Carrying The Olympic Flame

There was one moment that stood out for me from the many moving moments of the opening ceremony of the Olympics. It was the lighting of the Olympic torch. It didn't go the way we thought it would. There was no one special person selected to light it. There were many vessels that received the light and passed it on to others. As each connected, a circle of light was formed. Then each light was raised, as we will someday be. As they were lifted up, each individual light came together to form one light, one Olympic cauldron as a symbol for all to see.

 Only after the flame was lit did we begin to understand the brass vessels we had seen being carried so carefully in gloved white hands as the athletes from each participating country entered the arena. They were symbols of what each country held and carried to these world games: the best of their athletes. But they seemed to also be symbols of our souls, held and carried so tenderly by God, lit with His eternal flame which we pass along to those near us, igniting a global, growing Christic consciousness that we may never be able to fully understand or see until we view it from above. "E pluribus unum,"  a Latin phrase on the currency of the United States along with In God We Trust, translates from the many, one. One light. One world. One God. Indivisible. With liberty and justice for all. We saw each carrier of an Olympic torch dial it open to keep the flame lit. May we remember to do the same with our hearts to be enflamed with the fire of God's love. As others connect with us, a circle of love will be form around the world that will pierce its darkness with divine, healing light. It is not only time for the Olympics. It is time to hold up the light of our shared divinity, the power of God's love for the world to behold. It probably won't go the way we think it will. There will be no one special person who makes it happen. All we have to do is carry the light so others can see it and connect to it. God will raise it up. It will be inspiring to watch.

Being Like Jesus

Very often we distance ourselves from Jesus.  We say, "What Jesus knew we cannot know, and what Jesus did we cannot do."  But Jesus never puts any distance between himself and us.   He says:  "I call you friends, because I have made known to you everything I have learnt from my Father" (John 15:15) and  "In all truth I tell you, whoever believes in me will perform the same works as I do myself, and will perform even greater works"  (John 14:12).

Indeed, we are called to know what Jesus knew and do what Jesus did.  Do we really want that, or do we prefer to keep Jesus at arms' length?

 

A Miracle Inside the Aurora Shooting: One Victim’s Story

Shared from Brad Strait's Celtic Strait blog:

http://bstrait.wordpress.com/2012/07/22/a-miracle-inside-the-the-aurora-shooting-one-victims-story/

Posted on July 23, 2012

Shooting Victim Petra Anderson

At Columbine, I have seen this before. But not up close.  As a church pastor in Denver, I have worked as a chaplain with several police and fire departments. I was privileged to counsel parents just hours after the Littleton Columbine shootings. However, in this new tragedy at the Aurora Theater Dark Night shooting, one of the victims was a 22 year old woman from my church, Petra Anderson (pronounced Pay-tra). Petra went to the movies with two young friends who are biking across America.  You and I have been inundated with news about what happened next. A joyful movie turned into bloody, unbelievable chaos. Petra was hit four times with a shot-gun blast, three shots into her arm and one bullet which entered her brain. This a bit of Petra’s miracle story.

With awesome people from our caring and pastoral team, I spent all day Friday in the ICU with Petra and her family. Her injuries were severe, and her condition was critical. A bullet had entered Petra’s face through her nose, and then traveled up through her brain until stopping at the back of her skull. The doctors prior to surgery were concerned, because so much of the brain had been traversed by the bullet. Many areas of brain function were involved. They were hoping to keep her alive long enough to get her into surgery. The prognosis was uncertain—if she lived, Petra might struggle with speech, movement, and thinking due to considerable brain damage. With Kim, Petra’s mother (who is in the final stages of terminal cancer), we simply cried, hugged, and prayed.

It is pressed into my memory now. Motion and emotion…

Other families come and go into the ICU waiting room. Some sit with us, and we talk. Others are visited by doctors with “Family Advocates” in tow. The families listen, sob, and then are moved like stunned cattle to a more private space to grieve. We pray. Petra is finally taken into surgery, using two different surgical teams. One team of neurosurgeons will open up the back of her skull to remove the bullet and clean up brain damage as best they can. Another ENT-specialty surgical team will then work through Petra’s nose by scope to follow the bullet’s path up into her brain.  Their hope is to remove bone fragments, clean up damaged brain tissue, and reseal her brain to reduce infection.

If you have lived any of your days in a hospital waiting room, you know how long the enduring process is. It has a woeful pattern to it. Sit. Walk. Grab a drink. Sit. Walk. Answer a phone call. Sit. Walk. Hug someone. Sit. Talk to the FBI. Sit. Pick at the food. Sit. Walk. Go down the hall, but not too far because you’re afraid to miss something. Back. Hug. Pray. Sit. Sit. A picture of a five year old waiting for next Christmas from January 1^st comes to my mind. FOREVER. Only this feels worse: a heavy forever, with no promise of presents, Santa, or good news at the end.

Petra Anderson and her world class violin.

After the waiting drags for over five hours, tired doctors and nurses spill back into the room, one or two at a time. I look for “Family Advocates” but can find none. I exhale. The doctors update us: “It went well, and she’s recovering now. We found very little damage to the brain, and got the bullet out cleanly. It went better than we hoped for.” Each brings a warrior’s smile, and a bit of information—information that we turn into hope as we regurgitate it over the next hours.  Still, the medical team remains professional and reserved, “Something might still go wrong. We just need to wait and see if she makes it for the next 48 hours.”
Tears and thank you’s abound. We are so thankful for these men and women. We hug. Everyone hugs. Then, round two. Sit. Wait. Pray. Fully dressed people cuddle into small snails and try to sleep on the floor. Some are shuttled to a room donated by the Holiday Inn across the street. Thank you, Lord, for every little thing. We sit. We pray. “We’ll understand better tomorrow.”

Petra is moved back to ICU. She looks, surprisingly, wonderful. With a small hole in her nose, and her arm wrapped, she almost looks uninjured. She is medicated and sleeping when I come to visit her on Saturday. I sit, talk, and pray quietly with Kim amid the darkened room, lit by glowing medical screens and power switches. Nurses, like quiet soldiers posted on guard, come in, march attentively through the machines, and go out.  These men and women really care. Finally, one of the surgeons comes in to check on Petra. He has had some sleep, and looks more like a movie star this time. As Petra sleeps, he retells the story of the surgery, and we ask questions.  The doctor reads the perfect script, as if he is on Hallmark Hall of Fame. He fills us in on the miracle. Honestly, he doesn’t call it that, he just uses words like “happily” and “wonderfully” and “in a very fortunate way” and “luckily” and “we were really surprised by that.”  Kim and I know a miracle when we see it.

It seems as if the bullet traveled through Petra’s brain without hitting any significant brain areas. The doctor explains that Petra’s brain has had from birth a small “defect” in it. It is a tiny channel of fluid running through her skull, like a tiny vein through marble, or a small hole in an oak board, winding from front to rear.  Only a CAT scan would catch it, and Petra would have never noticed it.

But in Petra’s case, the shotgun buck shot, maybe even the size used for deer hunting, enters her brain from the exact point of this defect. Like a marble through a small tube, the defect channels the bullet from Petra’s nose through her brain. It turns slightly several times, and comes to rest at the rear of her brain. And in the process, the bullet misses all the vital areas of the brain. In many ways, it almost misses the brain itself.  Like a giant BB though a straw created in Petra’s brain before she was born, it follows the route of the defect. It is channeled in the least harmful way. A millimeter in any direction and the channel is missed.  The brain is destroyed. Evil wins a round.
As he shares, the doctor seems taken aback. It is an odd thing to have a surgeon show a bit of wonder. Professionally, these guys own the universe, it seems, and take everything in stride. He is obviously gifted as a surgeon, and is kind in his manner. “It couldn’t have gone better. If it were my daughter,” he says quietly, glancing around to see if any of his colleagues might be watching him, “I’d be ecstatic. I’d be dancing a jig.” He smiles. I can’t keep my smile back, or the tears of joy. In Christianity we call it prevenient grace: God working ahead of time for a particular event in the future. It’s just like the God I follow to plan the route of a bullet through a brain long before Batman ever rises. Twenty-two years before.

While we’re talking, Petra awakes. She opens her eyes, and sits up, “Mom.” Movie-star doctor spins to grab her, to protect her from falling. The nurse assures him she’s been doing this for a while. He talks to her, and she talks back. He asks questions, and Petra has the right answers. “Where do you hurt, Petra?” “All over.” Amazed, but professional, he smiles and leaves the set shaking his head. I am so thankful for this man.
Petra is groggy and beat up, but she is herself. Honestly, I look worse before my morning coffee. “I’m thirsty,” she proclaims.

“You want an ice cube, honey?” Kim replies.

“Please.”  Wow. She lays down, back to sleep, a living miracle who doesn’t even know it yet. Good flowering out of the refuse pile of a truly dark night. “Thank you, Jesus,” I whisper.

Kim and her daughter.

Petra, you are amazing. Kim, you, too, are amazing. I am so proud of you both. But God, you are in a league of your own. (Duh.)

There is much ahead. More surgerys. Facial reconstruction, perhaps. And for Kim, chemo therapy to stretch every moment out of life. But life remains.The ending is yet to be written for this family.

One final note: I am told Petra will take her first steps today. Time for the miracle to go for a walk.
Kim and Petra need our help. For more on the Andersons, or to help with their medical costs, please visit here. This is a great site.

Oh my God

Oh my God, I stand before your majesty in awe and wonder as you swirl the colors of this day's sunrise before me on the clouds. How softly you kiss them, as if to say to anyone watching, "Come! I have kisses for you, too!"

Effortless and constant are your creative powers. They still my soul into silent admiration and bliss. I cannot imagine life with you once freed from the confines of this human body, but my soul senses the ecstasy and peace in wispy, wavy moments like this one as I stand before the waters of the sea and the transmuting colors of your sky. Teach me to read better your messages each day. Sharpen my powers of observation and understanding so my heart hears and learns Your pace, Your messages, Your directives.

I am so obtuse, my spiritual senses so dull. I want to be led by You and I feel like Helen Keller, deaf, dumb, and blind to all You dangle before me to entertain, please, direct, and console me. I do feel You though, my wonderful Counselor. I feel Your soft, warm caress in this morning's breeze off the Bay causing me to lift my face to You. I do hear You in an inner voice that eggs me on when my body wearies under the day's burdens. How long will it take for us to evolve as Your people until we see You in each other's eyes, until we hear You in each other's voices, until we forgive each other for the actions we take when we have tuned You out and refused to listen to Your Word, Your guidance, Your truth?

 This could be heaven right here, right now, like the Star Trek episode where all the planet's people walked around in blissful agape love for one another... You are so patient, Your love endlessly enduring while we, this current generation, move like all the others through our life cycles, with our scientists listening in deep space for anything far less satisfying or stimulating than exists in the very center of their being; with our poor still being ignored and devalued ( let's put us women in that category, too); our leaders not knowing which advisors to listen to and heed as they evict the Evil One who has tricked others into compromising their connection and power with You, leaving your mansion to live in his slums. This could be heaven right now.

 I think I understand why the mullets jump. We see them only for a moment out of the water. The really entertaining ones, the ones that capture our attention, jump three, four, five times in a row like a skipping stone. We humans are to emulate the ways of Your creation. We must jump out of our comfort zones every once in a while and make our voices heard, or poems read; our music played, or art displayed; our theorems understood or strength displayed to do our part to bring us all together, one nation under You with liberty and love and justice for all.

Countercultural

After the storm...a fresh start to a new day!  How great are thy works, O Lord! "...the bonding of human beings with the grace of God is the heart of personal prayer and contemplation. "It is the letting-go of control to become a vessel of reconciliation and transformation...totally countercultural, and yet at the same time it is perhaps the single most practical thing in the postmodern world.". David G. R. Keller from Spirituality, Contemplation & Transformation: Writings on Centering Prayer I love being countercultural!