MY WIFE IS MY HERO

Well, this is my last "sabbatical update" post.  In fact, I'm thinking that I'll see most of you at our worship gathering this Sunday (April 3rd) before you even read this.  Even so, I wanted to get one more up before I left Dana Point to drive home just a few days from now.

I could write about many things, but I want to focus on, of all things, my most recent birthday.  We celebrated it as a family by walking the streets and beaches of Puerto Vallarta, Mexico.  My sabbatical committee strongly encouraged me to structure a week with our entire family toward the end of the sabbatical and, after looking at several options, a family cruise to Mexico seemed to be not only the easiest, but also the most economically sensible way to do that.  Puerto Vallarta was one of our stops and, coincidentally, we were there on my 57th birthday.  It was a day that will never be forgotten, that's for sure.  For on that same day, all 7 of us used Mexican public transportation to get around, walked what must have been 10 miles (in flip-flops, of course,) talked Brenda into tasting tequila (I doubt that will ever happen again,) and laughed when a little girl in a crowded shopping area, having noticed my longish, curly, white hair and the full beard I've been nurturing, actually mistook me for Santa Clause.  Yanking on her father's arm as she stopped short and pointed in my direction, she exclaimed, "No, Daddy.  Stop!   Look!  It's Santa.  It's Santa, Daddy.  Look!"  Her eyes grew large.  Her mouth hung open.  I was off my game, otherwise I'd have given her a little, "Ho, ho, ho," winked, and made some sort of "shhhh.  Don't tell anyone else that you recognized me." sign.  Her dad, obviously convinced that "Santa" should be left alone during the summer months, mouthed, "I'm sorry.  She really things you're him."  Then he turned her twisting, resistant body back in the direction their family had been going and said, "Let's leave Santa alone for now.  Let him rest." or something to that effect. 

On that day in Puerto Vallarta we watched a 150 lb man stack and balance 200 lb boulders three and four high, saw acrobats perform (without nets) from ropes that swung four stories above the street, and ate lunch while listening to a full hour and a half of painfully off-key singing intended, presumably, to help us enjoy our over priced tacos more fully.   But, impressive as each of those experiences was, none of them is what will make this particular birthday stand alone in my memory.  The event responsible for that didn't occur until after we had reboarded the ship and were preparing to sail north.  

Our kids had reserved 7 lounge chairs around the indoor pool.  We'd had more than enough sun and a relaxing, shaded time set aside for reading and relating was just what we needed before getting ready for dinner.  I was struggling through "The Brothers Karamazov" while Brenda was with our children in a nearby hot tub when there was what sounded like a disturbing cry for help.  At first I thought it was one of the young children playing.  I realized it was much more than that when Anthony, Becca's fiancé, came around the corner to tell me that Brenda was, "...helping to save a little girl's life."  He was not overstating things.

I jumped up to see my bride kneeling next to a 4 year old girl while an unknown man administered CPR.  Brenda was calm, cleaning the child's mouth out while he did compressions, then encouraging and coaching him when he went back to breathing into a limp, unresponsive body.  The baby had been found at the bottom of the pool and had turned a very deep grey/blue.  Our Becca had been in position to see what was going on and quickly summoned her mom, asserting that a child was in trouble and Brenda needed to go and help right away.  It  was a good thing she did.  On getting to the young girl, Brenda saw that the man had started CPR but hadn't turned the child on her side to allow fluids to leave her lungs and stomach.  She did that immediately and saw dramatic results. 

"Call 911 right now!" It was my Brenda who, without missing a beat in the assistance she was giving, had caught the eye of a bartender and issued the order.  "Yes.  This is an emergency.  Call them!"  At first, the little one was completely unresponsive, but as Brenda kept assisting and a man whose name she didn't even know kept pumping, others of us launched into very aggressive, assertive prayer.  Gradually, the color blue gave way to pale, pasty white, then white was replaced by a subtle but hopeful pink.   Finally, after what seemed like a short "forever," we heard ironic sounds of life: choking, gasping, and then crying.  Neither vacationing nurse nor temporary "EMT" stopped what they were doing, but between breaths Brenda heard something that catapulted an already heart stirring moment to an emotional level that almost defies description.

It had been the stranger doing the CPR that had screamed for help.  He did that just after seeing the helpless, cerulean little girl lying motionless on the pool deck and realizing that she wasn't breathing.  By the time Brenda got there he had already administered the first few puffs of breath and jolts of compression.  As she turned the child onto her side (as noted above) she said something like, "I'm a nurse.  Are you a doctor or EMT?  Would you like me to take over for you?"

"No."  he said between breaths, "I think I'm O.K."  Without looking up he went on, "I just took a CPR class last week.  Just stay here and help me."  Then later, as the baby finally coughed, choked, and began to cry, the man spoke again.  They were the words that changed everything.  "Don't worry, sweetheart."  he said gently as he put his lips to the gasping child's ear.  "Daddy's here with you.  Everything's going to be OK."  The "stranger" that had saved little 4 year old Malia's life was her own father!

"You're doing just fine."  Brenda told the dad as she cleared the little one's mouth and wiped it clean in preparation for more air.  "That's it.  Perfect.  You're doing great.  Keep breathing for her.  Good."  About then the emergency crew arrived to take over.  True to form and character, my red-headed champion sought no thanks or recognition.  In fact, I know her well enough to assure you that she never even THOUGHT about any of that.  She simply updated the doctor, giving information she knew the team would need, got up, wiped her hands on a towel, and returned to her own family.

"Do you think you should stay in case they want to talk to you?"  I asked.

"No.  I told them everything they needed to hear from me.  We'd only be in the way here now.   Let's go.  I need to wash up a bit."  And just like that, we left.

Brenda tells me fairly often that I'm her "hero."  The announcement usually comes on the heels of me taking out the garbage, doing the dishes, or vacuuming the carpets.  I almost always shake my head and suggest that perhaps she needs to raise her standard a bit.  On my birthday last week, she went well beyond raising it ... all the way to demonstrating it.  That's why it's so easy for me to say that one of the things that happened in the closing days of this sabbatical, was that I was once again reminded that "My WIFE is MY hero!"

By the way, I was later told by one of the crew that Malia was taken by ambulance to a Puerto Vallarta hospital.  Shortly after being stabilized, she was flown home where she's expected to make a full recovery.

"I CONFESS"

As I write this blog I sit before a huge, southeast-facing window that reveals a generous deck,  a forest of pine trees, two deer grazing about ten yards from me, and a handful of other Yosemite Park cabins.  The view (one my schedule assumes I'll enjoy for the next 5 days of writing and reflecting) really couldn't be more different than the one I had just hours ago from my 26th floor hotel room at the Hyatt O’Hare in Chicago.  Unique as each location is, though, they have something in common.  Both have found me contemplating sabbatical experiences that have been in some way surprising.  I won't touch on all of those in this blog, but I do want to point to one. 

I single it out not so much because it's arrival came as such a huge shock.  In fact, the surprise would have been for me to have gotten through a three month quarantine from my church family without having been tested by it.  I'm referring to the challenge of doing something wholly unnatural for me:  this sabbatical's awkward, self-imposed "requirement" that during it I have minimal contact (meaning none if at all possible) with the staff and members of MCC.  In other words, my mission to go in pursuit of spiritual and emotional refreshment while insulating myself from some of the people who were so often a source of the very thing I sought.  But even that isn't really the subject of this post.  No, it's not the reality of me missing people that's the surprise here but the intensity of that reality ... an intensity the force of which resulted in me committing one of the greatest of all "sabbatical sins."  I cheated.  I relapsed.  And I need to come clean. 

Here is my confession and, embedded in it, one of the gifts this time away from you all has given to me:

I confess that I so missed our staff that, even though Brenda offered to do it for me, I went in person to the office to get my mail.  Further, though completely unnecessary, I purposefully waited to go until I knew the office would be open and some of our team would be there.

I confess that during that trip to get my mail, I was calculated and fully aware in my decision to "forget" a package that also needed to be brought home.  I did that just so I might have an excuse to come back and see everyone yet another time.

I confess that, no fewer than three times, I went to Costco when I didn't have one stinking thing to buy ... just because I rarely go there without seeing someone from MCC.  (I was 1/3 in my subversive attempts to see you during those trips, by the way.)

I confess that I drove to the church's property when I knew MOPS was meeting and idled my way through the parking lot just for the chance to see some of MCC's precious kids.  And I did see them, some playing tag on the lawn, others holding hands and anxiously looking both ways before crossing the parking lot en route to their cars.  It felt good - like taking in air again right after forcing yourself to break the family record for holding your breath under water.

I confess to having "snuck" into our worship area one night just so I could pretend it was April already and feel a little less distant for a few minutes.  (I know.  I know.  That's just WEIRD!)

And I confess to worshiping with other congregations over the past few weeks, and noticing not so much that God was present there, but that you weren't.

Don't get me wrong.  This focused time of restoration and distance has been, and still is nothing short of MAGNIFICENT!  Brenda and I have had some great time together.  And in a few days our entire family (including Becca's fiancé, Anthony, of course) will gather for 10 days of restful, fun reconnection.  So this isn't a veiled complaint or an implicit statement of the sabbatical's failure.  No, just the opposite.  It's a testimony to it's success.

As expected, this sabbatical has been both a deep blessing and a worthwhile investment.  UNexpected, however, was the force with which it would speak as it reminded me of just how much I've come to depend upon my pastoral colleagues and the people that comprise Marin Covenant Church for spiritual strength, emotional wholeness, and pastoral relevance.

So I guess it's only fitting that I end with one last confession.

I confess that one of the gifts this sabbatical has given to me is the realization that, though there will certainly be times when it doesn't seem like it to you or feel like it to me,  I have somehow become addicted to the MCC community... "warts and all."  And I like this newly realized "dependence" very much.