Signs of life
A few years back my wife, two of my children and me were in a horrible car crash. We were on our way to a friend’s house to pick up my two oldest daughters and to spend the rest of the evening in fellowship. My wife was driving our brand new GMC Safari, our baby daughter strapped in her car chair in the front, while I sat with our two-year old son in the very back seat.
We turned from the highway onto the road that took us to our friend’s house. From the direction we were coming, the road made a “V”, curving off sharply to the left, while our friend’s house was straight ahead—as a matter of fact, we could see our daughters playing in the front yard up ahead.
Suddenly, and without warning, a car came flying around the curve from our left and overshot the center line. My wife saw the car coming and (though we were going slow, from having just turned off the highway) began to move off the road onto the shoulder. The speeding car kept coming straight on and slammed into the front of our vehicle. We could see the bodies of the driver and passenger slam, seat-beltless, into the windshield and fall back. Our bodies reacted, everything flying up into the air from the impact, and dropping down again.
Later, we would see pictures of the wreck and notice the impact contained so much force that both vehicles were moved over to the side of the road one entire car’s width. From the car’s approach (he had actually slammed on his brakes, but too late because of the speed), there were two short black lines approaching the wreck, one from each tire. The left black line ended just to the left of the right rear wheel, and the right black mark just pointed to nothing.
My daughters saw the whole thing and came running up the road with our friends. My wife punched the air-bag out of her face and was already out checking on the baby and the other vehicles. I had little birdies tweeting amongst the stars and my son just sat there watching his own little birdies and stars. The baby was fine. I couldn’t breath (cracked ribs, plus no oxygen from the gasses that inflated the air-bag in the front) and I felt like both my legs were broken. Rescuers used some saw to cut out the seat in front of me to get me out.
The other car was a horror. Since I could not move, all I could do is sit there and watch the guys in the other car bleed through the smashed windshield. The passenger showed some signs of life (I think he later had to have a couple of fingers amputated) and was really banged up. The driver of the other vehicle was dead (we did not know this until the ambulance arrived). I realized that the steering wheel of the other car was actually inverted and while his head hit the windshield, the steering column punched him in the chest with such force (he was not impaled, don’t worry) that the steering wheel looked like it was mounted in reverse.
Then I realized I could smell alcohol. Not gasoline, but alcohol. Both driver and passenger of the other car were stone drunk, and my guess is that they weren’t really feeling anything. The irony for us was uncanny, for we had once lived in a town that was nationally known as having the nations worst alcohol problem, wrecks and alcohol-related deaths that Stephen King couldn’t write about every day and remained unscathed. And now, here we were, 1500 miles away, in the middle of the Bible-belt . . . I tried not to laugh at the irony.
The point of my telling you this: when we got into the emergency room, the passenger of the other car was being worked on next to me. He was bleeding and greatly bewailed his position. I tried to relax while we were both being examined. And then it happened.
You know, you lay there in a position where all you can do is trust in the training of professionals. Since one is the field upon which all that training is exercised, one must simply lay there and tell them where it hurts and allow them to fix it. I laid there and they talked. And they poked and prodded and they talked. They worked on me and they talked. But they were not talking about me, or about the guy next to me. They were not discussing procedure or diagnosis, nor were they planning what steps to do next. The technicians were boisterous and “just did their job.” They talked about partying and where to go get drink after their shift ended.
My confidence in them did anything but soar. I felt like saying, “Ahem, excuse me . . . and why are we here this evening?” It’s not like me and my families were bored or had nothing else to do. But 1) there is such a thing as bedside manner; and 2) I was not looking for the hair of the dog that bit me. I hated to think of the possible scenario of the ER later that evening when one of their own technicians is brought in on a stretcher . . .
All but the driver of the other car survived and I suppose to a point that’s alright. But hearing those who worked in the ER show more concern for themselves and how they were going to enjoy partying later really gets me . . . even to this day.
If I am in trouble, I want someone to rescue me.
I want someone who is trained to know about the situation I am in.
I want someone who is trained to know how my body is reacting and how I am feeling.
I want someone who is trained to know how to get me back on the mend and give life back to me.
A couple of years ago I had severe chest pains, and fearing the worse if not for safety, an ambulance give me a nice ride to the hospital. Now the technicians were cautious, careful, observant—one never took his eyes off me. They were actually gentle and so quiet that they didn’t even use the siren in the drive, so as not to add to any stress levels of their passenger. When I got the hospital, they told everything to the doctors and the doctors did their job wonderfully.
When it comes to evangelism, how’s your demeanor?
Are you trained?
Do you know what the state of a lost soul is?
Are you aware of the reasons why people are the way they are?
Can you identify with the way they are feeling?
Can you tell them what is wrong and what needs to be fixed and how to fix it?
Do you know how to grow and nurture and mature one who finds new life in Christ Jesus?
My prayer is that we would not be the kind of evangelist that leaves a tract on the ground, hoping that someone picks it up while we hide around the corner. Be the kind that walks up to people and says, “Hey, did you get one of these? It’s a gospel tract.”
Some kinds of evangelism sits by the bedside and waits for the patient to bring up where it hurts. Other kinds poke and prods and shows the patient where it hurts.
Some evangelism consists of fellowships who talk their own language amongst themselves and just “do the duty.” Other kinds never take their eyes off their contact, watching, listening, until they show signs of life.
I was asked recently about a hypothetical situation in which a person was in dire straights and needed professional counsel or a specialist--what would I do? All I could think of was, "is he saved?" and "let Jesus heal him."
