What does a shepherding pastor look like? In my experience they are altogether too rare; until lately I would not have been able to readily explain what they are like. I don't normally care for allegory, and when I write it out it sounds like a child's contrived composition (especially since the comparison between sheep and people is only so perfect), but I do see the application of the symbolism of the sheep and the shepherd so clearly when I see the shepherding pastor rather than the hireling, and I think it's worth sharing.
You will never hear the shepherding pastor say that he never really wanted to be a pastor but who will resignedly state that it's where God put him--that would be the hireling, who will never really have the passion, love, dedication and patience he needs to watch over a flock of sheep who need such constant guidance, who make frequent and stupid mistakes and who need so much care. A shepherding pastor is one who has truly felt God's call to be a pastor to the point where he actually rejoices in his flock, and delights to draw them in close and care for them. He will look to his Shepherd for guidance in how to best care for his own sheep. He cares for all his sheep with the same care and concern. He doesn't treat a new sheep with distrust because it is new or because it thinks like a sheep, but instead he talks to it and directs it, guiding it away from bitter weeds to sweet places. He doesn't push the sheep away for fear that if they know him they might see reason to reject him. He looks to his guideBook for every detail about how to care for and train his sheep, and explains the Book to them so they know to live according to the truths that are in it. He pours out new, clean, fresh Water for them on a regular basis that he himself has drawn from the Well, and the Water is good and refreshing, so they will want to drink deeply of it, seeing that he drinks deeply from it also.
He communicates with his sheep often. He prays for them. He invites them for walks and gathers them together often. He tells them his plans for the flock, and asks them to pray with him that those plans will be blessed. He knows when one of his flock is hurting and will do what he can to help it get back to health. He also knows when each sheep is happy, when it is eating right and when it has strayed into the wrong field. If any sheep has a question (yes, these sheep ask questions!), he is glad for it and wants to satisfy the sheep with an answer--so he will go to his guideBook to show them what the Chief Shepherd would say. If something has wandered into his flock that is not a sheep, but either a goat or a wolf, he will recognize it quickly so he can protect his flock.
The sheep that belong to a shepherding pastor will be content. They will get along with each other and imitate the shepherd's care for them in caring for one another. They won't fear to come to the shepherd because he might not want to talk to them, or because their questions might sound too dumb or scary, or heaven forbid, because the shepherd might attack them. They are content because they can rely on his providing new fresh water continually, keeping them from bitter weeds, nasty wolves and unsafe trails.
You have been patient to read this far. I just wanted to illustrate this because I was lying awake when I should have been asleep, pondering it. I think we sheep need to know the difference so we can be properly cared for, content, and safe. Baaaaaa.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Friday, August 03, 2007
Creativity, Fantasy, and Reality
On Wednesday, our pastor came to visit us. In the course of conversation he spoke about two of his sons, both of whom are artists, and how creative they are and how creativity is a natural extension and result of faith (though God is gracious to make all people creative to some degree even before they know Him)...how C.S. Lewis' writings are so creative, and then about various fantasy writers along the lines of Lewis.
Actually, I've never had that great an appreciation for fantasy books, not even Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia (gasp!). I told our pastor that I thought it was odd how many Christian writers chose to write fantasy books. He seemed surprised that I didn't get the connection; he said that it was a natural thing for people to delve into fantasy to try to bridge the gap between the material world we live in and the immaterial world, that so much about our faith is left to our imagination. I'm bemused at our different perspectives. In contrast, I find that faith to be sufficient in itself (not that he doesn't)--how do I explain my point of view? That since the reality is found in Christ (Col 2:17) and He is in heaven, and since that's beyond all that we have ever seen or can imagine (1 Cor 2:9), that I will just find out someday, and it's something to anticipate with eagerness. I feel like it's something like peeking at Christmas presents before Christmas, to try to picture it ahead of time. And then there's the fact that we have been given everything pertaining to life and godliness (2 Peter 1:3), so as things are, we are fully equipped! So why look to imagination for more? It escapes my practical mind...probably to my detriment, but that's the way I'm geared.
It got me thinking. I'm not into fantasy, but I am creative. I don't generally fantasize about anything, but I might imagine how something might look that I'm planning to make, like a flowerbed I'm carving out or a curtain I'm sewing...but it's all in the realm of reality and near future possibility (always tending toward the optimistic, perhaps unrealistic idea that I might complete the project well, but that's another story). To think up strange characters and strange animals that have never been seen on this earth or described in the Scriptures seems superfluous to me, and yet so many see it in another light. This world has enough strange animals and characters to show any of us God's amazing creative power. I guess creating variations on those things is the way God has geared these authors. They definitely have many good Christian readers who appreciate their writings and their imagination.
I don't generally like reading books that can't be real, so in parenting and homeschooling I never read much in the way of fairy tales or allegory books to my kids. This has had two different results in our two kids--Katie, being more like me, shares my view of literature and doesn't much like fantasy. She was never one to pretend to be something she wasn't, or to play with dolls much. She loves to read the same type of books I love. She has her feet firmly planted in the land of reality.
Tim on the other hand has always been one to imagine, to dream, to have his mind galaxies away. He has always been one to dress up and pretend (to the great delight of our neighbors Dean and Stacia), to set out his various play figures in battle scenes and pirate ship scenarios and have different voices for each of the characters, carrying on long and involved stories among them. Tim also had the benefit of having Mr. Peters read one of the Chronicles books to him in Sunday school, to his delight. He is such a daydreamer that when I talk to him I can only hope that he actually heard what I said and that it registered. Both kids have been brought up essentially as only children, being ten years apart, so being like an only child hasn't had a universal effect here.
In talking to Stacia about this whole subject, she said, "Well, did you ever go 'dream walking' as a kid?" No, I didn't think I did. She described how she and her cousin would walk between their houses imagining the whole time that they were a couple of princesses, and that various things they saw were things fitting for the royal world. I could only relate to it in one way. I remember sitting in the corner or having been sent to my room and fuming over the perceived injustice of it all...and going off into a dream world, imagining myself to be mortally ill, and my mother repenting of all her (perceived) bad judgments against me. (The only frustrating part was that I was never creative enough to think up a way for myself to recover from the illness--I'd be practically dead before I'd get that satisfaction from my mother, and what good was that?!) I think it's a common scenario, because I think Ramona the Pest does the same in Beverly Cleary's books, and so does the boy in the movie, "The Christmas Story."
A person can be painfully practical and still be creative (or vice-versa). I've always been one to create my kids' homeschooling plans, schedules, forms...and anyone who likes to write is somewhat creative. Besides that, a person has to be creative to garden, to sew, to think up a menu, to cook a variety of meals, to paint walls, to plan improvements to a home, to think up new uses for items, to find new ways to save money or time or energy, to fix broken things without going broke. I love being creative in those ways--with varying levels of proficiency, of course!
Perhaps it is the German or Scottish heritage that makes Katie and me practical in the extreme. There's a trace of French in there, too. I think maybe the French are dreamers. Maybe that's where Tim got it. But he got it in buckets, and we didn't. I kind of envy his ability to get lost in imagination, but only a bit. God has blessed me with a reality with which I'm quite happy, and I want to stay here. For now.
Actually, I've never had that great an appreciation for fantasy books, not even Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia (gasp!). I told our pastor that I thought it was odd how many Christian writers chose to write fantasy books. He seemed surprised that I didn't get the connection; he said that it was a natural thing for people to delve into fantasy to try to bridge the gap between the material world we live in and the immaterial world, that so much about our faith is left to our imagination. I'm bemused at our different perspectives. In contrast, I find that faith to be sufficient in itself (not that he doesn't)--how do I explain my point of view? That since the reality is found in Christ (Col 2:17) and He is in heaven, and since that's beyond all that we have ever seen or can imagine (1 Cor 2:9), that I will just find out someday, and it's something to anticipate with eagerness. I feel like it's something like peeking at Christmas presents before Christmas, to try to picture it ahead of time. And then there's the fact that we have been given everything pertaining to life and godliness (2 Peter 1:3), so as things are, we are fully equipped! So why look to imagination for more? It escapes my practical mind...probably to my detriment, but that's the way I'm geared.
It got me thinking. I'm not into fantasy, but I am creative. I don't generally fantasize about anything, but I might imagine how something might look that I'm planning to make, like a flowerbed I'm carving out or a curtain I'm sewing...but it's all in the realm of reality and near future possibility (always tending toward the optimistic, perhaps unrealistic idea that I might complete the project well, but that's another story). To think up strange characters and strange animals that have never been seen on this earth or described in the Scriptures seems superfluous to me, and yet so many see it in another light. This world has enough strange animals and characters to show any of us God's amazing creative power. I guess creating variations on those things is the way God has geared these authors. They definitely have many good Christian readers who appreciate their writings and their imagination.
I don't generally like reading books that can't be real, so in parenting and homeschooling I never read much in the way of fairy tales or allegory books to my kids. This has had two different results in our two kids--Katie, being more like me, shares my view of literature and doesn't much like fantasy. She was never one to pretend to be something she wasn't, or to play with dolls much. She loves to read the same type of books I love. She has her feet firmly planted in the land of reality.
Tim on the other hand has always been one to imagine, to dream, to have his mind galaxies away. He has always been one to dress up and pretend (to the great delight of our neighbors Dean and Stacia), to set out his various play figures in battle scenes and pirate ship scenarios and have different voices for each of the characters, carrying on long and involved stories among them. Tim also had the benefit of having Mr. Peters read one of the Chronicles books to him in Sunday school, to his delight. He is such a daydreamer that when I talk to him I can only hope that he actually heard what I said and that it registered. Both kids have been brought up essentially as only children, being ten years apart, so being like an only child hasn't had a universal effect here.
In talking to Stacia about this whole subject, she said, "Well, did you ever go 'dream walking' as a kid?" No, I didn't think I did. She described how she and her cousin would walk between their houses imagining the whole time that they were a couple of princesses, and that various things they saw were things fitting for the royal world. I could only relate to it in one way. I remember sitting in the corner or having been sent to my room and fuming over the perceived injustice of it all...and going off into a dream world, imagining myself to be mortally ill, and my mother repenting of all her (perceived) bad judgments against me. (The only frustrating part was that I was never creative enough to think up a way for myself to recover from the illness--I'd be practically dead before I'd get that satisfaction from my mother, and what good was that?!) I think it's a common scenario, because I think Ramona the Pest does the same in Beverly Cleary's books, and so does the boy in the movie, "The Christmas Story."
A person can be painfully practical and still be creative (or vice-versa). I've always been one to create my kids' homeschooling plans, schedules, forms...and anyone who likes to write is somewhat creative. Besides that, a person has to be creative to garden, to sew, to think up a menu, to cook a variety of meals, to paint walls, to plan improvements to a home, to think up new uses for items, to find new ways to save money or time or energy, to fix broken things without going broke. I love being creative in those ways--with varying levels of proficiency, of course!
Perhaps it is the German or Scottish heritage that makes Katie and me practical in the extreme. There's a trace of French in there, too. I think maybe the French are dreamers. Maybe that's where Tim got it. But he got it in buckets, and we didn't. I kind of envy his ability to get lost in imagination, but only a bit. God has blessed me with a reality with which I'm quite happy, and I want to stay here. For now.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Majority Rule
When I worked among a group of about 20 women at Boeing, we were in the process of making a procedure manual for the jobs performed in our department. My lead (the supervisor over our immediate group) had not graduated from high school, and her written language skills left a lot to be desired. She wrote the procedure manual to begin with, and we all were to look at it on overhead and critique it for changes. This type of work is right up my alley. I love the use of words; grammar and spelling come easily to me, perhaps thanks to my Canadian mother. She used to continually correct my grammar, telling me tests by which I could determine how to construct a sentence.
The procedure manual would be published with all of our names on it, so we were encouraged to take ownership in making it the best it could be. The initial form of the manual had a great need for editing in all the basics of grammar, spelling, and punctuation. I quickly became noticeable in the quantity of input I provided. They nicknamed me "Comma Connie," and I'm pretty sure it wasn't all in friendliness. Still, I didn't want my name on it in its original form.
Each time we met, it was clear that my lead didn't want my input. The changes I proposed were ignored and the passages in question were left in their original form. I spoke up about this and the supervisor over my lead provided a facilitator to make sure the meetings proceeded as they should and that the proper changes would be made. At one point, there was a question about a particular comma, and someone suggested that we vote on it. The facilitator was shocked. "Vote on whether a comma belongs in a sentence? Either it does or it doesn't. It isn't a matter of opinion."
The same is true in so many things in life--especially those of faith and conduct. A questionable behavior should always be held up to the Scriptures for evaluation. It isn't a matter of opinion or majority rule, but a matter of God's word. But examine everything carefully; hold fast to that which is good; abstain from every form of evil. 1 Thessalonians 5:21-22.
The procedure manual would be published with all of our names on it, so we were encouraged to take ownership in making it the best it could be. The initial form of the manual had a great need for editing in all the basics of grammar, spelling, and punctuation. I quickly became noticeable in the quantity of input I provided. They nicknamed me "Comma Connie," and I'm pretty sure it wasn't all in friendliness. Still, I didn't want my name on it in its original form.
Each time we met, it was clear that my lead didn't want my input. The changes I proposed were ignored and the passages in question were left in their original form. I spoke up about this and the supervisor over my lead provided a facilitator to make sure the meetings proceeded as they should and that the proper changes would be made. At one point, there was a question about a particular comma, and someone suggested that we vote on it. The facilitator was shocked. "Vote on whether a comma belongs in a sentence? Either it does or it doesn't. It isn't a matter of opinion."
The same is true in so many things in life--especially those of faith and conduct. A questionable behavior should always be held up to the Scriptures for evaluation. It isn't a matter of opinion or majority rule, but a matter of God's word. But examine everything carefully; hold fast to that which is good; abstain from every form of evil. 1 Thessalonians 5:21-22.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Cutting It Straight
We recently had a discussion with some influential men who were of the opinion that John MacArthur has such incredibly top-notch sermons and writings that no better way exists to phrase anything about the Bible. Though I am truly a fan of MacArthur's writings and his radio program, I differ with these men's stance, for one thing because it puts the merely human MacArthur on a huge pedestal, and for another thing, because it denies the creative power of the Holy Spirit to work through any other writer. It also would seem that if MacArthur's materials were so unquestionably the best materials out there, the only right way to teach would be to always use them and that any church that did not use them in sermons and in Sunday School would automatically fall short.
Lately we have gone to a number of churches with friends lately and found that the pastors have more to say than I had come to expect outside of our church--including Mars Hill Church in Ballard, which was phenomenal. The pastor there held his Bible in one hand and spoke to his congregation mostly consisting of young men, and I was stunned at how wonderfully he used the Scriptures in such a way that it spoke to the needs of his congregation, with inspiration and vision, and he didn't even appear to read from notes.
It reminds me of when I was 16. I started working on my birthday at a job in Discount Fabrics in Raleigh Hills near Portland. One of the first things they taught me was how to cut fabric. They had metal ridges installed on the countertops and the fabric usually was to be cut by aligning the edge of the fabric along the edge of the counter and settling your scissors in the groove of the ridge on the counter. If you sew, no doubt you've seen this done many times.
Folded-over fabric was normally cut starting at the fold. Decorator fabric was cut flat open. Still, there were a number of other considerations that had to be taken into account, and often made cutting along the metal ridge unworkable. If I was cutting burlap, because of its tendency to ravel, I was supposed to cut between the woven threads, even though they were usually not woven straight. I would allow an extra bit of yardage for this purpose. If I was cutting another low-quality fabric that was woven unevenly, I needed to do the same thing. If it were a printed panel, I would cut along the cutting line rather than mess up the panel by cutting into it--and they weren't bought by the yard but by the panel.
It is similar with preaching to the church. No two congregations are exactly alike. Each congregation is best served with a sermon customized to its particular needs. Suppose you are a missionary working in a foreign country, and the congregation doesn't have the whole Bible translated yet. Suppose they don't have a word for "forgive," for example? You have to simplify and customize the word to this foreign congregation--I remember reading in the book Bruchko that the writer, Bruce Olson, translated the word salvation as “Tie your hammock strings into Jesus,” to the Motilone tribe. This would only puzzle a congregation in any American city, though.
The Holy Spirit will inspire the sermon writer to write about the same passage of Scripture to address the needs of his congregation in a unique way that works there like it wouldn't anywhere else as well. The Scripture is living and active, and fabric isn't. I guess that's why God didn't assign pastors to use one man's writings for all their churches--aside from the Scriptures themselves--He sent them the Holy Spirit instead.
Lately we have gone to a number of churches with friends lately and found that the pastors have more to say than I had come to expect outside of our church--including Mars Hill Church in Ballard, which was phenomenal. The pastor there held his Bible in one hand and spoke to his congregation mostly consisting of young men, and I was stunned at how wonderfully he used the Scriptures in such a way that it spoke to the needs of his congregation, with inspiration and vision, and he didn't even appear to read from notes.
It reminds me of when I was 16. I started working on my birthday at a job in Discount Fabrics in Raleigh Hills near Portland. One of the first things they taught me was how to cut fabric. They had metal ridges installed on the countertops and the fabric usually was to be cut by aligning the edge of the fabric along the edge of the counter and settling your scissors in the groove of the ridge on the counter. If you sew, no doubt you've seen this done many times.
Folded-over fabric was normally cut starting at the fold. Decorator fabric was cut flat open. Still, there were a number of other considerations that had to be taken into account, and often made cutting along the metal ridge unworkable. If I was cutting burlap, because of its tendency to ravel, I was supposed to cut between the woven threads, even though they were usually not woven straight. I would allow an extra bit of yardage for this purpose. If I was cutting another low-quality fabric that was woven unevenly, I needed to do the same thing. If it were a printed panel, I would cut along the cutting line rather than mess up the panel by cutting into it--and they weren't bought by the yard but by the panel.
It is similar with preaching to the church. No two congregations are exactly alike. Each congregation is best served with a sermon customized to its particular needs. Suppose you are a missionary working in a foreign country, and the congregation doesn't have the whole Bible translated yet. Suppose they don't have a word for "forgive," for example? You have to simplify and customize the word to this foreign congregation--I remember reading in the book Bruchko that the writer, Bruce Olson, translated the word salvation as “Tie your hammock strings into Jesus,” to the Motilone tribe. This would only puzzle a congregation in any American city, though.
The Holy Spirit will inspire the sermon writer to write about the same passage of Scripture to address the needs of his congregation in a unique way that works there like it wouldn't anywhere else as well. The Scripture is living and active, and fabric isn't. I guess that's why God didn't assign pastors to use one man's writings for all their churches--aside from the Scriptures themselves--He sent them the Holy Spirit instead.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
A Ball near Tim's Eyeball
We have been without insurance for 17 months. Today our new insurance became effective. I've always noted when we've been uninsured that our health seems so much better--no particular need for hospitals, emergency rooms or expensive medical procedures. That was the case this time, too...in this last 17 months, we went to a 10-minute clinic a couple of times, and Tim went to the doctor about a possible knee break that turned out to be just a bad whack. So I should have braced myself, knowing that this period of grace that comes with living by faith was about to change...
Katie and I stayed home today, finishing up a not-too-profitable garage sale while Gary and Tim went off to one of Tim's Saturday baseball games. We played Take-One and tried to remember to use sunscreen consistently (to keep from burning our already sunburned areas) and not to get sunstroke since there is virtually no shade in our driveway on a sunny day. We were doing fairly well at this, and then the phone rang. Katie answered. It was Gary. "Tim's been injured." That's how it started. Of course alarm bells started ringing. I asked for the phone. Tim was sitting down in a shady spot, but I asked Gary to bring him home right away--after some discussion, we came to agree that this was probably the best plan. I pictured Tim kind of bucking up and acting like it wasn't that bad. When they got home, Tim seemed woozy and panicked and confused. Besides being swollen just below his left eye. It turned out that one of the other kids was pitching and was a bit on the wild side. They took him out of that position after Tim's connection with the ball, I hear. Too bad they didn't sooner--he had already pitched the ball behind a few batters. Seems they might have had a clue. Oh, well.
Our neighbor Stacia, whose antennae for our needs are always on the alert, rushed over without our even alerting her and offered to watch over the garage sale. We expressed to her that even if anyone was crazy enough to come and steal everything, we thought it might be a kindness. Still she insisted and we left her with that mess, telling her a few quick details and leaving her some money for change.
Anyway, we were pretty sure we had better take Tim to the Emergency Room rather than a walk-in clinic--brains and eyeballs are nothing to fool with. We got to the same hospital in Everett where he was born. Thankfully the waiting room was the best I'd ever seen it, with only one couple in there, and Tim got immediate attention. They did the usual examination, and decided on a cat-scan.
While we waited for the cat-scan, I asked a young guy in the waiting room whether he could guess what had happened to Tim. He looked at Tim's cleats, his baseball outfit, and his shiner. "Did you get hit in the eye with a ball?" The guy was a genius. Well, maybe not. He was in there with a pretty nasty broken hand for having gotten in a fight.
After the cat-scan, I was pretty sure Tim was okay, because he seemed almost miraculously cured by it. Instead of being shaky and confused, he was his usual silly self complete with potty humor and giggles. Katie had her own high volume of cleaner humor, and I could not get them to be sober for a minute. (If nothing else, I hoped this might make the staff bring our prescriptions all the faster when it was time.) I asked them to think about something sad. I didn't want to bring in any really sad scenarios, so I said some really lame fictional or unimpressive things that might work on really easy targets. They did their best to sadden up but it only lasted a moment, and they were back to being giddy. Tim had the excuse of some stomach medicine that the nurse had given him and had to watch him drink entirely. Katie--well, I don't know what her explanation was. Even I fell into it a bit, and Gary just patiently tried to act as dissociated as possible.
One time the Physician's Assistant walked by saying, "Good news! No broken bones!" We thought he was talking to us, and we started to respond in rejoicing, but it turned out he was talking to another patient further down the hall, so at least I guess we were rejoicing for him. Another half hour went by. The PA came in and checked Tim some more. After a few minutes more, he came in with the results from the cat-scan. He said that Tim had a break right under the left eye socket, and it was bleeding into the sinus. Because of the bleeding he would be on antibiotics to prevent infection; because of the break he'd be given Prednisone to keep the muscle from swelling to get lodged into the break in the bone. If it does so, he will lose movement of the eye upward, and have to have surgery.
When I got the prescription filled, the lady at the counter said that a cat-scan would cost about $700 or 800. I don't suppose that includes the use of the emergency room or any of those details. I'm sure thankful for God's timing and provision. I wonder about the wisdom of having insurance--a person might surmise that it is an entirely unhealthy option, judging by the circumstances.
We stopped by Dairy Queen for a purely medical encouragement on the way home, and picked up a chocolate-covered-strawberry-sundae-in-a-bowl (or some such thing) as a thank-you for Stacia, and Tim chose a butterscotch dilly bar. Okay, I did have a strawberry sundae, the smaller kind, and Gary did have a peanut-buster-barfait (that's what I tend to call it more or less by accident) and Katie did have a small Hawaiian Blizzard, but that's only because we didn't want Tim to feel lonely or awkward eating in front of us...really.
Stacia did seem to like the looks of her sundae. Katie told me on the way to the store for the prescriptions that Stacia described some rather racy ads promoting the sundae to Katie's heretofore-unstained ears. I think the DQ ad writers must be on drugs from how Katie described the ads. I hope Stacia didn't think we had been influenced to buy because of the ads...just for the record we hadn't. Ha!
And when we got home complete with pills and dinner, we heard a knock at the door. It was Stacia. She had made a bag of goodies for Tim, along with a card, and animal crackers from her dog Ernie, and a picture of some of our silliness from yesterday, and the bag was decorated with an ambulance--a little trick she learned from me, but we'd never been on the receiving end!
Stacia had done all she could to make the day good. And God of course had it all in hand before the foundation of the world. He knew when we'd need insurance, and the encouragement of friends. Is He not great!?
Katie and I stayed home today, finishing up a not-too-profitable garage sale while Gary and Tim went off to one of Tim's Saturday baseball games. We played Take-One and tried to remember to use sunscreen consistently (to keep from burning our already sunburned areas) and not to get sunstroke since there is virtually no shade in our driveway on a sunny day. We were doing fairly well at this, and then the phone rang. Katie answered. It was Gary. "Tim's been injured." That's how it started. Of course alarm bells started ringing. I asked for the phone. Tim was sitting down in a shady spot, but I asked Gary to bring him home right away--after some discussion, we came to agree that this was probably the best plan. I pictured Tim kind of bucking up and acting like it wasn't that bad. When they got home, Tim seemed woozy and panicked and confused. Besides being swollen just below his left eye. It turned out that one of the other kids was pitching and was a bit on the wild side. They took him out of that position after Tim's connection with the ball, I hear. Too bad they didn't sooner--he had already pitched the ball behind a few batters. Seems they might have had a clue. Oh, well.
Our neighbor Stacia, whose antennae for our needs are always on the alert, rushed over without our even alerting her and offered to watch over the garage sale. We expressed to her that even if anyone was crazy enough to come and steal everything, we thought it might be a kindness. Still she insisted and we left her with that mess, telling her a few quick details and leaving her some money for change.
Anyway, we were pretty sure we had better take Tim to the Emergency Room rather than a walk-in clinic--brains and eyeballs are nothing to fool with. We got to the same hospital in Everett where he was born. Thankfully the waiting room was the best I'd ever seen it, with only one couple in there, and Tim got immediate attention. They did the usual examination, and decided on a cat-scan.
While we waited for the cat-scan, I asked a young guy in the waiting room whether he could guess what had happened to Tim. He looked at Tim's cleats, his baseball outfit, and his shiner. "Did you get hit in the eye with a ball?" The guy was a genius. Well, maybe not. He was in there with a pretty nasty broken hand for having gotten in a fight.
After the cat-scan, I was pretty sure Tim was okay, because he seemed almost miraculously cured by it. Instead of being shaky and confused, he was his usual silly self complete with potty humor and giggles. Katie had her own high volume of cleaner humor, and I could not get them to be sober for a minute. (If nothing else, I hoped this might make the staff bring our prescriptions all the faster when it was time.) I asked them to think about something sad. I didn't want to bring in any really sad scenarios, so I said some really lame fictional or unimpressive things that might work on really easy targets. They did their best to sadden up but it only lasted a moment, and they were back to being giddy. Tim had the excuse of some stomach medicine that the nurse had given him and had to watch him drink entirely. Katie--well, I don't know what her explanation was. Even I fell into it a bit, and Gary just patiently tried to act as dissociated as possible.
One time the Physician's Assistant walked by saying, "Good news! No broken bones!" We thought he was talking to us, and we started to respond in rejoicing, but it turned out he was talking to another patient further down the hall, so at least I guess we were rejoicing for him. Another half hour went by. The PA came in and checked Tim some more. After a few minutes more, he came in with the results from the cat-scan. He said that Tim had a break right under the left eye socket, and it was bleeding into the sinus. Because of the bleeding he would be on antibiotics to prevent infection; because of the break he'd be given Prednisone to keep the muscle from swelling to get lodged into the break in the bone. If it does so, he will lose movement of the eye upward, and have to have surgery.
When I got the prescription filled, the lady at the counter said that a cat-scan would cost about $700 or 800. I don't suppose that includes the use of the emergency room or any of those details. I'm sure thankful for God's timing and provision. I wonder about the wisdom of having insurance--a person might surmise that it is an entirely unhealthy option, judging by the circumstances.
We stopped by Dairy Queen for a purely medical encouragement on the way home, and picked up a chocolate-covered-strawberry-sundae-in-a-bowl (or some such thing) as a thank-you for Stacia, and Tim chose a butterscotch dilly bar. Okay, I did have a strawberry sundae, the smaller kind, and Gary did have a peanut-buster-barfait (that's what I tend to call it more or less by accident) and Katie did have a small Hawaiian Blizzard, but that's only because we didn't want Tim to feel lonely or awkward eating in front of us...really.
Stacia did seem to like the looks of her sundae. Katie told me on the way to the store for the prescriptions that Stacia described some rather racy ads promoting the sundae to Katie's heretofore-unstained ears. I think the DQ ad writers must be on drugs from how Katie described the ads. I hope Stacia didn't think we had been influenced to buy because of the ads...just for the record we hadn't. Ha!
And when we got home complete with pills and dinner, we heard a knock at the door. It was Stacia. She had made a bag of goodies for Tim, along with a card, and animal crackers from her dog Ernie, and a picture of some of our silliness from yesterday, and the bag was decorated with an ambulance--a little trick she learned from me, but we'd never been on the receiving end!
Stacia had done all she could to make the day good. And God of course had it all in hand before the foundation of the world. He knew when we'd need insurance, and the encouragement of friends. Is He not great!?
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