HEELCATCHER

I don’t remember much about Easter as a kid. What I do remember isn’t very pleasant.

Hard pews. Long church services. Wearing some pastel-looking suit my mom bought for me.

Things were a little better after church when we usually had some kind of Easter egg hunt. The chocolate eggs weren’t too bad either. But that was about it.

To me, Easter seemed like another excuse for people to go to church…and a lesser complement to the celebration of Christmas. Coloring eggs is nice but nothing beats a boatload of gifts around a Christmas tree…at least if you are a kid.

Even after I trusted Jesus Christ as my Savior at age 12, I don’t remember Easter meaning too much. I certainly grasped the idea of Jesus rising from the dead…but again it almost seemed like a lesser complement to the cross and Jesus dying for my sins.

I didn’t really “get” Easter.

Until 1996.

That was the year that my sister, Jill, died.

I will never forget her.

Olive skin. Beautiful green eyes. Gentle spirit. She was often my babysitter as a kid. I remember her making school assignments for me. Grading my “work.” Reading to me. Playing games. Teaching me songs. Painting my toenails. I try to forget that last part.

She had a brain aneurysm while still in high school (I think around 1978). I remember waking up to her screaming in the bathroom, yelling that her head hurt. I stood frozen outside the door while my parents tried to help her up…carrying her through the hallway, out the front door, to the car.

It was a Saturday morning. I stayed at home watching cartoons…hearing bits and pieces from my older brothers and sisters as they talked on the phone.

I was too young to fully fathom what was going on. No one really talked to me. I just sat and listened…and watched cartoons.

The next scene I remember was being gathered in a hospital conference room. The doctor gave her a 50% chance of living. She was in a coma. A tumor had caused a blood vessel in her brain to burst. There was no way of knowing what damage had already been done. I remember my mom saying with tears in her eyes and emotion in her voice, “Well, if you have never prayed, then now is the time to do it.”

I think a few people in our family struggled to verbalize a prayer. But we were sporadic church-goers. We didn’t know how to pray, particularly as a family. We didn’t even know the One we were trying to pray to.

The next few weeks and months, Jill slowly recovered. I made a few trips to the hospital but was always too young to see her. When I finally did, I was struck by her bald head and sunken cheeks. She had been through a battle and had barely survived.

But survive she did. And without a hint of brain damage. I witnessed a miracle and didn’t even know it.

The next years saw many life changes. Jill got married, had two boys. I graduated from high school, entered Bible college. Our family changed too. Jill’s brush with death seemed to sober us, wake us up. We became closer to one another. We became closer to God. First, my older brother trusted Christ, then my sisters, including Jill, then myself. We began to get to know the One whom we had tried to pray to in that hospital several years before.

Then, like an unwanted guest, the cancer in my sister’s brain came back.

She fought hard. Radiation. Remission. Surgery. Alternative medicine. Prayer. But the cancer did not relent. It kept coming back with more and more aggressiveness. She became weaker. Thinner. More tired. Less tied to this life.

I hated it.

I hated seeing my beautiful sister lose her hair, lose her color, lose her weight, lose her strength…and slowly lose her life.

I hated cancer.

I hated death.

My sister lost her battle with cancer on Wednesday, March 6, 1996. I heard the news literally 30 minutes before I was to teach my youth group in New Orleans on the hope of the resurrection. The lesson was all outlined, printed, and prepared. But now it had new meaning. I wept as I taught. Two of the youth gave their lives to Christ that night.

Four weeks later it was Easter Sunday. It was the first Easter that I truly celebrated…that I truly understood.

Jesus is alive. The grave could not hold Him.

Jesus conquered death. Its power has been broken.

And now I have hope.

For as in Adam all die, so also in Christ shall all be made alive. But each in his own order: Christ the firstfruits, then at His coming those who belong to Christ. Then comes the end, when He delivers the kingdom to God the Father after destroying every rule and every authority and power. For He must reign until He has put all His enemies under His feet. The last enemy to be destroyed is death. (1 Corinthians 15:22-26)

Let’s be honest. If Jesus didn’t rise from dead, then we really don’t have any hope. Death is it. The dead are gone. We can sugar-coat it all we want. The reality is that this brief, cruel, meaningless, random life is all we have. Let’s eat, drink, and drown our misery with feigned happiness because tomorrow we die.

But if Jesus did rise from the dead…then He is God…and out of love He has entered our world…and He has borne our sin…cancelled our debt…died our death…and given us the assurance of a resurrected life.

Easter is not just a holiday. It is the only day that gives us a real reason to celebrate.

It is our only hope.

Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in Me, though he die, yet shall he live, and everyone who lives and believes in Me shall never die. Do you believe this?” (John 11:25-26)

My sister lost her battle with cancer on Wednesday, March 6, 1996.

But Jesus Christ won the battle with death on Easter Sunday, AD 33.

And because He won, my sister is alive. And I will see her again.

Without sin. Without pain. Without cancer. Without sorrow. Without death.

Do you believe this?

I do.

20 years. 

That is my best guess on the last time that I was in Birmingham. 

20 years. Wow. Where does the time go?

But here I am again. My sons are involved in a speech and debate tournament in Birmingham. I am at a church facility that I visited once probably 25 years ago. It doesn't really ring any bells in my mind. 

But I had some time today so I took a little trip down memory lane…or actually Hwy 280 and I-459. 

It is amazing how much things have changed…and how much some things look the same. As I travel down the road, the names of the exits start coming back to my mind. I see the Galleria mall. A Chick Fil-a that I used to visit frequently. An exit that I used to take to get to school. 

I went to school at Southeastern Bible College in Birmingham. Small school. Very small school. All of 150 students when I was there.

I began college as a naive 18 year old. Unfamiliar with the world. Just starting to get a handle on theology, the Bible, culture, life. It was in Birmingham that I grew up. I learned to take care of myself…500 miles from home. How to manage money. How to relate to new people. How to get around to new places. How to separate colors and wash clothes. 

It was also at Southeastern that I met my wife. I fell in love with her almost the first time I saw her. I pursued her, then took her for granted and lost her, then rewon her heart. It was the classic off again, on again relationship that thankfully ended "on." 

So as I look back, Birmingham really set the trajectory of my life. If I would have went to a different college in a different city, then my whole life would have taken a different route. Different wife. Different ministries. Different churches. Different cities. Different homes. Different children. Different life.

Weird. 

As I went to the old campus where I graduated (the college has since moved locations), it was sort of surreal. The buildings were different but bore many of the same characteristics from the time I was there. Everything around the campus has changed. Houses have sprung up. Trees have been chopped down. Businesses have expanded. Traffic has increased. 

I stood there for a moment, reflecting, remembering. 

Nostalgia produces a strange mix of emotions. Wonder at the memories. Sadness at the passage of time. I wanted to return to those days, relive them, re-feel them. But they are gone. I can't recapture them. I can only remember. 

Memory is such an interesting phenomenon. What is a memory? It isn't anything that science can tangibly touch or explain. It exists in my mind, above my mind. It takes me back to a reality that is passed. Back to a person that I once was, but I am no longer.

Sometimes our memories are painful and we try to squeeze them out of our minds.

Sometimes they are pleasant and we try to squeeze as much out of them as possible. 

I did lots of squeezing as I left that old campus. There were synapses in my brain that starting firing off old memories that I had forgotten…but were still there…somewhere in my brain…or beyond it. My graduation ceremony. My times fellowshiping in the cafeteria. My debates with roommates. My job in the library. My fear during a tornado warning. My first kiss with my wife.

I even remembered a time when I sat wondering what life would be like 25 years down the road.

Where would life take me? Where would I end up? Who would I marry? What children would I have? Would I want the life that I had chosen? Would I even still be alive?

Many of those questions have been answered. I am further down the road. And God has been faithful. 

I remember David's words in Psalm 31:15, My times are in Your hand.

Past. Present. Future. God holds it all.

I remember the past. I strain to see the future. But I must live in the present. The eternal God chooses to meet us in the "now"…and to give us memories to remind us of His faithfulness in the past and to give us promises to instill hope in us as we face the future. 

I pull back onto the highway. 

I glance back in my rear view mirror but keep my eyes on the road ahead. 

And I give thanks that God's plan took me through Birmingham. 

I had Lasik surgery a little over a week ago. It was something that I had thought about but something, to be honest, that I never thought that I would actually do. Here were some of the things that were working against it:

1. I hate going to doctors (nothing personal).
2. I don't like the word "surgery."
3. I don't mind wearing glasses. I have worn them most of my life.
4. I hate the thought of someone operating on my eyeballs. How can you close your eyes during that?!
5. I am cheap and don't like spending money. 

So how did I ever decide to do it? Well, the time had come for bifocals and I simply had to revisit my options. My wife had Lasik done three years ago and has loved it. I had money available in a health savings account (an account I will probably lose due to an Obamacare insurance cancellation…but that's another story). And I was tired of not being able to see when I swim or take off my glasses (I can't see that big ol' E on the eye chart). So I took the plunge and had an initial evaluation.

The evaluation was pleasant and answered most of my questions…though I wasn't thrilled about the rare (but still possible) complications. I am a worst case scenario kind of person so I simply had to move past that. I received a sheet of possible surgery dates and identified one that would work well with my schedule. I tentatively scheduled a surgery time on that day and that got the ball rolling. Once it started rolling, I just didn't have enough of a legitimate reason to stop it. 

I researched as much as I could on Lasik. Yes, Dr. Oz isn't too wild about it but everyone else seemed to give it glowing reviews, particularly those I knew who had had it done. I also talked to an eye doctor friend of mine in NJ (forgive me for my doctor comment above) and he reassured me about all the things that I was concerned about.

Once I got past that obstacle, I started reading up on the surgery itself. I wanted to know what was going to happen during the procedure. This was where things started getting dicey.

I asked my wife what the surgery was like for her. She said they gave her a valium and she didn't remember a thing about it. Wow, I figured that valium must be a pretty effective relaxant and that it would help me deal with the fact that a giant machine was approaching my eye ball to slice it open.

No worries.

The day of my surgery arrived and I was fairly nervous…but not so bad as to want to run away screaming down the road. I went to the surgery center and checked in. They gave me that magical valium pill and I sat back waiting to enter a world of plush meadows, fluttering butterflies, and sweet music before my eye ball was gently fileted and delicately corrected with dancing beams of light.

About an hour later, they began the pre-surgery tests and preparation. I felt a little loopy but I wasn't seeing any butterflies yet…though I still felt a few in my stomach. Finally I entered the laser room.

The moment had arrived.

I laid down on a padded table and they proceeded to pack some cushions around my head to keep it steady. They gave me a stuffed skunk to hold against my chest during the surgery. Not sure of the significance of the skunk but I graciously took it since my dream of being in the plush meadows had not materialized yet. 

My right eye was taped open and a cup was put over it. A little suction was applied to pull my eye upward. Then before I could contemplate the thought of my eyeball popping out of my skull, I was slid under a machine and a round metal contraption started descending toward my eye. Everything went black…and I felt nothing but some pressure…but I knew that my eye was being sliced by a laser. But, again, before I could contemplate that too much, I was immediately rotated under another machine in which a yellow laser light started making clicking noises. This lasted for about 20 seconds and then the doctor took some kind of instrument and folded the flap of my eye back over and started smoothing it out. I felt like I had my eye pressed against a window while someone proceeded to clean the outside of it. It was a weird feeling. I knew he was working on my eye but it seemed like I was watching it from far away since I didn't physically feel anything. 

The right eye was done. Now it was time for the left eye. I knew the drill…which made it worse because now I had some time to think about it. I bent one of my legs to get more comfortable…or maybe just to squirm a little bit…and they quickly told me to put my leg down and relax. I squeezed that little skunk like an old teddy bear as they repeated the process.

Tape. Suction. Slice. Light. Flap. Done. 

I got up and moved into another dim lit room. I could see well enough to text my wife and let her know that the procedure was done. While I waited for the doctor, I watched as the next patient entered the laser room. Her tatooed, muscular husband was with her. The doctor invited him in but instead he stayed out in the hallway, peeking in every once awhile and then turning back and saying, "Oh, my God!" He looked like he was going to pass out and told me that he could never have that done to him. I felt a little better about my moment of cradling a stuffed skunk for security.

The doctor came in and briefly examined me. 

"The right eye looks good. The left eye has a slight abrasion. That may take a little longer to heal. Use your drops and come back tomorrow for your follow-up."

Before I could process the thought of an "abrasion," he was gone. I got up and walked through a green meadow with butterflies back into the waiting room. 

I went home, took a sleeping pill, and went to sleep. 

About four hours later, I woke up in extreme discomfort…dare, I say pain. My eyes felt like they were on fire and my left eye particularly hurt. I took another sleeping pill and a few Advils and thankfully went back to sleep after about thirty minutes. 

I woke up the next morning and the pain was still there. I didn't want to open my eyes. Every time I did, they watered incessantly. It felt like a grain of sand was in both eyes and I wanted so badly to rub them but knew I could not. That's the one big no-no that they stressed over and over.  I had envisioned getting up the next morning and resuming normal life with clearer vision but that clearly wasn't happening. As the day progressed, I realized that the only thing that felt good was laying down with my eyes closed. So that's what I did most of the day. 

At my follow-up appointment that day, I could barely open my eyes to read the eye charts. Nothing was clear. Everything was blurry. My eyes were ultra-sensitive to light…and super-irritated. Another doctor came in and numbed my eyes to remove the protective contacts placed there after surgery. He mentioned the abrasion on my left eye and noted that a piece of eye tissue was sticking out from it. That didn't sound too good…or too fun to remove. He asked me to blink vigorously to see if that would remove it…otherwise, he would use an instrument to pull it out. I blinked vigorously. And thankfully dislodged it.

I asked about the abrasion. "How do you get an abrasion from laser surgery?" 

He hemmed and hawed a little bit and then finally said, "Well, the doctor may have had a little too much coffee and just slightly nicked you with one of the instruments during the surgery. It is not too hard to do." 

Oh, so the "abrasion" was more like a "nick" which was more like a "caffeine-induced mistake" which was causing my eye considerable pain. 

He gave me a presciption for pain medication in case the pain got worse after the numbing drops wore off. Thankfully when I got home, I went back to sleep. By the time I woke up, the pain had subsided substantially. My eyes were still irritated but not on fire. 

The next day was better…and the day after that a little better. 

Now ten days after surgery, I would say that my far vision is excellent. Still blurry at times but particularly clear in the daylight. In fact, my second follow up appointment indicated that I had 20/20 vision. 

But to my surprise, my near vision has gotten much worse.

Now going into this thing, they had informed me that I would need reading glasses. Unless I did a monovision correction (one eye corrected for far vision and the other for near vision), then Lasik wouldn't change my presbyopia. Of course, I didn't think that was a big deal since I grew up Presbyterian. Just kidding… Presbyopia literally means "old man eye" and that is what I have now that I am in my mid-40s.

Ahh, the joys of getting older. 

So since the surgery, it has been reading glasses for me. Thankfully you can buy a pair at Walmart for under $6…or apparently at the dollar store for…well, a dollar. I am still hoping that my near vision improves more but, if not, then I will probably invest in a nice pair of reading bifocals that are clear on top and readers on the bottom so that I don't have to keep pulling my glasses off and on or perch them on the end of my nose like my old librarian in middle school. I don't want to look that old yet. 

So here is what I have learned so far…

1. Getting older is a reality that is sometimes hard to face. My mind still feels 20 but my body is reminding me otherwise. 

2. Seeing is a precious gift. My biggest fear going through all of this was the thought of losing my sight. It is something that we take for granted…unless we lose it…or are around someone who has lost it. I know God sustains us whatever our circumstances are but I am thankful today for the gift of sight.  

3. I was reminded of the verse in 1 Corinthians 13:12 in which Paul says that, in this life, we see "in a mirror dimly." In other words, we do not have full knowledge. Our perspective is limited. Our understanding is blurry. Spiritually, no one sees 20/20 in this life. We all have blind spots, astigmatism, myopia, hyperopia, presbyopia. This should humble us, make us open to God's corrective lenses (Scripture), and give us a longing for the day when we see Him face to face. The day when our eyes are fully opened. The day when clarity replaces confusion. The day that we fully know as we have been fully known.

Lasik is only a small picture of how the light of Christ's glory will one day instantly correct our vision, dispel our darkness, and give us true sight. Life may be blurry now. But one day, both near and far, will be perfectly clear.

And that gives me hope…and peace…and security in this world…

Even when I still have to squeeze a stuffed skunk. 

We live in narratives. We construct narratives. We interpret life through narratives. 

That thought struck me as I reflected again on the Trayvon Martin tragedy. The truth of what actually happened on that day (Feb 26, 2012) may never be fully known. One thing that is clear is that it was a tragedy. A 17-year old boy lost his life based on a confrontation that from all appearances could have…and should have…been avoided. 

But from the first day of Martin's death, many media outlets tried to fit the event into an overall narrative–a white man shot an unarmed black youth out of racial profiling and racial hatred. This narrative governed how many media outlets covered the event. And whenever evidence emerged that contradicted the narrative, it was either ignored or interpreted differently. The most glaring example of this was NBC's editing of George Zimmerman's 911 call to purposefully make his words appear racially charged. The initial pictures of Martin and Zimmerman on most major newscasts also clearly presented Zimmerman as a big thug and Martin as a small smiling pre-teen even though at the time of the shooting Zimmerman was 5'9" and 170 lbs. and Martin was 6'1" and 150 lbs. 

As a USA Today article (July 14, 2013) noted, "Some of the media's major mistakes stemmed from stories that fit neatly into that widely accepted narrative."

Of course, on the other side of the aisle, a few conservative news outlets and various online postings did all they could to defend Zimmerman and present the most unfavorable picture of Martin as possible, highlighting a recent suspension he had from school and finding as many unpleasant photos of Martin (including some not of Martin) they could find. 

I confess…I tended toward the more conservative news outlets and couldn't understand why some people seemed completely unable to separate this tragedy from a larger racial narrative.

But then I began to put myself into a different scenario.

Suppose I was a Christian in a Muslim-dominated country and an unarmed Christian teen was shot by a Muslim young adult in a predominantly Muslim neighborhood. As a Christian, I would almost immediately place that incident into a larger narrative of Muslim oppression and hatred for Christians. And despite the evidence that would emerge, I would still have a hard time processing the story any differently. In fact, I would probably look at any re-interpretation of the events as further Muslim opppression.

My narrative would dictate my perspective. 

Isn't that what happens with most major stories? We come to the story with our own story, our own narrative. And we often go to the news outlets that we already know will reinforce our narrative. For instance, if Obama makes any political decision, we can almost assume that liberal news outlets will put a positive spin on it and conservative ones will put a negative spin on it. And even if the decision is somewhat conservative in nature, many conservatives will still find some hidden agenda to make it even more insiduously liberal. 

Our narratives dictate our perspectives.

And the current glut of media information and instant accessibility to every possible viewpoint means that we can always find information to fit our own preferred narrative. Thus our own narrative is reinforced and the divide between me and anyone who disagrees with me is widened.

Welcome to the present-day USA.

So what does all this mean? Since we all see things from our own narrative should we give up on all narratives? That is the post-modern solution. No one is truly objective. All is subjective. So just construct your own narrative, accept everyone else's narrative as equally valid, and get used to ambiguity. 

As Nietzsche once said: "There are many kinds of eyes. Even the sphinx has eyes – and consequently there are many kinds of 'truths,' and consequently there is no truth."

Sounds good on the surface but the postmodern narrative is its own narrative. So who is to say that it is right? 

Going back to the Trayvon Martin tragedy, something did happen on February 26, 2012. There is a reality. We may never personally know the true story but there is a true story. There is a real narrative. The challenge is resisting the tendency to try to fit the real narrative into our own preconceived narrative. Instead we have to submit our narrative to the larger one, the real one.

How can we do this? How can we ever know what the real narrative is?

We can't know unless the one who knows the real narrative accurately tells us. If Martin were still alive, and both he and Zimmerman were honestly objective, then they could tell us the true story. We could know what happened on that day, what thoughts went through their heads, their reactions, their choices, their mistakes, their actions. And if we humbly and openly listened, then we could know the truth.

Projecting that out to the larger narrative of reality, we can know the Truth only if the One who objectively sees and knows all things reveals the Story to us. And if there is such a One, and He reveals the Story, then we could know the Truth if we listened humbly and openly…and if we were willing to submit our smaller, personal narrative to this larger, real One.

We live in narratives. We construct narratives. We interpret life through narratives. 

And we either stay in our smaller stories or we find our place in a larger Story. We either construct our own reality or we submit to a larger Reality and let it reconstruct us. We either interpret life through our own narrative or we let a larger Narrative interpret life for us.

Yes, this is the intersection of faith, reason, and revelation. 

There is a God. There is a Reality. There is a Story. 

And through faith, I have placed my narrative in His.