Nearly every breathing soul on earth is familiar with this message. Whether from the song written in the 1950’s by Pete Seeger and made famous by the Byrds (Turn! Turn! Turn!), circa 1965. Or with the Bible passage from which it was taken.
1To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
2 A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
3 A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
4 A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
5 A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
6 A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
7 A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
8 A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace. (Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 KJV)
I have been observing a season for healing and introspection. I had a knee replaced during the week of Thanksgiving. Recovery and rehabilitation has been an adventure that has taken a great chunk of my energies and most of my strength during the last 12 weeks. The good news, as always, is that God is good, all the time and I have come to find that my recovery is more than I bargained for.
That is the story. That is the message in the Bible passage. This is my story of the season that I found myself knee-deep (pardon the pun) in after my surgery.
Let me say first, that my surgery went off without a hitch. I had a great surgeon and the best nurses that I might have imagined. My physical therapist had me up and walking the halls of the hospital the day of surgery. Through the miracle of modern pharmacology, the pain was manageable and I couldn’t wait to be released for home. I got to go home on schedule and the storm clouds of impending difficulty began to form.
The doctor generously prescribed some strong (really strong) pain medicine which I took like clockwork and in a smaller-than-prescribed dose. Before the week was gone, the storm had fully developed and I found myself cut off from my version of reality and comfort. The narcotics had in effect turned me into a radish. I was, seriously, unable to form a coherent sentence. I was lost and alone in an uncomfortable daze. As I have previously confessed; I am no stranger to drugs and their effects on the user but this was something different. This was no blissful fog. I was not stoned as in the seventies. I was utterly and completely zombied.
Dose upon dose of this mind-numbing stuff and I found myself in a sort of void, a sensory vacuum. The worst part was that I began to feel isolated, especially so from God. I know, this sounds pretty melodramatic, but it was my reality, as skewed as it was.
I tried to say my prayers and not only could I not form my thoughts but I could not feel the presence of God at all. I was terrified! I am a pretty big guy and haven’t been really afraid of much in my life but this shook me to my core. I broke down as the storm washed over me. I felt that my soul was being battered by the terrible wind and drowned in the torrential downpour. I cried out the only way I knew how and I realized that the downpour was coming from within me. Tortured by fear and shame I shook and wept over having somehow lost God. My wife at my side, she reassured me that this was all the work of the evil one and that deep inside I knew that my God would never forsake me. I knew that when we are not strong enough to cling to God, that is when he tightens his grip on us. He is faithful to never let us slip from his loving grasp.
This marked the beginning of my season to heal and to start some pretty serious soul searching. With God’s help and with Cynthia’s soothing words in my ears I began to see a break in the turbulence of the storm. I concentrated harder and was able to reach out beyond the darkness, finding (at last) my God. He was right where he always is, waiting with open arms. I prayed hard, pouring out my fear and need. I realize that this all sounds overmuch and I suppose you would be correct in your thinking so. However, as the singer/songwriter Zach Williams reminds us, “fear is a liar”, and this had been the Mother of all Fears.
By the time my prayers had ended, I had promised the Father that I would put away the Oxy bottle and if He would help me with the pain I would dedicate my hard work in physical therapy and rehabilitation to His Glory. I also promised to increase my efforts to be an example of His Love to any who would come close enough to notice.
My season progressed. I took Tylenol before therapy sessions to dull the pain of extreme exercise, used ice packs a lot and made a rapid progression from a walker to a cane to walking unassisted. I am no longer parking in handicapped spots. I am now twelve weeks post-surgery and I have returned to serving on the altar at communion, scripture reading and leading Prayers for the People in my church. I never feel closer to the Father than at these times. I am richly blessed. I am in the gym three days a week, down about 30 pounds and have even moved the driver’s seat back to its original position, as my knee now bends better than before surgery. My only complaint is that when I sit for too long my knee stiffens and aches. But that is a “me” problem. The moral of that story is that I need to be more active than sedentary.
The season that began with storms and need and fear has turned into a beautiful season of hope and rebirth and pride in my God. He loves me, He loves us and is always waiting to hear from us. He is never more than a bent knee or bowed head away. He is faithful beyond any earthly measure.