What Will the Guys Think?

Time for a funny story.  I hope my son doesn’t mind me telling it, but it happened almost 20 years ago, so I think I’m safe.

My son was a bit unusual.  I realized this early on, and my husband and I decided he really needed to be home-schooled.  He was highly self-motivated and sped through the materials I gave him.  At the age of 13, he came to me with a brochure of classes at the local junior college.  It had been inserted in the local newspaper.  He informed me he wanted to take an American History course in the fall semester.

He had to jump through a few extra hoops because of his age, but when college began in late August, he was ready to go.  He was, of course, not old enough to drive, so I took him to the campus.  I wanted him to feel comfortable walking in to his first class, so we arrived early to scope things out.  I suggested we walk through the building and identify the classroom, so he would be confident.  He was clearly going to stick out like a sore thumb, whether or not he knew where he was going, because at 13 he had not yet had his growth spurt and looked like a little kid.

After locating the room, we went back outside and sat at a picnic table.  He said to me, “Mom, I am a bit concerned about this.  I am not worried about the academics.  I know I can do it.  But, I don’t know how I will be received.  Oh….I know what the girls will think.  They’ll think I’m just a cute little boy, but I don’t know what the guys will think.”

I replied, “Well, I don’t know either.  We’ll just have to wait and see.”

He went off to his first class.  I went to run some errands and returned in time to pick him up.  I sat in my car in the parking lot and watched for him to emerge from the building.  Soon I saw him, but he was not alone.  Next to him walked a rather stunning young woman.  She was dressed in tight blue jeans and a form-fitting sweater which showed off her attractive figure.  She had dark hair cascading over her shoulders and pretty features.  They strolled to the parking lot together, talking and laughing as though they were already good friends.

He got in the car, and I couldn’t help myself.  I said, “Nate, I know what the guys think.”

“You do?!" he said startled.

“Yes…they hate you,” I said with a laugh.

I continued, “You know, probably over half the guys in your class, would have loved to walk to the parking lot with that girl.  How did that happen?”

“Well, after class she came over and asked me how old I was, and we just got talking.”

He had three sisters who were teenagers when he was born, so talking to an “older woman” came easily for him.

He eventually made friends both male and female.  Everyone was older than he was, and some were even grandparents, or mothers who wanted to fix him up with their daughters.  But, he had a wonderful experience and even got involved with student government.  So much for the notion that home-schooling has a negative impact on social skills.

Am I a Racist?

Current events should cause us all to do a bit of soul searching.  Several incidents in my life when my conscience was pricked are coming to mind.

When I was a child, I was rarely left home alone, but on those unusual and unavoidable occasions, I was always instructed to keep the door locked and open it for no one.  We lived outside the city in a rural area where houses were far apart.  One day when I was alone, I heard a knock at the door.  A well-dressed black man was outside.  There was a window in the door so we could see each other.  He called through the door that he was having car trouble and needed to use a phone.  I shook my head “no.”

He said, “Oh, honey, I wouldn’t hurt you.  Please let me use the phone.”

I shook my head “no” again and moved out of sight of the door feeling terrible.  Did the man think I had refused him because he was black?  I had been sternly admonished to open the door for no one, so his color was irrelevant, but he didn’t know that, and I felt terrible.

After I had become a registered nurse, I worked one summer between college years at a hospital in Buffalo, New York.  I worked with a number of black LPNs and aides that summer, and we also had black patients.  There were not enough RNs to go around, so on the night shift, I covered anywhere from two to six floors for medications, treatments the LPNs couldn’t do, and assessment of situations in which they needed help.

One night I was called to a floor where a black lady was complaining constantly.  The staff on the floor knew her from a prior admission and said she was a difficult patient to deal with.  I do not remember whether the LPN and aide on the unit were black themselves or white.  I went in to try and settle her down and determine if anything was seriously wrong and her complaints legitimate.  She said she was becoming paralyzed and couldn’t move her legs.  The problem was that when I left the room and returned a few minutes later, she had changed positions, so I had trouble believing what she said.  I concluded that she had some mental health issues. It was an unpleasant night with no good solution to her seeming distress.

When I arrived on that floor the next night, she was gone.  I asked if she had been discharged or transferred.  No…she died this morning.  My heart sank.  My immediate thought was that I had not believed her because she was black.  When I expressed that I felt terrible for not believing she was genuinely in distress, I was told, “Don’t feel bad.  When she said she couldn’t breathe, there were two doctors standing there who were convinced she was holding her breath.”  She died right in front of them.

I suspect the woman did have mental health issues, and she already had a reputation with the staff, but I was still troubled.  Had I allowed her skin color to influence my judgment?

When my children were little, I took them to a pediatrician’s office where I had opportunity to interact with several of the nurses.  I had a favorite who was obviously intelligent, soft spoken and very kind.  One day I received a phone call from a professional acquaintance.  She was in a position to hire a Registered Nurse and had been informed that she needed to hire someone black to even things up at the institution for which she worked.  She said, “I understand there is a black nurse at the pediatrician’s office where you take your children.  Can you tell me her name?”

I paused and thought about it….a black nurse?  After a few seconds, it dawned on me.  My favorite nurse was black.  I had never consciously thought about it.

That nurse and I became friends.  One day we somehow got on the topic of traveling with our parents when we were young.  We both had the experience of our mothers packing our meals for days of travel and sight-seeing, but for different reasons.  My family could not afford to eat out in the days before McDonalds.  Her family could never be sure they would find a place where they would be allowed to eat.  I felt such sadness for her and a keen awareness of the differences in our experiences.

I hate what has happened and what is happening in Minneapolis right now.  A black man is accused of passing a counterfeit bill (which at this point isn’t proven), he does not resist arrest, and a cop with previous accusations of undue force, pins him down and basically kills him in plain sight of people who are begging him to get his knee off the black man’s neck.  What?!  How can this be?

Cops have a very difficult job.  There are some bad folks out there…black and white…with whom law enforcement must deal.  There are bad cops.  There are also good cops whose job is made more difficult by the bad cops and by violent responses to the actions of those baddies.

All the sensitivity training and regulations in the world won’t solve the problem.  The problem lies in the human heart and mind.  Only God can solve that.  Jesus died to redeem us from all types of sin…including racial prejudice.

May the Holy Spirit prick my conscience when I am tempted to deal with anyone in the context of their skin color or social status.

Mortal Man's Dilemma

Soaring forth on eagle’s wings,

We long to see the future.

To know what is down the road,

To live without conjecture.

Oh, to have the piercing eye,

That sees what lies ahead.

So we know with certainty,

Whether to embrace or dread.

This the plight of mortal man,

To be caught in pinpoint time.

One small slice of our life span,

Is all we can divine.

As we awaken each new day,

The veil so slightly drawn,

We step out in faith or fear,

Until the final dawn.

What will we do when God confronts us?

If I have denied justice to any of my servants, whether male or female, when they had a grievance against me, what will I do when God confronts me?  What will I answer when called to account?  Did not he who made me in the womb make them?  Did not the same one form us both within our mothers?  Job 31:13-13

These verses are part of a lengthy statement made by Job in which he lists potential sins and potential judgments against him by God for those sins.  I found this one especially interesting, in light of the tendency in our society for people in positions of authority to enrich themselves at the expense of those for whom they should be caring.  Substitute the word “employees” for “my servants.”

Having spent over 50 years married to the CEO of a business, I do understand that there are times when the person sitting at the top of an organizations makes decisions that are not understood by employees, and that may appear to them as unfair because they don’t have the big picture.  But, that is a different thing than ignoring a grievance and failing to act with integrity.  Job knows that he will have to account for living in luxury while turning a deaf ear and blind eye to the needs of his workers.

What makes the billionaire with multiple homes, yachts, and the most extravagant clothing and food, think that he deserves these things?  Didn’t God form his underlings too?  Didn’t they both start out as naked babes?  Won’t they both leave this world taking nothing with them?

A person may believe he deserves more because he is more intelligent or talented or works harder.  Who gave him the ability to use his mind or his hands? Who gave him the strength to work intensely?  Everything we have comes from the hand of God.  Any one of us could have just as easily been born slow of mind or weak in body.  We will have to give account for the way in which we have used what we have been given.  The parable of the talents (Matthew 25) makes it clear that we have responsibility commensurate with our gifts.

These verses speak also about something even worse than ignoring the needs of employees.  In the situation cited by Job, the employee has “a grievance.”  Unfair treatment is exposed.  It cannot be ignored, but no correction is offered.  Justice is requested and denied.

It is true that we have a loving God.  It is also true that we have a just God.  Because he is loving, he may withhold judgment for a time.  Because he is just, judgment will eventually come.  He does not ignore a grievance.

What will we do when God confronts us?

What will we answer when called to account?

Why Bother Being a Mother?

Why bother being a mother?

Before I became a mother, I put myself through some mental, emotional, and spiritual gymnastics asking myself this question.  I observed that most people seemed to enter into parenthood either accidentally, or because they thought it was the norm.  If I asked people why they had children, they would say something like “children bring so much joy into your life.”

I was then left to wonder what happens if a child does not bring joy?  I certainly knew this was a possibility.  Having spent three months of nursing school in a pediatric hospital in Chicago, I saw some very difficult situations.  I dealt with some very difficult situations myself.  When caring for an extremely ill child or a child who seemed to have an innately difficult disposition, I would find myself counting the hours to the end of my shift when this nightmare would no longer be my responsibility.  Then I would think, “What if this was my child?  What if this problem was mine to deal with 24/7?”

So, prior to deciding to actually become a mother, I discussed this knotty problem with my husband and friends and did a lot of thinking and praying.  I even considered writing a book on the topic.  In the end, I concluded that the only reason for me personally to embark on this journey was because I believed it was God’s purpose for my life.  I knew that children did not come with a lifetime guarantee or a Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval.  I asked God to pick my children and to then give me the strength and wisdom to be a good mother.

Having come to that conclusion, I could, therefore, accept the idea that my children might be any gender, any level of intelligence, any color (if adopted) and any state of health.  I had been troubled when I heard someone ask a pregnant woman if they were hoping for a boy or girl, and heard the response, “I don’t care as long as the child is healthy.”  I would think, “and what if it isn’t?”

I have been given four unique children.  Each one has interesting strengths and weaknesses.  Each personality is quite different.  One was adopted at 3 weeks and another at 11 years.  One was born when I was under 30 and another when I was over 40.  I have loved them all equally, but I have not interacted with all in the same way.  I have tried to consider the unique needs of each child.  The challenges were varied.  The outcomes are varied.

All I have ever cared about is that they would each discover that a relationship with God is the only real source of joy and peace in life.  Sometimes I have grieved, and sometimes I have rejoiced.  Always I have prayed and still do.

How to be Smart and Wise

Job is a fascinating book.  I always enjoy reading it, because it is so thought provoking.  Recently I noticed the similarity between a verse in Job and one in the Psalms and another in Proverbs.

Job 28:28  And he said to the human race, “The fear of the Lord—that is wisdom, and to shun evil is understanding.”

Psalm 111:10  The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom; all who follow his precepts have good understanding.

Proverbs 9:10  The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom, and knowledge of the Holy One is understanding.

The fear of the Lord is an interesting concept.  Fear usually means shaking in your boots scared.  There is reason to be shaking in your boots, if you have to face Him after a lifetime of rejecting him.  If you have appropriate “fear” now there will be no reason to be afraid then. 

It is wise to fear the one who is the creator and whose wisdom so far exceeds our own that the difference between us is immeasurable.  Standing in absolute awe is appropriate.

One of the problems in our society currently is that children do not “fear” their parents.  An understanding that one’s parents have power over him, and that respect is in order, produces a “fear” of sorts that actually protects a child rather than harming him.  Parents are not supposed to be winning a popularity contest with their children.  God is not trying to win a popularity contest with us either.

God is a loving father, but he is an all-powerful one.  Recognition of that produces wisdom.  Adherence to the guidelines he has set up means we really understand the situation.  i.e. “to shun evil is understanding” and those who “follow his precepts have good understanding.”

It makes me heartsick to see individuals and groups in society flaunting their rejection of God and the guidelines he gives for our own good.  Such an attitude is neither smart nor wise.

Tale of an Unsterile Instrument

After we had finished our first of the three years in nursing school in a hospital-based diploma program, we could work on our days off and be paid.  On these occasions we had to wear a different uniform than the student uniform, and we were referred to as nursing technicians.  Many of us made use of this way of starting to put money away for college.  My father had told me that after nursing school, I was on my own, so I knew I needed to start earning and saving as soon as I could.

At the beginning of the day, we would go to the office of the nursing supervisor and find out where we were needed.  We would, of course, not be sent to a place where we had not already had experience, so usually we ended up on a medical/surgical unit.  Once in awhile, the operating room would be short staffed.  I was one of the only students who would agree to go there.  I had enjoyed the time I spent there as a student and didn’t mind going back. 

Except….on one such occasion, I was asked to be the scrub nurse for Dr. H who had a reputation for hating students.  Once outfitted in a scrub dress, cap, mask and gloves, I would look like any other nurse, so there was reason to think he might not know I was a student.  But, he had a reputation for being very precise and difficult.  We were all terrified of him, because we knew he had no patience with students.  If I made a mistake of any kind, he would guess and be furious.

 When I was assigned to scrub with him, I protested.  The RN who was to be the circulating nurse in the room said I shouldn’t worry.  She knew exactly how he liked things.  She wrote his preferences on a piece of paper and taped it to the wall right behind my back table.  When one scrubs for surgery (or at least it was true 60 years ago) there are two sterile tables to be concerned with.  There is a tray that goes right over the patient, adjacent to the area being operated on.  It is from this table the scrub nurse passes the instruments to the doctor.  The back table contains other instruments and supplies that might be needed to restock the tray one is working from.  There was plenty of opportunity for me to go to the back table and check the list the RN had taped to the wall.  I fooled him all morning.

I knew he had not figured out my lowly student status, because after lunch he asked me where I had been at lunch time.  He had wanted to buy my lunch.  If he had any idea I was a student, he would have know that I got my lunch for free, and that I sat in an area of the cafeteria designated for students.

The afternoon did not go as well as the morning…that is an understatement.  One of the last cases of the day was an intestinal resection necessitated by a cancerous tumor.  All went well until I handed him the clamp to close off the intestine so he could cut it without intestinal contents getting into the abdominal cavity.

“This is not my clamp!” he roared.

The tray of instruments had been prepared and sterilized the prior afternoon by someone who was supposed to know his preferences.  I certainly did not know he had his own special clamp for this part of the procedure, so I had handed him the standard issue used by most surgeons.  I frantically looked through the tray on the back table…no luck.  The circulating nurse came and looked without touching anything…no luck.

She told Dr. H she would go and find his clamp.  She came back in the room quite quickly and informed him she had found the clamp, but it had not been sterilized.  She would put it in the high pressure autoclave and it would be ready in…I think she said…three minutes.

He shouted that he wasn’t waiting three minutes.  I don’t remember if I had to say to him that I would not hand it to him or if he figured this out on his own.  He directed the circulating nurse to put the clamp in the basin of sterile water which was adjacent to the OR table.  She protested.  He insisted.

She put the non-sterile clamp in the basin, and told him she would have to record on the surgical record that he had used a non-sterile instrument. 

Dr. H said, he didn’t care what she said on the record.  He directed her to bring him some antibiotic crystals to place in the abdomen in hopes of preventing an infection.  Then he said, “It doesn’t matter.  The guy is full of cancer anyway.”

I could hardly wait to be done and get out of there.  As the scrub nurse, I had not participated in his breech of protocol and had no responsibility.  It was the circulating nurse’s job to report this.  I was sickened by what I had seen and heard.  Dr. H was renowned throughout the Midwest as a top surgeon.  People came from great distances to have him operate on them.

I, of course, also wondered, if I wasn’t a student would I have known that his special clamp was missing from the tray?

I never knew what happened to the patient following surgery.  I’m pretty sure neither he nor his family were told what happened in the OR.  I would not be telling this story, except that I'm pretty sure both the patient and Dr. H are long dead.