Little Things

Glimmers                                                               March 25, 2020

 The Wuhan Covid-19 Corona virus is microscopic, invisible to the naked eye, but what a huge impact it has had. Little things can create big problems. Whole nations have come to a literal standstill because of this littlest of little things.

This is not new for little things. Little things have always been capable of huge, catastrophic damage. In Poor Richard’s Almanac, Ben Franklin wrote;

“For the want of a nail the shoe was lost,

For the want of the shoe the horse was lost,

For the want of the horse, the rider was lost,

For the want of the rider the battle was lost,

For the want of the battle the kingdom was lost,

And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.”

Little things. Huge damage.

The epistle of James also warns us about little things. A small spark can cause a huge,

uncontrollable, blaze. And watch out for the tongue, he says, because though it too is a little thing, it can set the whole world on fire. James 3.

Little things. Huge damage.

But just as little things can create huge problems, little things can also do great good. For example, offering to pick up things from the grocery store for an older, at-risk person so they can stay at home is a little thing. I’ve seen that posted multiple times on Facebook. A little thing can be a huge blessing. I’m sure you’ve seen other examples.

On Monday, I will confess to being weighed down with personal stuff that would take more

space to share than Glimmers will allow. I arrived at work to be greeted by a new procedure to

enter the hospital. I was screened by co-workers taking my temperature, asking screening

questions like “have you traveled out of the country recently?,” “have you been in contact with

anyone who has tested positive for Covid-19?,” “have you been eating your vegetables like your

mother taught you?” The last one was not a real question. I made that up. The whole process, in a hermetically sealed structure, performed by people in gowns, gloves and masks inevitably

raised anxiety, realized or not. But on the upside, our frozen yogurt machine in the cafeteria,

broken and out of commission for weeks, was replaced with a new, sleek, much improved

model and we were all given a little card to get a free one. A little thing, but it had a big,

smile-inducing “we understand this is hard and here is a small token of our appreciation for your rolling with it” impact.

And then, somewhere between the entrance and my office, I lost mine. A little thing with a straw that broke the camel’s back feeling. Later in the day, I voiced my dismay to one of my friends at work. He took his card out of his pocket and said, “Here, take mine. I’m not going to use it anyway.” A little thing. But it turned my whole day around.

“If you take care of the small things, the big things take care of themselves.” Emily Dickenson

Let’s do the little things well.

Social Distancing Blessings,

Jerald

(The views shared here are solely my own and do not necessarily reflect those of Parrish Healthcare)

Covid-19

March 17, 2020

It has been a long time since the last Glimmers was written. Thank you to all who have said you have missed them and have encouraged me to get back to writing them.

On the occasion of the Covid-19 Pandemic, some thoughts about this current crisis.

My daily Scripture readings on Monday, March 16, included passages from Proverbs 3 and John 6. I later read an article by James Daly on, of all places, the Fox Business website titled, “In coronavirus crisis, prayer is also a good investment.” In the article he speaks of the fear that seems to be spreading more rapidly than the virus and how prayer can be just the thing we need to tamp it down. It sounded good to me! It underscored the message from the Scripture passages I had just read.

Proverbs 3:5-6 are much loved verses that counsel us to “Trust in the Lord with all your heart

and do not depend on your own understanding. Seek his will in all your ways and he will show

you which path to take.” NLT

John 6 includes the account of Jesus feeding the multitude. You probably have heard about it, but if you haven’t, here is a brief summary. A crowd followed Jesus out of town to hear him speak. After a long day, he tells his disciples to give them something to eat. Since no Publix was available, and they were likely out of chicken and hamburger meat anyway, he told his disciples to give them something to eat. Dumbfounded, they said they had only a little bit of food. “How is that supposed to feed all of these people?”  “What do you have?” Jesus asked. “Just five loaves of bread and a couple of fish.” Jesus instructed them to have the crowd, numbering in the thousands, to sit down. He then blessed the bread and fish and began to divide it up and gave some to each of them to distribute. When the twelve of them passed it out, it somehow was enough to feed everybody.

Miracle enough that was, but Jesus was not done with the lesson. When Jesus asked how much was left over, they said more than twelve baskets. So they gave and gave and gave out of their baskets and still there was enough for them when it was all said and done. The lesson?

When we share out of our basket, the basket won’t run out.

Now back to that article on prayer. James Daly recalls that crisis moment when Jesus and his twelve disciples were crossing the Sea of Galilee and a sudden storm threatened to capsize the boat and sink them all. The sea was raging, the disciples were afraid and they called out to

Jesus. Jesus was worried, too. Just kidding! Jesus was asleep. Their calls awakened him and

he calmed the sea and they were amazed.

When Rembrandt, the famous Dutch artist, painted his vision of the event, strangely, he got the numbers wrong. Instead of thirteen- Jesus and the twelve disciples- there are fourteen. But it was not a mistake. Rembrant had painted himself into the story.

So my closing thoughts on this first Glimmers in great while; Let’s choose trust and not fear.

Let’s share out of our basket with those who have material needs or are in need of moral support and encouragement. I believe we’ll find, as they did, that our own baskets keep getting filled up.  Remember, we are all in this boat together. And we are not alone.

Blessings!

Jerald

P.S. I see that in Canada the phrase “Caremongering” is going viral. Let’s help it spread here, too!

(The views shared here are solely my own and do not necessarily reflect those of Parrish Healthcare)

The Importunate Ixora

 

One day Jesus told his disciples a story to show that they should always pray and never give up. Luke 18:1 NLT

It finally got to me. The little miniature ixora had been tossed aside with no regard as to whether it would live or die. I didn’t care if it died. Five years ago it had been planted with much care in the center planter on the far side of the pool. It was the choice spot. It was the spot that drew the eye as one looked out from the kitchen window to gaze into the back yard, a semi-circular planter in the center on the far side of the screened enclosure. There are two other planters, one in each corner of the far side, but the center spot is the prime location. The ixora, along with three others, accented the hibiscus that grew larger and taller in the middle, two of them on each side of it.  

Each year I looked forward to some growth and to the tiny, yellow flowers they produced. Each year was a disappointment. They did not grow and produced few flowers.  I gave up on them. I replaced them with some deep blue phlox that, I must say, looked absolutely stunning from the kitchen window in the light of the morning sun.

With nary a thought, the ixoras were shoved into a used pot, thrown aside and left for dead by the fence. All of them died, but one. It wouldn’t. Shaded by the oaks overhanging the fence from the neighbor’s yard and clinging to the bit of soil that had not been shaken off when all four of them were uprooted, it refused to die. Every now and then, as I regularly mowed the grass, I would notice it, mildly surprised at its tenacity. Months went by. It lived. Through the spring and the last gasp of summer, it lived.

Finally, two weeks ago, I took pity on it and replanted it in the front yard in the bed that is in front of my office window. I have not watered it. With the constant rains of the last month, I have not needed to. There it has thrived. Last Sunday afternoon, I took notice of the new, green leaves that have begun to sprout and smiled.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

(All thoughts and opinions expressed herein are solely my own and do not necessarily reflect those of Parrish Medical Center.)

 

 

 

 

A Dark and Stormy Night

 “It was a dark and stormy night” is the introductory line from a novel written by Victorian author Sir Edward George Earle Bulwer-Lytton.  It is now widely regarded as the epitome of the worst way to begin a novel or short story. But it really was a dark and stormy night before my first day at Parrish Medical Center.

I had finished my five and a half year tenure at Cape Canaveral Hospital on Thursday, September 2nd as the hospital evacuated in advance of Frances, the second hurricane of the season. At Parrish Medical Center, the hospital was preparing as well and the staff hunkered down to ride out the storm, locked in for the duration. Frances would prove to be a slow mover and the lockdown a long one.

September 6, 2004, my wife and I were shopping for a few things at CVS on the corner Wickham Road and Parkway in Melbourne, FL. Hurricane Frances, had just passed, leaving most of the area without power and some of the area devastated by the damage. A tornado, spawned by the storm, had swept through Wickham Park, destroying a quarter of a large apartment complex next to our neighborhood. We were spared any significant damage, but like most everyone else, we had no power. CVS had power and AC! We were taking our time looking around, cooling off, getting a few things we needed, and again my phone rang.

“Hi, Jerald. This is Roberta Chaildin from Parrish. Listen, we have been on lockdown because of the hurricane for 92 hours and the strain is showing. I know you’re not supposed to start until tomorrow, but could you come in today?”

I arrived early afternoon, dressed in khakis and a polo shirt that had the Association of Professional Chaplains logo on it. I chose it because the word “Chaplains”was easily readable on it, and since most everyone I would meet that day would have no idea who I was.

There wasn’t a whole lot I could do, other than “Presence Ministry.” There was no way to fix the stress felt by 90+ hours of lockdown or the stress of not knowing the condition of their homes or the stress of a second blow on top of the one two-weeks prior that had already left the area covered in blue tarps.

Ten years have passed and I’m still convinced that presence, “being consciously and compassionately in the present moment,” (Miller, The Art of Being a Healing Presence, p 12) is one of the most powerful things we can bring to our work with patients, their families and just as importantly, to each other.

Jerald

 

All opinions expressed herein are strictly my own and do not necessarily reflect those of Parrish Medical Center.

Time Flies

Sept. 15, 2014

Ten years is a long time. And yet what happened ten years ago can seem like it happened yesterday. Having just celebrated ten years here at Parrish Medical Center, I have been remembering and reflecting on how it began and what has happened since.

It all started with a phone call. I was sitting in my office in a portable building on the backside of Cape Canaveral Hospital one sunny afternoon in June of 2004. On the phone was the familiar voice of a friend, who was also my former boss, Laurie Smirl. The conversation quickly shifted from pleasantries to serious business. “Parrish Medical Center is looking for a chaplain and I told them they needed to talk to you. Would you be interested?” I thought briefly about a line from the book I had just read “Rich Dad, Poor Dad” about how I was in business whether I knew it or not and that my business was me. The point being that I needed to “mind my business” in such a way that the investment of “me” was also good for me. Those of you who know me know that I tend to play it kind of safe and since I had a very good position already at Cape Canaveral Hospital, that quote was just the push I needed to consider another opportunity.

Shortly thereafter, I had a day filled with interviews at PMC that left me mentally exhausted, and hopeful. I had been quite impressed with the people I had met, the beautiful facility, the vision of the organization and how they thought my role could complement their mission of “healing experiences for everyone, all the time.” Leaving a safe, good position felt risky to me, and it was in many respects, but I have never regretted it. What is the quote? “No risk, no reward.” Indeed.

I will have some additional reflections on these ten years in future Glimmers.

Blessing to you all!

Jerald

All opinions expressed herein are strictly my own and do not necessarily reflect those of Parrish Medical Center.

The Things We Forget

I remember the first time I saw a naso-gastric tube. A friend from the church I used to attend when I lived in Tallahassee, FL was hospitalized in Atlanta. I walked in and greeted him and was happy to see that he was smiling and in good spirits. We talked for a while and caught up on the events  in our respective lives, but the whole time, I kept looking at the tube coming from his nose. To be honest, I had no idea what it was for, but looking at the tube and the greenish-brown liquid flowing through it made my stomach a bit queasy.

I no longer get queasy about much of anything I see in hospitals. Years of working in healthcare will do that for you. But I was reminded of that long-forgotten feeling this week by a couple of events. One was personal. The other was the lived experience of a patient I met.

My story, as previously shared on Facebook, went like this:

I was doing my manly duty, mowing the yard and suddenly it was as if a BLOW TORCH was lighting up the inside of my right leg, about six inches above my ankle. I proceeded to hop and holler and flail at whatever beast had attached itself to my flesh. What was it? A one inch-long, yellow and black DEMON STRAIGHT FROM THE PIT OF HELL monster of a YELLOW JACKET, pumping its VILE POISON into my burning appendage.

It has been 40 or more years since I have been stung by one and now, an hour and a half and a shower later, it still feels like a HOT POKER is being stuck to my leg! SO, to all my friends whose job it is to stick sharp objects into human flesh, when next my time comes and you say, "Ok, a little bee sting," I WILL NOT BE RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT HAPPENS NEXT!

Our patient's story went like this; He was brought into the hospital for one ailment and the physician's examination revealed something more serious yet that earned him a hospital stay and more diagnostic tests. Soon, he was surrounded by a group of strangers doing whatever it is that that do. Having never been in the hospital in his 60+ years from birth until that day, he was not at all sure what they did. As he told the story of being gifted with a urinary catheter, his eyes grew wide and his voice became more passionate. They tried to reassure him that he shouldn't be embarrassed; after all, they had done this hundreds of times before. To which he said, "Well, I have never had this done before and I have never had 9 people looking at me naked before because I HAD NEVER BEEN IN A HOSPITAL BEFORE!

In every line of work, we become accustomed to the language and activities of our craft. That is normal. In the hospital, we get used to blood, needles, IV poles, dialysis machines, heart monitors and naso-gastric tubes. It is easy to forget what bee stings are really like and easy to forget that our patients may not share our level of comfort with our environment. It took a yellow jacket to remind me of that. It is not a memory aide that I would recommend!

Happy Hospital Week!

Jerald

A Lenten Apology

Glimmers

April 11, 2014

“Through some moment of beauty or pain, some sudden turning of our lives, we catch glimmers of at least what the saints are blinded by…” (Frederick Buechner, Listening To Your Life, p. 169) 

In younger days, I often made fun of Lent. “Lent? You mean that fuzz that gets trapped in your belly button?” All in good fun and all from the vantage point of an outsider.

Lent- the season that spans the Christian calendar from Ash Wednesday to Easter Sunday, is not observed in many evangelical churches, including the one to which I belong. There are several reasons for this, historical and theological, that I won’t go into here. All that is to say, that Lent has always been strange to me- strange in the sense of eating mussels, raw oysters or bungie jumping. I just didn’t get it. I had never tried them either and was pretty sure I wouldn’t like them if I did.

 Ash Wednesday begins with the imposition of ashes-burned remains of the prior year’s palm fronds from Palm Sunday. “Remember O man that dust thou art and to dust thou shalt return,” is recited as the ashes are spread on the forehead in a cross-shaped marking. Churches remove bright decorations for the season and hymn selections reflect a somber, sober  tone. “What a downer!” I used to think.

Over the years, I have gained many friends and colleagues from these more liturgical groups and, gradually, my understanding of Lent has deepened. I have come to appreciate the emotional movement of somber reflection of these forty-plus days that contemplates the suffering and passion of Jesus and explodes with joy on Easter Sunday. And I have also come to appreciate the practice of “giving something up for Lent.” I did it for the first time this year.

Giving up something for Lent is a way of participating in Christ’s suffering. I used to ridicule the practice, scoffing, “how can giving up chocolate for a few weeks possibly imitate the brutality of that?” Well, it can’t, and it isn’t meant to. It is meant to stir reflection.

So this year, I decided to give it a try. Now, I’m not going to tell you what I offered up, but suffice it to say it was no big thing. It was simply something I enjoy, nothing immoral or even fattening for that matter, just enjoyable to me. I can’t tell you how many times I have been tempted to enjoy what I had given up and how badly I have wanted it. I want it so badly because it is off-limits! Delayed, deferred until Easter! But I want it NOW! This “no big thing” became a big thing by my telling myself I couldn’t have it. And it has been much more difficult than I ever expected.

So, to all my friends observing Lent in the true spirit of the season, you have my new-found respect and humble apology.

Jerald

 

A Failure to Communicate

April 4, 2014

Each month I have the honor of presenting to new care partners at our hospital’s general orientation. My topic is teamwork, and in it I talk a great deal about communication. One of the primary messages is that teamwork and communication are more complicated than they may at first appear. In recent days, I have had three instances where it was assumed communication was clear, but clearly it wasn’t.

My wife and I have the same hair stylist. At my appointment a few weeks ago, Katie asked how my wife liked her new hair style. She had let her hair grow for months to be able to have it cut shoulder-length with it being a bit longer in the front than in the back.  I responded that she didn’t like it and that she wanted it cut so that the length was the same in front and back. When my wife next went to the stylist, Katie asked, “Why do you want to get it all cut off after you went to all that effort to get it to grow out?” “Who told you that?” “That’s what Jerald said when he was here,” she said. “No, I don’t want to cut it short again, I just want the back the same length as the front.” “Oh!” she said. “I must have misunderstood.”

Last year, I attended the Boy Scout’s Golden Eagle award dinner. It is an annual fundraiser to support Boy Scouts Central Florida Council. This year, I asked my wife if she’d like to go with me. She was unsure at first, but finally agreed. The fact that it was on her birthday only added to her reluctance. “On my birthday!???” On the day of the event, I went online to double check the proper attire for the evening. Business attire. I told my wife and she said she had that black pantsuit with the orange jacket. “Perfect,” I said. “But won’t I get cold?” she asked. “It isn’t very warm.” “Why would you be cold?” I replied. It turns out she thought that because it was a Boy Scout dinner and Boy Scouts are all about camping and outdoor activities, the dinner would be hot dogs and hamburgers at some outdoors location! I laughed and told her that it was a nice, sit down, indoors awards dinner.” “Oh,” she said. Again, I thought I had communicated. I had been there before and knew exactly what to expect, and I thought she did too. All the while, when we talked about it, we both had very different word pictures of what we were talking about.

This past week, I came across a far more serious example of the problems associated with inadequate communication. A gentleman who was a patient I met in the course of my hospital work told his story. He said he had not been in the hospital since the days just after he was born. He has had very little exposure to the medical profession. “I never get sick and I never go to the doctor,” he said. Suffering from shortness of breath at home and feeling quite frightened by it, he called 911. By the time they arrived he was in severe respiratory distress. He said, “They asked me if I had CODZ or something.” “I said, ‘why are you asking me questions, I can’t breathe!'” “Then they put this mask on my face and I thought they were going to smother me.”

At the hospital emergency department, the ER physician suspected congestive heart failure, CHF, and consulted a cardiologist. After the cardiologist saw him, he admitted him to the hospital. The next day, a different cardiologist from the same practice came in to see him and introduced himself as his cardiologist. “I told him he was not my cardiologist and I want to see the doctor who admitted me!” “This is my heart we are talking about. I don’t want no substitute! I want MY cardiologist!” “I didn’t understand,” he said. “Nobody told me why they were putting that mask on my face and nobody told me a different doctor would be following me in the hospital.” “I guess they thought I knew that’s how things worked.” “Well, I didn’t.” Now he says he understands and is sorry that he put the EMS folk and the cardiologist office through such a hard time.

I’ll conclude with the quote I use at hospital orientation…

“I know you think you understand what you thought I said, but I am not sure you are aware that what you heard is not what I meant.”

Communication. It ain’t as easy as it looks.

Blessings to all of you,

Jerald

 

All opinions expressed herein are solely my own and do not necessarily represent those of Parrish Medical Center.

Less words, more cheesecake

^“Dear friends, let us continue to love one another, for love comes from God. Anyone who loves is a child of God and knows God.  But anyone who does not love does not know God, for God is love.” I John 4:7-8

John was writing to a decidedly Christian audience and it is important to realize that so that he is not misunderstood. He is not saying love is the same thing as God or that doing something loving is the same as being Christian. God and faith are much more complex than that. But he is saying that they go together. Just as faith without works is dead, faith without love is dead too. To say you love God and not act in loving ways toward others is to live a lie.

A few years ago, Gary Chapman wrote a book titled Love is a Verb. It is a heartwarming collection of stories about how choosing to show love can have a powerful impact on people. I think it is something we know, most of us anyway, but in practice it is so easy to forget.

Grammatically speaking, love can be a noun, a verb, a gerund, a direct or indirect object, but I think Chapman is on to something when he says love is a verb. When someone does something loving, something powerful happens. Mere words are powerless.

Annette Fussell understood this. Annette was the mother of Deena Ellis, our Manager of Security at Parrish Medical Center. She showed love in many ways to her family and friends as they readily testify, but her love reached far beyond her family. She was especially known for loving to cook Thanksgiving dinner for the men and women of the local Fire Department.  For years, every Thanksgiving Day, a parade of units would swing by her house throughout the day to have love served up by the plate full.

At her memorial service last week, the Fire Department sent a four-person honor guard to acknowledge the impact of her life on them. Many other firemen came to pay their respects as well. I told them that when they saw her in the kitchen all covered in flour dust, they were seeing God in a very clever disguise.

When she came across a new cheesecake recipe, and she was always looking for new recipes so this happened with regularity, she’d bake it and send it with Deena to share with the security department team. It was never really about getting their opinion of the new recipe. She loved doing it and loved hearing about the smiles on the faces of “her boys and girls” as they gobbled it up.

There is a quote attributed to St. Francis of Assisi that says, “Preach the gospel. Use words if necessary.” He probably didn’t say it, but he gets the credit anyway. And when it comes to preaching, it is necessary to use words, of course, but it is much more effective if it isn’t only words. So even if he never said it, it makes sense to me. Without loving deeds, loving words are "sounding brass and tinkling cymbals."

So, yes we need to say “I love you” and yes we need to use words to tell people about God’s love, too.  But we can learn a thing or two from Annette Fussell. For love to really hit home, sometimes what we need is less words and more cheesecake.

Happy Valentines Day!

Jerald

 

All opinions posted here are solely my own and do not necessarily reflect those of Parrish Medical Center.

Can You Count to Twelve?

“O give thanks unto the Lord; for he is good: for his mercy endureth for ever.” (Psalm 136:1)

 

In the hard-scrabble life of the ancient Near East, this admonition seems shocking. Their every day existence was what Charles Swindoll once called “life on the ragged edge.” But there it is. “Give thanks.”  Let’s just go ahead and admit that no matter how rough our lives here in America may be from time to time, it doesn’t compare to being a nomadic shepherd or gleaning from the fields the harvesters have already worked or disease with no antibiotics, scarce fresh water or famine. Even to them, the command was to “give thanks.”

 

Now, thankfulness seems to be making a comeback. A number of my Facebook friends have been posting something for which they are thankful every day. It’s a great idea that I noticed too late to join. I have much to be thankful for, it’s true, but I have struggled to find what I wanted to say; until now.

 

One of my co-workers has been doing the Facebook “I’m thankful for” thing and I reference her here with her permission. Each day she posted something for which she was thankful. Yesterday, the worst thing happened. Yesterday, her husband of twenty years was in a tragic accident at work and did not survive. I thought yesterday would have ended the streak.

 

But it didn’t. I am not sure where such faith comes from and I can only wonder if I had something as painful as that happen to me if I’d be able to muster up thanks for anything. But she did. Just before day 25 rolled into day 26, the new post appeared. Not once, but twelve times in her post she said “I’m thankful for…” I thought it was eleven times at first, but on the recount, it was twelve. Twelve . On the worst of a today one could imagine. Twelve!

 

Let’s face it. Bad things happen to good people too. There is no immunity in life. It is downright delusional to imagine that you’ll skate through with no heartache or pain. You can become bitter. That isn’t hard or courageous. That’s easy. Thankfulness is not for the fainthearted or the weak. It isn’t only for the convenient seasons of life. It is for the hard times, too. It is especially powerful then.

 

So this Thanksgiving, as you gather round the table with friends and family, you may have a bucket-load of problems - and please don’t mistake this for some pollyannish pretend “everything is wonderful” kind of advice. Far from it. Most people have enough problems that if we only knew we’d opt for our own instead if ever given the choice. No, I know you have challenges. Some of you have more than it seems you can bear. Pause for a moment. Think. Reflect a bit before you bite that turkey. How high can you count?

 

Give Thanks!

 

Jerald

 

(All thoughts and opinions herein are strictly my own and do not necessarily reflect those of Parrish Medical Center)

I Want To Be Like Ike

I Want To Be Like Ike. My Uncle Ike, that is.

 At age 90, he doesn’t really walk anymore. He shuffles, sliding his feet along, barely lifting them off the floor. He is attached most of the time to an oxygen concentrator by means of a long tube. He still lives alone, though he thinks about moving to an assisted living facility often. He knows the day is soon coming. For now, his daughter and son-in-law live on the next block and help him live as independently as possible.

Franklin Isaac Smith was born in southern Alabama in 1923. He grew up during the Depression as the son of tenant farmer in southwest Georgia. In a family of six children, three boys and three girls, he was roughly in the middle of the pack. My father was the youngest of the six and every time I visit, Uncle Ike never fails to tell the story of how he named my father, Jack.

Most of the things I know about my father’s early life, I have learned from Uncle Ike. All three boys slept in the same bed, under heavy quilts in the winter, in a home that was made of unpainted wood. The floorboards had gaps in places, and on those rare occasions that snow visited that far south, it would dust the top of the quilts as they huddled underneath.

He can tell you all about picking cotton, putting new soles on old shoes using a “shoe last” and being poor and not even knowing it because everyone else was too. After a tour in the Army, he went on to be the first in the family to go to college. He later received his Masters in Education from the University of Alabama. He married Alice Kaiser from West Virginia, whom he met at Bible Training School in Cleveland, Tennessee. They have one daughter, Karen.

Uncle Ike has a gift; many gifts, really, but one in particular that I have tried to develop myself. He has a habit of blessing people. He did not tell me this. Before she died, Aunt Alice told me how when they were out at the drug store, or grocery store or doctor's office, he would always find a way to bless people. One example will suffice. Once, at the grocery store, a young man and his wife were shopping with three small children. He notice the couple was exasperated after herding them through the aisles, trying to keep small hands from the temptations within their reach and it showed. Uncle Ike stopped and said in that soft as butter southern dialect, “Sir, is this your fam-ly?”  “Yes, sir,” he replied. “I noticed you as I was comin’ down the aisle and I just wanted to tell you what a beautiful fam-ly you have.” “You must be so proud of these beautiful children and your lovely wife.” Aunt Alice said that in a second, the furrowed brow and exasperation gave way to smiles as pride replaced tension. “He does that all the time,” she said.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

 

Home Improvement

June 26, 2013

 

“Home Improvement”

 

Home Improvement was a hit television comedy in the 90’s. It starred Tim Allen as “Tim the Toolman" Taylor and Patricia Richardson, who played his wife, Jill. The writing was quite good and the acting was as well. Earl Hindman’s portrayal of their neighbor, Wilson, whose face was never more than partially revealed, was pure genius. The stories revolved around his television show about home improvement and the rearing of their three sons. One of them, Jonathan Taylor Thomas, was a bit of a teen idol at the time so Home Improvement was one of the few shows that we could watch together as a family with three daughters and never hear a complaint.

 

Now home improvement reality shows are all over the television. There are yard crashers, kitchen hater crashers, Holmes on Homes, Love it or List It. So many shows in fact that there is now a whole channel about home improvement called the DIY network. DIY stands for Do It Yourself.

 

Two years ago, we wanted to replace the carpet in the den with wood flooring. We found a floor we liked and purchased it and we paid someone to install it. I watched with interest as the crew installed it. It didn’t look that difficult to do and the installation was kind of pricey. So I determined that if I ever wanted to install wood flooring again, I would do it myself. I can be a DIYer! Now I am in the process of installing wood flooring in our bedroom and upon reflection I have a few observations.

 

-         There is a reason installers are paid so much money.

-         The flaking on my hands is not leprosy. It is the floor adhesive finally releasing its stubborn grip on my skin.

-         Speaking of skin…it is amazing how much scrubbing with gasoline and mineral spirits hands can take and the skin still remain intact.

-         Measure twice and cut once is more than a cute phrase.

-         Floor adhesive has the amazing ability to transport itself to any other place in the house it chooses.

-         The people at the home improvement store are overly optimistic.

-         When all else fails, read the instructions. Coincidently, the white pamphlet inside each box of flooring contains instructions. Who knew?

-         It will cost more than you think.

-         It will take longer than you expect.

-         Competency in one area of home improvement does not necessarily transfer to another.

-         I have a lot more in common with the “No! Me do it!” phase of child development than I realized.

-         The 1991 song “Losing My Religion” by R.E.M. is about a home improvement project. 

-         One “That looks great, honey” from my wife makes it all worth it.

 

Blessings,

 

Jerald

Somebody's Hero

Glimmers

May 31, 2013

 

I continue to reflect on the book “Flags of Our Fathers” by James Bradley. Reading the account of the Marine charge up Mt. Suribachi left me feeling amazed at what they accomplished and what they endured. More Medals of Honor and Navy Crosses were awarded at Iwo Jima than in any other battle in United States history. No other battle produced such a combination of courage and carnage.

 

Surviving heroes were asked why they did what they did. None said they did it for a medal. “I did it for my buddies,” was the common reply. Other-centeredness is at the heart of a hero.

 

I do not at all mean to equate anything to what those Marines did in February 1945 on Iwo Jima, but I have noticed that the ability to look beyond self to the needs of others is the common factor that produces great deeds in other theatres too.

 

It was not what she expected when she started her day. As she sat in the patient’s room, her job was to assure his safety. He slept most of the time, but in his confused state, he could not be trusted to be alone. Her job as a sitter was to keep an eye on him and to call for assistance if needed.

 

The man in the other bed was slowly winding down. Weary from her vigil, his family member had left in the early hours of the morning to get some rest. Now his body was losing its fight with disease and had reached the tipping point between life and death. His breathing had become erratic and shallow. And he was alone.

 

The sitter slid her chair to the side of his bed and clasped his hand in hers. “I couldn’t stand the thought of him dying alone,” she said. She admitted that it “freaked her out” a little, but she held on to his hand as his breathing stopped and his heart ceased beating. It was not in her job description and certainly not in her comfort zone, but because her compassionate heart demanded it, she made certain he knew he was not alone in his final minutes.

 

How did she do it? How did she overcome her fear and being “freaked out a little?” She chose to focus on him instead of herself. Other-centeredness. That is how heroes are born.

 

Blessings to you all,

 

Jerald

 

The thoughts and opinions here are solely my own and do not necessarily represent those of Parrish Medical Center.

 

Ordinary Heroes

May 24, 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is the two weeks of craziness at Parrish Medical Center known as the annual Circle of Giving campaign. Each year, the Care Partners of the hospital split into five teams and compete to raise funds for worthwhile projects that benefit the hospital and our community.

 

Wednesday, I stopped by a used book sale being offered by the Purple team. I was looking for some summer reading material and the sign said all the paper back books were a dollar, so I looked through them. I picked up and put down and pick up again Flags of Our Fathers by James Bradley. I am having a hard time putting it down.

 

The book is about the “flag raisers” of Iwo Jima, captured in the photograph above. James Bradley is the son of one of them, John Bradley. He writes, “History turned all its focus, for 1/400^th of a second, on them. It froze them in an elegant instant of battle: froze them in a camera lens as they hoisted an American flag on a makeshift pole. Their collective image, blurred and indistinct yet unforgettable, become the most recognized, the most reproduced, in the history of photography.” (Flags of Our Fathers, p. 4)

 

The book tells the stories of these 6 young men from different parts of the United States, what their childhood days were like, how they entered the war and how they arrived at that historic moment. It is a story that has become well known to the millions who have read the book or seen the Academy Award-winning movie. I have done neither, so please don’t tell me how it goes because I will not appreciate it.

 

What I do appreciate so far is how Mr. Bradley weaves the tale of these ordinary young men who became the epitome of heroism to generations of Americans. On this Memorial Day weekend, in whatever way you can in between the bites of your hotdogs or hamburgers or potato salad, find a way to honor those who have so honored us with their service.

 

Blessings,

 

Jerald

 

Disclaimer: Thoughts and ideas presented in this post are solely my own and do not necessarily reflect those of Parrish Medical Center.

Dust to Dust

February 22, 2013 

Dust to Dust

Wednesday, February, 13th was Ash Wednesday. Some of our Care Partners have a hard time getting to Ash Wednesday services because of their work schedules, so we made it available to them this year with an assist from the priest and deacon from St. Gabriel’s Episcopal Church. It is a sobering reminder of our mortality when the priest puts the ashes on our foreheads and says “Remember, man/woman, that you are dust and to dust you will return.” I had less trouble remembering that this Ash Wednesday than usual. The day before, it became quite clear to me that I am decidedly mortal.

As I was walking in from the parking lot that morning, my chest tightened, my heart began to race and I felt lightheaded. I stopped and leaned on the trunk of a car, tried to reign in my rising anxiety and then continued to the door. As and aside, my father died at age 40 of a heart attack and I have sometimes experienced mild anxiety about the same thing happening to me, especially as I approached the same age. This time, the anxiety did not subside as usual and the pressure in my chest increased.

As I entered the South doorway of the hospital, I stopped and sat on the corner of the desk there. The two auxiliary women greeted me and I told them how I was feeling. They offered to take me in a wheelchair to the Emergency department. I told them about my sometime anxiety and that it would pass soon. Again, it didn’t. After some encouragement from them, I agreed to go to the Emergency Department, but I insisted on walking.

When I arrived there, I told Martin, the charge nurse, that I was having some chest discomfort. Always the kidder, Martin told me to go back outside and sign in at the desk. “Okay,” I said, and I started to do that. “You’re not kidding, are you?” he said and then he instructed me to go and sit in room 13.

So began a day filled with reminders that I am indeed mortal. I had sticky tabs stuck to my chest that were then attached to wires for an EKG. I had an IV placed in my right arm and blood work drawn- twice. My cardiologist came in and I told him I felt a little silly being here and God bless him, he said what I always say to other people; “You don’t ignore pain in the chest-you did the right thing.”

So, after a stress test and a nuclear scan, I’m happy to say that all the results were negative. I have no idea what caused the chest discomfort or why I felt the way I did. But I will tell you some of the things I saw, felt and heard.

I felt anxious and vulnerable. On most days, I am in the Emergency Department a couple of times a day even if nothing tragic is going on. I cruise through to chat with the nurses, EMTs and physicians and sometimes find things that need my attention. I feel comfortable there. I did not feel comfortable as a patient there. I wondered if my EKG would be normal, would I end up in the Cardiac Catheterization Lab, would I die. Really, I suspected the dying part was only a remote possibility, but I did think about it.

I was not allowed to go the bathroom. My nurse, Traci, handed me one of those bottles with the flip-top lids and said with a smile, “You’ll have to use one of these.” I felt out of control, vulnerable and embarrassed. My bladder helped me get over that.

A few other observations about my experience that I hope will continue to inform my interaction with patients and their families- and maybe yours as well.

• Voices carry into the room more than you think. I could hear conversations between people 20 feet away clearly even with the glass door closed and the curtain drawn. Be careful about your speech.
• No matter how you say it, calling spouse or family to tell them you are in the Emergency Room frightens them. I was reluctant to call my wife, but I was sure happy to see her face.
• I was anxious. That is why I was listening so closely to what was being said outside my room. I was listening for clues to what was going on, what would happen next, what the test results had shown, would I be admitted or would I go home.
• I craved information. The more information was shared with me about what was happening to me, the less anxiety I felt.
• I felt safe. I knew I was among friends. What about people who don’t know us as friends? What can we do to help them feel safe?
• I asked for and received a numbing shot prior to the insertion of the IV. When Traci had a bit of a time getting my vein to cooperate and fill up the tube, I felt no discomfort at all. Maybe that should be standard procedure.
• Allowing me to choose something, anything, helped me feel a little less helpless. I asked if I had to go on the stretcher to the Diagnostic Imaging department for my stress test. I was allowed (do you hear the language…I was “allowed”) to go in a wheelchair. A small thing, perhaps, but I felt less like an invalid in the wheelchair.
• I was treated with care and professionalism. I’m not at all surprised. Do we treat all our patients the way I was treated as a member of our Care Partner family? If we do, we’ll never have any problems with patient satisfaction scores.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

Light in the darkness

December3, 2012

 

“Behold, I have created the smith that bloweth the coals in the fire, and that bringeth forth an instrument for his work;” (Isaiah 54:16 KJV)

Smith, my last name, is perhaps the most common name in the English-speaking world. A smith would have been a metal-worker. I can imagine a conversation that went something like this; “Excuse me, sir.” “How can I help you?” “The axle on my cart has broken. Is there someone in town who could repair it?” “Yes, yes there is.” “Proceed to the town square and you’ll find the shop of Jerald the smith.” Eventually, Jerald the smith became Jerald Smith.

A smith takes some raw iron ore and heats in a furnace until it become red-hot and pliable. The metal is placed on an anvil and beaten with a hammer to shape it into a useful form. As the metal cools, it cannot be shaped easily, so it may be repeatedly put back into the furnace, heated and then beaten again before it is done.

Wordsmiths do with words what blacksmiths do with iron. I have great admiration for writers and speakers who can form and shape words with such craft and skill as to evoke emotions and images in the hearer or reader that penetrate to the heart or fire the imagination. Lincoln did that in the Gettysburg Address. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. did that on the steps of the Capitol.

Frederick Buechner, the author of the quote at the top of this page, was quite a wordsmith himself. Writing about the Advent season, he plays with the images of light and darkness, the coming of Jesus as the light of the world and the darkness that persists around us and in us.

“We watch and wait for a holiness to heal us and to hallow us, to liberate us from the dark. Advent is like the hush in a theater just before the curtain rises. It is like the hazy ring around the winter moon that means the coming of snow which will turn the night to silver. Soon. But for the time being, our time, darkness is where we are, (Buechner, Listening to Your Life, p. 315).”

I’ve been thinking on his “darkness is where we are” thought for several days now. It neatly, powerfully and concisely describes what I sometimes sense with patients here in the hospital. Being a patient can be a very dark place, sometimes filled with grief over a radical change in their sense of who they are or the narrowing of what had for so long seemed like an open-ended expanse.

It is a holy thing to be invited into that darkness. Tread lightly.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

I Want My Cat Back!

September 21, 2012

The Lord is like a father to his children,
tender and compassionate to those who fear him.

For he knows how weak we are;
he remembers we are only dust. Ps. 103: 13-14 (NLT)

“I Want My Cat Back!” she said.

My friend, Michelle, a frequent member of our noon-time prayer group at work, had endured some very stressful days of balancing working full-time, being a single mother, going to college at night and preparing to move to a new home. Early on Saturday of Labor Day weekend, she took her beloved cat, Dr. Doofenshmirtz-Shmirtz for short, with the first load of stuff so that he would have a chance to acclimate to the new home. Frightened by the strange surroundings, Shmirtz jumped out of her arms and disappeared. She looked everywhere for him, but couldn’t find him. She was heartsick.

Near midnight, after a long day of loading and unloading, packing and unpacking, the stress of it all finally got to her. As the tears started to flow, she prayed one of those heartfelt, honest-to-God prayers. She recalled God’s promises to be faithful, to put no more on us than we are able to bear, that nothing was too hard for Him and concluded with “and I want my cat back!”

I’ll confess to a certain amount of ambivalence about this Glimmers. Praying for my cat to come back is not a prayer that would ever cross my lips. I don’t quite understand this level of attachment to a cat, but to Michelle, Shmirtz is family. He sleeps on the bed near her feet every night. But this isn’t about me anyway. Prayer is about what is important to the pray-er and every now and then, it is really good to see a prayer answered.

The venting over, Michelle felt relieved and finally went to bed after a very long, hard day. As she lay in the bed trying to slow her thinking down and get some sleep, she thought she heard a familiar noise-the tinkling of the bell on her cat’s collar. There it was again. Could it be? She got up to check. Sure enough, there on the back porch was the long-lost cat.

Prayer is spiritual communication. It is about so much more than sending up a list of presents you’d like to receive, as if God was merely a celestial Santa Claus. Most of the time, we’re fine with the spiritual strength we gain from this vital communion with God. We understand that there are bigger things at work. We can be patient, content with the knowledge that God cares for us and is watching over us. But we all have our limits. We all reach the end of our rope on occasion. And sometimes you really need God to give you your cat back.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

Looking, but not seeing

August 17, 2012

I cannot tell you how many times I have walked past the painting that hangs on the wall across from our hospital gift shop. What I can tell you is that I never saw it until two weeks ago. If you had asked me before then if I’d ever seen it, I would have said “of course,” with the same smug confidence I would have used had you asked me if I knew the sun rises in the East. But I hadn’t seen it at all.

The woman who revealed the painting to me had been a patient in our hospital a few months back. She had come to talk with me about becoming a spiritual support volunteer. She is an artist I found out and after our conversation, I walked with her toward the front entrance of the hospital to see her off. The painting caught her eye. “It’s lovely,” she said as she walked toward it. Eventually, she got so close to it that her face was almost touching it. “It’s silk!” she said, “How beautiful!”

I walked closer to investigate and was amazed. The artist had used hundreds of brightly colored bits of silk cloth to “paint” a school of Japanese koi swimming in a pond. Up close, I could see the individual pieces that I had missed so many times before. Each piece had been meticulously placed to present the whole picture in such a way that you could not tell they were separate pieces if you were more that a few inches away.

Since then, I’ve been thinking about that painting and the detail I didn’t see for the last eight years. What else and who else have I missed seeing because I haven’t looked closely enough? I don’t know the answer to that. But I’m looking.

Blessing to you all,

Jerald