Waiting…

I had a surgical procedure done on my knee this week.  Nothing big, the surgeon did a great job, and I am recovering nicely, thank you.   But with the COVID virus, the pre-surgery routine has changed.  My wife could not go back with me for the pre-op routine. 

For those of you unfamiliar with the pre-op routine, your name is called as you sit in the waiting room.  You follow a nurse back to a small room.  She will ask your full name and date of birth (this will happen many times).  She tells you to take off your clothes (yes, all of them) and put on a gown.  The gown, designed to make sure you do not leave the hospital, leaves you feeling exposed – because you are.  Various people come in and out, all asking your full name and date of birth.  You are repeatedly asked questions about your health: Ever had cancer?  Ever fainted?  Ever had a reaction to anesthesia?  Ever had a splinter?  Ever use a band-aid?  

Then you wait.  The nurse tells you it won’t be long.  There is no TV, my phone is bundled up with my clothes, and my wife is in the waiting room.  I am waiting alone. 

I began to pray.  Sure, I prayed for myself, for the surgeon, and for rapid healing.  I prayed for my family, my sister who has cancer, for people in church I pastor.  I prayed for the President, the Governor, and the Mayor.  I prayed for my city councilman.  I prayed for the church I shepherd.  

After an hour, the nurse came back in and explained the surgery before mine was taking longer than expected.  It was hip-replacement and there were complications.  I would have to wait a little longer.  No problem.  I understand these things happen and I want the surgeon to be thorough with all his patients, but especially me. I prayed some more.  I prayed for my neighbors, I prayed for people I work with, I prayed for people I know who are far from God.  

After waiting an hour and a half, I ran out of people to pray for.  So, I started thinking about chores I need to accomplish: spraying for weeds, changing the air-filters, cleaning out a desk drawer.  After I made my mental list of chores, I started one of my mental games: name all 46 counties in South Carolina (Horry, Georgetown, Charleston, Dorchester…).  I remembered 43, but I could not get the last three.  

The nurse came back in and said it would a little longer.  By now, I realized medical people have a different understanding of the word “little.”  When they say, “This will sting a little” they mean “This will sting like having a swarm of murderous hornets attack you.”  When they say, “You will feel a little pressure” they mean “This will feel like the garbage truck unloading the dumpster rolling across your chest.”  

I napped a few minutes.  I counted the holes in the ceiling tile.  I thought about lunch.  Finally, the man arrived to roll me back to surgery.  After three hours, I was on my way. 

I was only waiting for minor surgery.  There are people waiting for their cancer to go in remission.  There are people waiting for their spouse to keep his or her promise.  There are people waiting for the phone call from their child, telling them where they are. 

Whole groups of people are waiting to be treated justly.  They are waiting for racism or sexism to die. Children are waiting to be loved and adopted.  Young adults are waiting to be hired.  

People are waiting on God.  They are waiting on God to right the wrongs of this world, to clean everything up.  Sometimes, in our impatience, we tell God our timetable.  I wonder, when God hears those prayers, if he laughs or cries. 

God also waits on you.  He waits for you to get serious about your relationship with him.  He waits for honest prayer.  He waits for you to actually follow him, instead of yelling at him to come over to where you are.  God waits on you to accept his love, his grace, and his peace. 

God understands what it means to wait.  He waits with you.  He waits on you. Maybe the best thing you can do while you wait is ask him, “What do you want to talk about while we wait?” 

Twisted Journey…

I flew to Florida last week to speak at my home church’s 140th anniversary.  For this trip, I flew out of Florence, SC.  When I walked in the airport, I sensed something was amiss.  The metal gate was pulled down over security and there was a line at the ticket counter.  I decided I’d better get in the line and soon discovered the plane had overheated in Charlotte (I’d never heard of plane overheating; maybe they needed to check the radiator).

It was my turn in front of harried ticket clerk.  He told me the plane might be there in an hour, or it might not be.  They were, however, getting a bus to take passengers to Charlotte for their connecting flights.  After consulting the schedules, we realized I’d miss my flight to Sarasota, but I could make a flight to Tampa.  Not a problem; I’d just call my brother and tell him to pick me up in Tampa.  I told him to save me a seat on the bus.

After a five-minute wait, they called for those of us riding the bus to go outside.  When I hear the word “bus,” I think about a 60-foot-long bus with a bathroom and comfortable chairs.  Their idea of a bus was fifteen-passenger van. 

Our van driver was most conscientious.  He drove the speed limit all the way to Charlotte.  When a sign said, “35,” he drove 34.  He stopped at every yellow light.  Several of us were worried about making our connections.  We got to Charlotte in time for rush hours (from 3PM to 7PM; not as bad as Atlanta, but close).  I looked at my phone.  Red lines were all over the map. I saw that we could go downtown and loop back to the airport. I suggested this to driver.  His reply: “I gotta stick to the route.”

After creeping along in traffic for an hour, we arrived at the airport.  My flight would leave in fifty minutes.  All I had to do was get through security. 

I got in a line that was moving fast.  They had an Irish Wolfhound sniffing all the passengers.  I was afraid he would smell my dogs and go crazy, which would then entitle me to a strip search.  Just as I got to the sniffing point, the line stopped.  The dog had to go on break.  Must be union rules.

Everyone else in security had to clear through, they had to change the procedure, and then let us non-sniffed people through.  Now I’m down to thirty minutes before my plane leaves.

I get through security and hurry to my gate, C-15.  The sign says the flight is going to Seattle/Tacoma. I’ve always wanted to go to Seattle, but not today.  Turns out my departure gate has changed to B-4.  I hustled to B-4 as boarding begins.  I made it in the nick of time.

Then they stop boarding.  They have not finished cleaning the plane.  We wait ten minutes, and then hear an announcement that the heater on the plane is broken.  The flight will be delayed 15 minutes.  I’m thinking they should swap out for the plane that was overheating and call it even.

Then comes the announcement that this plane will be pulled from service.  Stand-by for further announcements.  After twenty minutes and a stale turkey sandwich, a new announcement comes: a plane has been located (I can imagine some mechanic in a hangar saying “Now where is that spare plane?  I know I left it somewhere in here”) and we will now depart out of gate C-5.  Back to C concourse.  This starts to feel like airport Bingo.

In the logic of these things, it turns out there was another flight to Tampa scheduled to go out of gate C-5.  Because of our flight, the other flight to Tampa was now departing out of – wait for it – B-4. I saw half-a-dozen people attempting to get to Tampa trying to get on the wrong flight.  A ticket agent said to one passenger, “You’re at the wrong gate.  You want to go to Tampa out of B-4.  This is the flight to Tampa.”

A plane ride, a bus trip, a different airport, and ten hours later, I met my brother at the Tampa airport.  He promptly informed me I owed him $250.  When I asked “why,” he told me he had to kill time in Tampa, went to Bass Pro Shop where he spent $250 he hadn’t planned to spend.  I told him to put it on my tab.  I finally arrived at my ultimate destination, the ranch, at midnight.

I don’t think anyone gets a smooth journey through life.  There are lots of twists and turns.  The most important thing is getting to your destination.  That is why Jesus did not say, “Meet me at the gates of heaven.”  He did, however, say to many, and to you, “Follow me.” 

No matter how twisted your journey is, or how many different legs of the trip you have, if you follow Jesus, he will get you home.