He Knocks My Socks Off...
Miracles. You never know what they're going to look like. And when they're going to show up. So, a couple days after telling one and all that my knee surgery sapped all my creative juices, as well as my ability to sit still long enough to write a blog post worth posting, I find myself compelled to write what may well be the longest post yet.
It's about miracles. Two rather unusual ones right here in my family.
The first one is my leg. And the knee replacement surgery thereupon, performed July 9th. Now, I hasten to mention that wasn't my first rodeo, so to speak. I'd had my left knee replaced April 6, 2006, same sort of apparatus by the same (fine Christian) surgeon, at the same hospital. In 2006, the surgery was performed on a Thursday, and I went home on a Monday. Therapy began a few days thereafter, and I honestly do not know how long it went on. I do know that I walked first with a walker, and then subsequently with a cane, and was mobile enough to attend the SBC Annual Meeting (our first), two months later in Greensboro.
It was at that meeting that I finally decided I could walk better without a cane; that trying to utilize the cane was slowing me down and I was better off walking along the walls, keeping a hand hear the handrails, etc, for stability. Everyone remarked, at the time, that I had made remarkable progress, particularly for a guy that was 68 years old.
Skip forward 6 years. Now, the 68 year old guy is 74, and has the other knee replaced. Same surgeon, same apparatus, same hospital, same therapist. Surgery Monday; on Wednesday the surgeon says he doesn't see any reason to lay in a hospital bed any more and sends me home. I start therapy the next day, a week ahead of what had been expected.
This time, it didn't take a bit over two months to progress through the walker and cane, to walking unassisted. I stopped using the cane in a little less than two weeks. I don't know any other adjective to use to describe that, than miraculous.
As in miracle.
Thank you, God. I sure didn't do anything to deserve it.
Now, on an entirely different front, our older son Brian had a melanoma about 20 years ago. It was removed, clear margins were seen, and there were no recurrences. All was well. Until about a year ago, that is. He had a dark spot on his head arise, which he showed to his physician, who said they needed to watch it for a year or so, as it didn't seem to be anything to worry about at the time. But then, a couple weeks ago, something must have happened, as Brian asked his mom who my dermatologist was. It seems he'd become concerned about the spot on his head, and had called every dermatologist he could find in Birmingham, and the earliest appointment he could get was August 11th.
Frankly, that made me angry. That was July 23rd, and that seemed like an awfully long time to wait, so I resolved to call my own dermatologist, that I've been seeing for about 20 years, the next day, to plead the case. I've had a family history of moles and the like and I'm basically a chicken, so I'm careful with that; I thought that I might be able to persuade my Doctor to see Brian earlier despite the fact that he'd been told she didn't have anything available for about a month.
Well, I didn't have to use my debating skills that time. I called the office the next morning .. the 24th .. and told the secretary who I was, that my son had a history of melanoma and had a spot that worried him; I no sooner had gotten the words out of my mouth than she said "Tell him to be here at 1pm tomorrow with his insurance information".
He was there at 1pm, they saw him first, and the doctor removed the growth and sent it off to pathology. The report was back the next day, Thursday: it was melanoma, but she'd told him the backside of what she'd removed wasn't pigmented, so he'd probably "dodged a bullet".
One week later, August 1st, he went to another specialist who removed a larger section; the pathology came back the next day and once again, they reported there was a clean margin.
All 10 days earlier than he'd originally been able to get an appointment.
Now. I want to point out two things about these two occurrences. God intervened both times; I didn't cause anything. He gets the victory. All I did was to do what I could; in one case, do the rehab exercises that I was told to do, and make one phone call in the other. But I've taught for years that the real secret to what happens in the Spiritual side of our lives is not dependent on on what we do, but what God does with what we do. And we may be too often guilty of expecting a miracle from God when we are not willing to do anything ourselves.
Talk to someone about Jesus. Tell them of their lostness.
Pray over someone who's "hopelessly" ill.
Take an unpopular stand in a Godless world.
Expect God to do something when the world doesn't.
Next time you're in a tough situation, do something. I think God loves to take our feeble efforts and knock our socks off. He sure has, over the last month, with me.