be Your name.
“Blessed Be Your Name”
lyrics by Matt and Beth Redman


“God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience but shouts in our pains; it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.”
C.S. Lewis

“I doubt whether God can bless a man greatly until he has hurt him deeply.”
A.W. Tozer

While this Monday may dawn in its typical way, interloping on those who find it hard to get motivated for another long week, it will carry some special significance for me. It was on a second of October in 1981 that my life was forever changed. One moment I was walking, running and standing. In a fateful next moment, I no longer laid claim to these simple luxuries. Before October 2nd, I could stand in front of a urinal just like any other guy. Showering? No problem. Just run into a shower stall, do the job, get out. I could pull my pants legs on and be none the wiser. Twenty minutes. From the time my feet hit the floor, through the morning routine and out the door, twenty measly minutes.That all changed on the evening of October 2, 1981.

Twenty-five years ago, this Monday, the strongest bone in my body snapped like a twig and a crazy little string that runs inside it, called a spinal cord, was mangled, smashed, bruised and nearly severed. Turns out, you really need an intact cord in order to stand, walk, run, shower upright, dress upright and, uh, how to say, expel upright (sorry…oversharing?). How did I break my back, you ask? Gravity. More specifically, gravity and a rock at the end of it. You see, I was out in the mountainous woodlands of Tennessee with some college friends and during our outing together, I took a spill off a cliff, fell twenty feet, and landed squarely on my back on top of a triangle-shaped rock. C-c-rack-k!

Paralysis is what Dr. Herndon Murray called it. From the middle of my chest to the very tip of my toes there is no feeling. None. A complete injury, he said.

Will I ever walk again, Dr. Murray?

No, he said.

That was twenty-five years ago this Monday. (What do you buy for that anniversary???)

Now life is shower chairs, hoyer lifts, special beds, catheters, wound dressings, BPs (don’t ask), hand controls, checking for cloudy urine, checking skin for redness, getting dressed flat on a bed (try that sometime!), and, oh yes, wheelchairs. And van lifts and callused hands. Leg bags. Sitting higher at a table than anyone else. Getting stared at by foreigners in whose culture those with disabilities are shut away in institutions. Not sitting with friends at stadiums because you have to sit in a special area while they sit with the “normal” people. Wanting to be independent and push yourself yet struggling up hills knowing you cannot be.

“In all these things…” That’s what Paul said. He had a different list, yes, but my list and your list work just as well. Just as true. “In all these things, we overwhelmingly conquer…” (Romans 8:37) You have to know what was in my spirit as I was jotting down those “inconveniences” of disability. I was not even close to despair nor was I whining and martyring. No! A thousand-million times no! There is rejoicing in me and it’s been in me for the past quarter-century. I’m often asked, Scott, are you bitter? and I can answer with untainted integrity that I have never been bitter over it. Frustrated? Bothered? Mad, at times? Put off? Isolated and self-conscious? Humiliated? Yes, most assuredly. I confess I’ve been bothered by it from time to time but never bitter.

Why? How can this be? First off, let me tell you it’s not because of anything in me. Well, that’s not entirely true. Christ is in me. It is HIS Life and victory that upholds me. Through the suffering, through the rugged miles, through the pain and loss, it’s Him, always Him. This is gonna sound strange but if given the choice to relive my life, I would still choose His way over mine even if my way offered a delectable smorgasbord of riches, fame and ease, minus Him, and His way was, well, what I’ve gone through these twenty-five years.

I’m not saying I’d enjoy reliving the summer of ’97 when a skin sore nearly took my life and the wound was so deep one’s fist could disappear down into its nefarious cave. I could do without New Jersey in 1990. And Fall of 2003. And early winter of ’05. I’m not saying that I would prefer to have a humiliating “accident” and wet my pants in front of my friends or fall on a floor of our vacation villa and have to wait for a couple hours until someone can hear me calling and come to my rescue (long story). I can live without the memory of what happened after my wedding on the way to our honeymoon. Right out of the gate, Sandy was becoming “one with me” whether she was ready for it or not. Ah, Sandy…could I write volumes in honor of this woman? Through every wound, accident, gaining weight and strangers’ stare she never, ever made me feel small, in the way, embarrassing or troublesome. Saint Sandy…

No, these things can be so upsetting and humiliating. Who wants to cry themselves to sleep? Yet, in all these things, God is there, looming larger and more defined than even in the sweet by-and-by times. He comes as Warrior, Friend, Succorer, Comforter, Healer…think of it! When would you ever know Him as Healer unless you were broken? When would you ever know His infinite power unless the enemy was picking on you? When could His comfort lay you down to rest unless you were crying yourself to sleep?

I choose His way. The road marked with suffering is the road less traveled because of its thorns and thistles, gloomy places and dangers. But I still choose His way because it is where He bids me and meets me. It is where I learn to lean harder into Him and trust Him with my life. It’s where He brings heaven’s nectar out of stony places and sweet bread from the sky. Funny thing, my sandals never wear out on this road. I joke with people that I never have to buy shoes because I don’t walk on them. I still wear shoes from years ago. They may get scratched on top but they never wear out on the soles. They may fall victim to the fashion police, but they are still road-tested and road-worthy.

When Monday dawns, some will yawn, hit the snooze button and groan to face another week. I’ll get lifted into my shower chair, strap on my leg bag, dress while supine, get hoyered into my wheelchair, struggle up more hills and get more callouses. Just like any other Monday. But I’ll do it gladly because my Friend will be there smiling and telling me “Chop-chop, Scott. We got a few more weary miles to go, but soon we’ll be home. Wait’ll you see what I’ve got up My sleeve for you then! C’mon, some pretty cool adventures lay ahead…”

And then I’ll smile back at Him and say, “Right behind You, Lord, right behind You…”

World Getting Rocked? Send For ‘The Sopranos’

It happened again today. Yet another pastor I had run into wanted to know about the church, how it’s faring, who’s left. You’ve lost a lot of people, haven’t you? he quipped. There was no compassion in his words, just a man who needed to feel better about his own ministry, I suppose. What could I say? Yep, the ranks are skinnying up some more. But God is good, doncha think? How’s your church? Growing? Fantastic, and God bless you more (grumble, grumble)!

Each week Sandy and I find ourselves at a venue where some of those who have left our fellowship also attend. We smile and greet, but the pain of separation is there. Most of them are quite warm and gracious. That’s not the problem. The issue is the insidious voices inside our minds that tell us to keep our heads down. Don’t look anyone in the eye, they say. If you must speak, make it short, sweet and move on. You are a failure. You have let these people down. It’s your fault. They hate you. I confess, if I let myself go there, I can begin to believe these sulfur and brimstone rumors. My throat gets raw and scratchy from vomiting back up the poison the devil wants me to swallow.

When the voices started in on me the other evening, I just tuned into another frequency and listened for the opera of Heaven. I listened for the sopranos.

What do you do when a person for whom you prayed over to receive healing of cancer, saw the miracle happen, then months later that person tells you on their way out that your church will close its doors in a year? How, pray tell, can you keep your heading when a companion with whom you’ve shared bread and life walks away from the dream you’ve built together, thus ending a valued friendship?

You call in the sopranos. No, not those Sopranos.

When the sons of Asaph watched the noose of hate and turmoil tighten around the neck of their nation’s existence, they wrote a song. The inscription over Psalm 46 reads, “set to Alamoth.” The word in Hebrew is plural for ‘virgin’ or ‘maiden’ and it is generally thought the chorus was written for the high voices in the choir. Not the earthy, grainy croonings of Joe Cocker or the screechy nails-on-chalkboard stylings of Steven Tyler. Pure voices. Melodic voices. There’s nothing like the grace of blending sopranos to “make it all go away”. Picture a child, fearful and crying over the boogeyman he thinks hides in his closet, and his mother who soothingly lullabies him into slumber. Now picture that multiplied by a crystalline choir of heavenly Sarah Brightmans. Oh, yeah, you just got duck bumps, didn’t you?

When life deals a hard hand, learn to listen for the sopranos. And if you listen really hard, you will be able to download their lyrics. And, man, they’re good!

1. LEARN TO SAY “IT’S GOD”!

And what is the message of Psalm 46? Let’s consider two things. First, notice God’s Name is used in four different ways in these few verses. The psalm starts out with ‘Elohim’, a plural proper noun illustrating His power and authority. Also we find ‘Yaweh’, or Jehovah, which is God’s covenant name. It comes from a root ‘haya’ which means ‘to make or cause to happen’. The prefix ‘ya’ (Lord) brings out the harmonic beauty of “The God Who Makes Things Happen.” (thanks, Lloyd John Ogilvie!)

Two other names float from the refrains. ‘Sabaoth’ is a military term meaning He is the commander-in-chief of all the angel armies. He is the Warrior’s Warrior. He fights for us. And wins EVERY battle. Then there is ‘Elyon’ which denotes His absolute supremacy. Elohim. Elyon. Sabaoth. Yaweh. Four names for God in a scant eleven verses. See it? I think the lyricists mean for us to know that whatever happens in life, good or bad, we say, “It’s God.” That doesn’t mean He knocks down tall buildings with jets or molests children or fired you from your job. I’m not saying He caused it, but He’s most certainly in it.

There is certainly something He is working out in me (the operative word being “out”) whenever I suffer humiliation or criticism or brokenness or despair. These things drive me to God. What safer place is there for a troubled soul?

2. LEARN TO LOOK FOR A RIVER

In the three movements found in this Psalm (each punctuated with “Selah” which could mean either a pause or modulation), the glorious voices crescendo in verse four to discover an amazing truth for those who are getting hammered (ummm, no, not drunkenly hammered). A literal rendering could be “Lo! A river!” When we find Him in our trials, we always know there is a River nearby. He is the River of Life. To me, the River speaks of Resurrection. Every time He works something “out” in me, He also does a corresponding work of bringing new life, new glory from the deaths I die (2 Corinthians 3:18; 4:16).

Hallelujah! No wonder there is gladness in the “City of God.” We are the City of God, by the way—the habitation of the Holy One (Revelation 21:9,10). And in the midst of her is a River that washes, nourishes and revives. Take heart, oh beaten down one. God is showing you a river if you will only open your eyes. Remember Hagar? Crying in the desert, watching her child die, waiting for her own demise, and the Lord shows up and creates a well for her to drink from out of the dusty earth. Lo! A river, indeed.

There’s more but let me just wrap it up with a quick baseball anecdote. Alex Rodriguez plays third base for the hated Yankees (‘scuse my gratuitous editorializing). His career has been festooned with MVP seasons and All-Star performances, but this year his otherwise illustrious career has hit some bumps on the road to the Hall. The Yankee fans have been on him about his hitting, fielding and throwing. He’s heard it all. “Dat Bum,” he’s been called along with an assortment of other colorful not-to-be-mentioned-here colloquialisms.

Imagine going to the office and having 60,000 people watching your every move and booing you when you make a mistake. If I could encourage A-Rod (which I won’t because, remember, he is still a Yankee), I would tell him to forget the Bronx-ish diatribes lobbed his way but picture a choir of sopranos offering the very best of their golden-tongued arias.

Heaven isn’t booing you, either, saint of God. Just listen. It’s music to your ears.

Will I Still Call You ‘Grandma’?

As we drove slowly by her house, or what once was, I looked soulfully out the passenger window and witnessed a tragedy. The house, once bright and brilliant, well-kept and welcoming, fairly sagged in mourning. Its very soul seemed to crumple in despair, having lost its grand hostess, a simple country gal, who once regally walked its solid floorboards and wore it as one would wear a familiar cardigan or shawl.

New tenants had already moved in, their presence tipped off by an older, beat-up vehicle parked in the backyard, obscuring what was once a handsome view of a well-kept garden. The wallboards now drooped and no longer parlayed a luster they once sported. The front porch was barren. No Grandma or Grandpa (who passed to eternal life a few years ago) waving to us as we approached, rising in the weariness of years, yet still strong and eager for family to drop in.

Not long aforehand, Grandma, barely on the south side of ninety-five, had moved out and into a wonderful nursing care facility. All her precious wares of a well-groomed life were divvied out to family, and the papers for transfer of ownership well under way. On Friday, July 28th, the papers for closing on the house were signed under the watchcare of her only son. That evening, she called him and asked, “Is it done?” “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “Good. Then all is finished,” she offered as it were nothing more than finishing a quilt or meal.

Six hours later, she died peacefully in her sleep. Grandma never lived for this life, though she knew the abundant life more than any other soul I have ever known. It was discovered in her personal Bible this inscription on its flyleaf: “God + Rosa = Enough.” This was the sum and substance of her life.

In the moment of her passing, as her corruptible put on incorruption, she was graciously escorted to the rim of Heaven where, no doubt whatsoever, she was welcomed by her waiting husband and daughter, parents and loved ones gone before along with a great cloud of saints who had watched her finish her race. I imagine they all parted dsc00543.jpgunderstandably as her eyes scanned the throng for the One to whom her whole life testified and when He stepped forward, those eyes, once blighted with blindness, were clear as a newborn’s and her once-weary legs beat a path to His feet. I know Grandma fell there and wept and I also imagine that a song of redemption escaped unhaltingly from her lips.

When I received the news of Grandma’s passing, I found myself wanting to call Mom so I could get her perspective on her mother’s–my grandmother’s–life and legacy. Alas, Mom was tied up—she was busy welcoming Grandma into glory!

Personally, I believe I am a Christian largely because Grandma was a Christian. I don’t mean that we come to Christ that way: we are not ‘grandmothered’ in. Each of us must make our own decision to come into relationship with the Savior. What I mean is, I watched her faith all my life and saw that it was real, vibrant and fresh and knew that she had the one and only thing that I truly needed: a relationship with Jesus Christ and eternal life in Him.

So, like many who intersected with her life, I turned to Christ and said, in so many words (they may not have been my actual words, but they were “in” my words), “Lord, I want to know You like Grandma does. I want a relationship with you, too, because I see how joyful she is and how satisfied she is in You.”

“Let not your heart be troubled. You believe in God, believe also in Me. In My Father’s house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself, so that where I am, you may be also. And where I go you know, and the way you know. Jesus said, ‘I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life; no one comes to the Father but by Me.'”
(John 14:1-6)

Rosa Medley indeed:

  • Knew the WAY
  • Walked in TRUTH
  • Exhibited the LIFE

As a youngster, I thought everyone’s grandmother was like mine. I just supposed all grandmothers came from the same mold. Then, as I grew older, I realized mine was special. Grandma had the uncanny knack of making ALL of her grandchildren feel as though they were her favorite! Her home was adorned with pictures of all her “favorites” from stem to stern!

You haven’t lived until you sank your teeth into her fried chicken, homemade biscuits and fresh honey, coconut cake, garden vegetables (I loved her fresh-snapped beans and steaming corn on the cob!) and preserves. Her signature sweet tea was like the ‘nectar of Heaven’ to me (especially in years gone by before the dispensation of ‘sweet and low’!).

Her home was always like a retreat. There was a bed for everybody and everyone was welcome. No matter where you came from to visit, you would pass through her doors and know instantly that you were somehow “home.” And sitting in that living room with the family or in the glider on the front porch and talking for hours on end was life at its best. No hurry, no worry, no rush or hassle. All was peace and simplicity.

You haven’t lived until you heard her strong, trusting voice say her night time prayers out loud. The walls in her bedroom were thin and every syllable could be heard in the next room or down the hall. She would run through her prayer list and name all her loved ones, bringing their needs to the mercy seat. To hear her call out your name to the Lord was like a warm blanket for a world-chilled soul.

I never, ever heard a bad word come out of her mouth. Although her eyesight faltered in later years, and this caused Grandma some deal of sadness and distress, she never complained; like Job, she “never charged God foolishly” with her lips. Always trusting, always hopeful and believing; always giving herself over to the Lord’s will.

Her gardens, like her spirit, were beautiful and well-kept; colorful and rich. She could get so much out of a little patch of dirt. Her farm and homestead were true Americana as though they may have inspired a Rockwell painting. Thank you, Grandma, for teaching this city boy how to milk a cow. I never got it right, but you gave me your time to teach and bless.

Thank you for protecting me from that long snake in the shed that one time. My eyes bugged out when you lifted that shotgun in one simple arc, took no time to sight in on it, then expertly shot it, not somewhere on its body, but between its eyeballs! No wonder Grandpa chuckled and dubbed you “Dead Eye.”

Thank you for laughing and not getting mad at me when I rammed Grandpa’s tractor into that shed. I was sick over it, but you laughed it off in your easy way, hugged me and made it all better.

Thank you for treating me like I was the greatest preacher in the world, right up there with J. Vernon McGee or Adrian Rodgers and a host of other men of the word you listened to from your radio (even though you had to know better—I sure did!).

There was nothing more important to Grandma than the Book. She knew the Bible and it mattered to her that it was handled right by others, particularly preachers. Her greatest sadness about being blind was not being able to read it; oh, but she knew it and could quote it as if it were ALL committed to memory. It may just have been. It certainly was inside of her!

She loved the church and longed for the days when the church in America would again have its altars filled with penitent sinners and be zealous for the Lord and turn our nation back to God. For the era to return when preachers would no longer pussyfoot around with Scripture but speak for God.

There was a season of my life when I needed to call Grandma every Sunday morning before taking my own pulpit to preach. We would chat for a while, then there was invariably a song we would sing together. After the song, I would look at my watch and say, “Grandma, I’ve got to head into the church now. Would you pray for me?” I cannot tell you the heaven I heard in her voice when she would stop, pause, and say in the most meaningful tone: “Father…”

I’ll miss my prayer warrior…

Rosa Medley is my ‘Grandma’ and always will be. When I received the news of her passing, I took a question of mine to the Lord. It is an innocent, childlike question. I asked Him, “Lord, when I get to Heaven, will I still call her ‘Grandma’?”

As I ponder the mysteries of heaven, questions we now have about our future home, and where Rosa Medley now is, I think of the game we sometimes play when we want to surprise someone. We tell them to “close your eyes…close your eyes…keep them closed…okay, okay…now…open them!”

The desired response is immediately seen as their eyes open wide, their mouth drops open and a look of awe, wonder and amazement crosses their face. Then a smile plays slowly at the corners of their mouth. And perhaps laughter, and clapping of hands and if the surprise is really big, they may even drop to their knees. Then the inevitable “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! It’s more glorious than I could have hoped for!”

I believe that, in some sense, we are like that as we anticipate glory. Now “we look through a glass darkly”, the Bible says, but one day, God will say to us who have received Jesus as Savior: “Now, open your eyes!” And we will behold such glory as never seen before and we will clap and fall to our knees and praise the One who made it possible for us.

We’ll look around that grand reception hall and see that among the heavenly beings, all our loved ones and friends who had arrived before us, will be in the room with us. They’ve been waiting for our arrival…

I’ll miss watching Grandma walk: so straight and regal for someone who had lived so many years. But her body, wearied by the effects of age, is now incorruptible and glorified, more beautiful than ever before. Eyes, once dimmed and able to only see shadows and shapes, are this moment as clear as a newly born baby’s, and they behold the brightness of the glory of her Lord.

One of my most deeply embedded childhood memories was when the family visited Grandma and Grandpa’s farm up on the mountain. It was a long journey that seemed to get longer the closer we got to our destination.

Then we would turn off the highway onto that little climbing gravel road, a long strip of grass between two tire ruts, up past the little church house and the hog farm. Then the back of Grandpa’s truck would come into view. And we would honk…and out she would come, Grandma, with a welcome-home smile and gigantic hug, the smell of vittles in the oven from way back in the kitchen.

One day, we who know Christ will see our long journey end and we will turn off this long highway and begin our ascent to our glorious welcome-home. And out she will come, Grandma, beautiful beyond memory…and Grandpa, and Mom…and all who are incorruptible and waiting for our arrival. And we will see Jesus who made all of it possible.

In my last phone conversation with Grandma, I told her that she has had so much influence on my life spiritually and she cried and said, “I’m nobody. I just hope people see Jesus in me.”

Grandma, you succeeded. We ALL saw Jesus in you from start to finish. Well done, faithful servant of the Lord. Enter into your eternal rest.