The Fall Part II

Laying in the now heated ambulance was almost more than I could take.  Tyler, my personal paramedic, worked hard to find a vein while I did my best to assure him that the pain was only excruciating.  I could tell he felt enormous pressure; with a patient in what is clearly a dead ambulance, it must have seemed a situation from his nightmares.


Within moments, I felt the small sting of the needle as he expertly slid it  into my arm.  Suddenly, I found myself struggling to breathe and the heat rising in the rescue vehicle wasn't helping matters.  Sensing my distress, Tyler gently touched my shoulder and said, "Give it a minute.  It's morphine."


I gave it a minute and then suddenly found my head floating above the house. 


I should mention the broken tile to the Bald Avenger when I get back to earth, I thought to myself, as if it was completely normal for me to be disembodied on a Tuesday in June.


When Tyler adjusted my leg on the stretcher, I felt myself pulled roughly back into the oven of an ambulance and immediately thought, Oh Father in heaven, please tell me I shaved my legs!


Attempting to reach down to check on the status of the fur on my legs, I realized suddenly that I couldn't move without mind-numbing pain.  I couldn't move my hips or my legs.  I could wiggle my toes which I did constantly to remind myself I wasn't paralyzed.  It helped but it didn't keep the fear totally at bay.


Feeling sloshy upstairs, I began to listen the Big Guy, who was standing outside the ambulance carrying on a conversation with the younger EMT. 


"Yeah, I just graduated from there.  Pretty happy to get out of high school.  Thinking about joining the Army," the Big Guy was saying.


"My mom works in the front office up there.  I bet our moms know each other," the blond  EMT responded.


Frick frick frick!  Somebody knows someone who might know me and right now, I'm drooling!


Thankfully, I heard the wail of the siren of the approaching ambulance on its way to replace the one I was currently boiling in.  Within moments, I was hurriedly being jostled from one vehicle to the next, clearly no longer floating but in that pleasant place between pain and oblivion.


Because my injury wasn't life threatening, I didn't get the sirens to the hospital.  I also found out later from the Butterbean, I didn't get lights either.  I was merely a passenger in a red and white van.  There was no special feeling beyond the one the morphine was providing on a drip-by-drip basis.


Arriving at the hospital, I was met by the Bald Avenger and the Butterbean, looking a bit panicked.  The Bald Avenger more so.  Later, when things calmed down and we were alone in the hallway my bed was left in (really), he leaned over with tears in his eyes and said, "Please, you've got to be more careful.  I don't know what I'd do if I lost you."


"You'd fix the tile on the roof over Butterbean's room," I drowsily replied.


Perplexed, he hugged me close and kissed my forehead.  


After an X-Ray and several more hours of being ignored in the hallway, I was discharged with the diagnosis of a "bruised tailbone" and a couple of admonitions to take it easy for a couple of weeks.


We knew this wasn't the case but headed home hoping that maybe we were wrong.  We weren't.  


Another hospital visit the next day and finally, complications from medications sent me to the hospital two weeks later only to discover that I had actually fractured the T11 and T12 in my thoracic spine. In total, I would go on to fracture three more over the next couple of months.  


While I can find a considerable amount humor in my situation (now), a healthy vitamin D level could have prevented it all.  We as women are bombarded with information regarding the need for calcium, but we hear almost nothing about Vitamin D.  A healthy vitamin D level is usually between 22 and 50 (google this to make sure) and mine was 12.  Praise God I didn't break anything else that day!

I dream of knitting, of making soft, comfy beanie hats for all of Tucson, even if I don't live there. 

And then, once I've made a million hats, I would find the tallest building there and toss them over like $100 bills, anticipating the people below running to and fro, collecting hat after hat and shrieking with joy. 

I would hope they would, simply because hats are the only things I know how to knit.

Hercules

So far today I have removed from this animal's mouth:  a shoe, yarn, toilet paper roll, rock, clothes pen, macaroni and cheese box (?), carpet, a Christmas ornament, bubble wrap, a slipper, a blanket, a wrench left on the floor by the assembler of the Christmas tree, and an ice cube, which I gave back.

Puppies are fun.

Conviction

I spilled my drink last night.

It was a rather large glass filled with Pepsi and as it splashed to the floor, I suddenly become aware of the fact that not only was the floor a wet, sticky mess, the brand-new wireless keyboard my parents had purchased for us was underneath a flood of the sugary liquid.

Although it was an accident, it shed light on a glaringly ugly truth; I wasn't supposed to drink anything next to the computer with the exception of water. 

You see, this isn't a requirement handed down to me by a ruthless dictator. This rule was an agreement made over a year ago; the sixth time I had ruined a keyboard for thoughtlessly placing a cup filled with soda next to the computer.

I knew better.

What happened next still brings me to shame.

Knowing that my husband would be disappointed about the loss of a perfectly functioning keyboard, I humbly walked into the family room and told him what happened.

His response was a quiet, restrained, "Well honey, what did you expect would happen?"

The irritation was evident in his voice and he sighed. 

Still feeling waves of guilt coursing through me, I responded tersely.

"We can't all be like you, Mr. High and Mighty! The rest of the world makes mistakes!"

I didn't stop there and I won't repeat what I said here. Suffice it to say, the recipient of my tirade didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of my foolish, cruel words.

Turning on my heel, I stormed out of the family room, but the guilt began to slow my movements before I made it to the back door. I knew I was wrong for speaking to my husband the way I just did. The shame was emanating from my pores as I reached the patio.

But the feeling flooding my soul at that moment was oppressive and suffocating. It felt as if the hot, humid air around me was closing a fist around my spirit. Cornered and powerless to stop the onslaught, I hung my head and began to cry.

The feeling was familiar; I knew it well.

Conviction.

As if someone had flipped the switch on the playback of the past ten minutes, I was assaulted with the spilling soda as it cascaded over the keyboard and onto the floor. I then saw my husband's pained expression as the words I flung so effortlessly punched holes in his heart.

Each of those illustrations pointed out the unnecessary situation I found myself in.

Had I obeyed the family rule, I wouldn't have ruined the keyboard. 

If I had kept my tongue and dealt with my guilt properly, I wouldn't have lashed out at my husband.

As those revelations shed light on my circumstance, I sobbed openly while I confessed to God and asked for forgiveness. The nasty stain covering my heart slowly began to recede.

Knowing that I wouldn't feel the full effect of my Father's forgiveness until I completed another task, I silently opened the sliding glass door and stepped inside.

I found him in the bathroom, keyboard in hand, drying the the keys and components with a bath towel. I timidly approached the man that I had just spit venom at and lightly tapped his shoulder.

His piercing blue eyes softened when he saw the humbled, tear-stained green ones looking back at him. 

I mustered up the courage to speak and said, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been drinking soda by the computer and I shouldn't have spoken to you that way. Will you forgive me...please?"

He stood there quietly for a moment, pondering my words and then looking deep into my eyes. He then reached out to brush a lock of hair from my eyes and said, "I know you are. It's ok. I forgive you."

As suddenly as conviction settled upon my spirit, a new wave began swirling about; one that removed the choke hold on my soul and in its place, left a different kind of flood.

Grace.

Peace.

Love.

Your sin prompts your mouth;
you adopt the tongue of the crafty.

Your own mouth condemns you, not mine;
your own lips testify against you. Job 15:5-6

For he has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son he loves, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins.
Colossians 1:13-14

Originally posted on my old blog © The Peach Pages

But Where Is Your Fruit, Child?

"But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, long-suffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control." (Galatians 5:22)

The other day, I was perusing one of those social sites and landed on the profile of a young man I once knew from our church in Georgia. He's now a college graduate, setting foot outside the confines of school and making his way in life.

Gazing over his profile, I noticed that he had the quote, "I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me."

Directly below the quote was a reference to pornography. The quotes began to get worse (and much more embarrassing) the further down I read. After looking at his pictures, I began to wonder what went wrong in his life. The dichotomy between the biblical quote and the pornography quote was striking.

And then it occurred to me, so many professing Christians are not Christians at all.

Where are the fruits that are proof-positive that one has turned from sin and the Holy Spirit has taken up residence in one's heart? Where is the change?

I spent years wondering if I was indeed saved. I believed in God. I went to church every Wednesday night and every Sunday morning. But something just wasn't right. It seemed like I was two people; one who said she loved God and the other who acted and spoke as if she did not know God at all. How can that be?

I thought back to that hot, muggy day in Georgia when at 13, I made my way down to the makeshift altar at bible camp and said the Sinner's Prayer. And then it hit me; the Sinner's Prayer was the problem!

We've all heard it. Many of us have actually uttered it after a well-meaning pastor or traveling preacher spoke it for us to repeat.

It would hold for awhile, but since there was no genuine conversion, the sinner's prayer would fall further and further from our memories as we fell further and further into the very sin we were supposed to hate.

Fruits of the Spirit then would not be made manifest because the sinner is not saved. This explains why so many professing Christians are so carnal in their behavior and why they continually find themselves on the wrong side of grace.

How could I claim to be a Christian when my focus in life was on everything but God? I didn't read the bible I carried on Sunday mornings, nor did I read it while I was working with the young people at church. We were too busy trying to have fun instead of trying to lead others to Christ.

But the fruit! Where was the fruit? Was I compassionate? Did I shun gossip? (No.) Was I kind? Was I faithful? Did I practice self-control? Was I good?

I can honestly say that no, I was very clearly not who I portrayed myself to be and when I was confronted by a holy and just God, I found out very quickly that I was nowhere near being saved. In fact, I was on the wide road and approaching the wide gate.

Confronted by my sin, I forgot the sinner's prayer and instead, found myself face down on the floor and crying out to God to save me. I wanted to be saved from my sin, saved from hell, saved from me.

Repenting suddenly made sense. Suddenly understanding why Jesus died on the cross brought a fresh round of guilt and heartbreak.

I knew it was supposed to be me up there.

I remember that day. I'll always remember the day I was truly born again.

That's the day the worthless Sinner's Prayer died and when I began to notice the blooming flowers of joy, peace and kindness and could not wait to taste the delicious fruit they would become.


©Tara Floyd (Peachy)