Lesson Number Eight: 24 hours and 36 inches...

     They all want something of me when they come to church. They all expect that I have something to give them. A pastor is a man who is beset by the expectation that he has something to give. And when they all expect that you have something to give, you finally get the idea yourself that you have something to give. Do YOU have something to give?  God help you never to grow so conscious of your ministerial office or your dignity that, as you grow older, more experienced, and mature, you come to be convinced in all "humility" that you have something to give!

     What can YOU give to old "R," who has been lying in the same bed for twenty years, paralyzed and shrunken, and yet is friendly, quiet, patient, even joyful in the Lord?  What are you going to give to the dying young "addict" whose mother has called you to come, and you find him in utter despair? What are you going to give those people in the pews who have been disciplined in suffering and patience for thirty years and more, much longer than you have? What are YOU, who are only a man, going to give to men life yourself?

     But stop your questions! Tell me, what language are you speaking?  Are you speaking the language of the poor in spirit or are you speaking the language of unbelief?  Do you really have nothing to give?  Don't you have something else to give?  Don't you bring with you that Book from the pulpit, which is God's treasure for you and people like you...Does not God have something to give?

     Woe is me.  Am I speaking the language of faith, or is it the voice of the Tempter that is whispering to me, "God's gifts are in your hand; just go ahead and use them?" Get thee behind me, Satan! I have nothing to give, but God will give to me and my brethren, as he did yesterday, and today, so tomorrow, out of the immeasurable riches of his grace.  Amen.

(Heinrich Vogel, Traugott Untreu auf der Kanzel, 1930; quoted in Kampffmeyer, op cit., pp. 89ff.)

     Monday, December 13th, 8:45AM.  Go to work.  6PM. Go home.  Play with the kids...I think...

     Tuesday, December 14th, ?.  A face appears. I am in an ambulance. The face dissappears.

     Tuesday, December 14th, ?.  A face appears.  She has a black scarf loosely draped around an

     olive and oval face.  She is gone.

     36 inches.  Three feet.  Not far.  My legs are that long.  My head is leaning toward the left. The sixteen electrode patches on my chest and sides keep me from moving around too much.  The oxygen tube itches.  My right index finger beams a strange orange/red color in the dark room.  The sounds of machinery calmly repeating - almost put me in a trance-like state.  My left arm, which has a venipuncture, keeps setting the IV machine off behind my head because I am cutting off it's constant supply to my body.  36 inches. Three feet.  Not far.  My body won't let me go there though.
     24 hours.  One day.  Not much.  Time indeed seems to "fly by" as you age.  My head is focusing forward now.  The doctors - a team of neurologists - are moving together as an amoeba would; close, mingling but not touching; not cohesive but trying to be.  Missy is on the left. She is by my side.  Why am I lying here?  Where am I?  What day is it?  What happened?  Then, the most obvious notification that things are not normal occurs.  The dreaded question.  What I have been afraid of in the few moments this amoeba has been moving toward me - "Mr. Housewright, how are you feeling?  Do you know where you are?  Do you know what day it is?  Who is the President?  What year is it?  Do you know the month?"  24 hours.  One day.  Not much.  An eternity.
     36 inches to the left of me is a wide, ice-covered window.  Through fog - or is it me - I see mulitple buildings across from my bed.  I must be several stories up.  Can't really see anything - I cannot focus for some reason.  Three feet to look outside and see if there was still a world.  Where are my children?  Are they okay?  Who knows I am here?  Okay, my pants are still on...when did I put them on?  Who are you?  A new face appears.  A sweet disposition.  She's not from here. She says something about an EEG.  Electrodes are planted all over my hair.  They aren't too sticky.  The kind woman expresses something about reading my brain waves.  What does that mean?  I look at Missy, she is still holding my left hand with the venipuncture and her eyes tell me it's okay.  It's needed.  There is a look though that is simultaneously unsettling.  Unnerving.  Drifting.  Drifting.  Gone.
     24 hours of one day of my life.  Gone.  Where?  It was as if someone used vanishing cream on Tuesday, December 14 and wiped it clean.  Erased.  Permanently. God?  God?  God!  Yes, He'll have the answer...He is the answer!  But, I am too groggy.  Too unfocused.  Too tired.  God...God...