When I was young, in that turbulent section between your sophomore year and nursing home, I took a class with my father and older brother. It was a means to an end really. My parents were insistent on my not being a missionary and the only way I could conceivably train for something I was not allowed to do, but had set my mind on anyway, was to get some medical training. It was an Emergency Medical Technician class and I was the youngest and smallest person in the class. The buff fire fighters and continuing ed. nurses were all older and obviously more suited to this sort of environment. I was not.
And so, when finals time came along, nine months later, I failed the exam by two points: 78%. I cannot remember which two questions could have gotten me in by the skin of my teeth, but I’m fairly certain they had something to do with blood alcohol level, which I’m sure I still don’t know the answer to. I feel like the only real knowledge I still retain from that class was the fact that you don’t ever take someone’s pulse with your thumb because it has a pulse of its own, instead you put your index and middle fingers together over the wrist and check the pulse.
I forgot this until Saturday night:
Laying there, tears misting and a fresh rebuke still smarting on my mind. My temples are pounding a painful beat and I am feeling sorry for myself. I curl under the blanket of her sweatshirt and turned my face to the window, hoping for some glimpse of the world outside myself. It doesn’t look too good for me.
My thumb is resting against the column of my throat and I begin to feel two more pounding tempos. At war with each other. At war with the pounding in my head. At war with me. And it occurs me that this body, this warring body, this humanity, this temple of the Holy Spirit and this creation in God’s likeness is fighting against its own members. The two beats in and resting against my throat, along with the painful one in my head, are disturbingly marching to the beats of three snares and none is at peace with the others.
So, I question, how am I to ever reconcile my newly created persona with the image of God I was pulled from the ground in a cloud of dust from, when even my internal organs protest against one another? How am I to ever part ways with the old and welcome the new when imperfection seems to be my only lot? How can I swallow the rebuke when the lump in my throat is refusing to be dismissed?
This body, this paradox, earthen jar – this tent—the temporal reminds me that one day I need never worry about mismatched throbs from various parts of my person, this rebuke, this inability and this stupidity which ravages my being will pale in the light of His glory, His ability, His perfection and His light.
And that’s sort of the wonder of salvation, a second time around to get things right.
I took the exam again. Got a 92%.
