Dr. Mike Sims glanced at his watch as he pushed open the heavy glass door and exited the family practice clinic. Depending on traffic he could be home in less than fifteen minutes. He walked briskly toward the white Honda Pilot waiting in his reserved space in the parking lot. A quick press of the button on the key fob unlocked it just a half-second before he pulled open the door and slid into the drivers seat. The warm Georgia sun had heated the cab nicely– a welcome relief in the midst of the January cold snap. It was Thursday, and he was normally off on Thursday afternoons. Dr. Sims’ final patient of the morning had required more time than he had anticipated, causing his delay in leaving the clinic. Some people simply love to recount details– every detail of every pain that they have experienced over the last 48 hours. But over thirty=five years of experience had taught him to listen carefully, because somewhere sandwiched in the midst of insignificant details was the tell-tale key to a diagnosis. Dr. Sims was a good listener. A warm, caring demeanor had always been his style, boosting his practice and retaining the respect and loyalty of most of his patients.
BREATHE MARK, BREATHE !
Breathe Mark, breathe! It used to hurt my feelings when I heard it, and I heard it at least a thousand times before I was twelve years old. My dad was the one who first crafted the phrase, but my mom and my older brother used it on me as well. If I ever got distracted, or forgot to do something I would hear, “Breathe Mark, breathe.” Nowadays, I would probably have been labeled ADD, but I came along about forty years before ADD became a diagnosis. I wasn’t really hyperactive (most of the time), but simply had a problem of “paying attention.” And it wasn’t the kind of thing that resulted in bad grades. I just “forgot” things easily.
Mom might say, “Mark go brush your teeth and hop into bed; it’s bed time.” I would dutifully head toward the bathroom with every obedient intention, but would almost always get distracted by something like– the old antique trunk in the hallway. In a split second, that old trunk would become a pirate’s treasure chest containing gold coins and jewels beyond my wildest dreams. It would steal away all of my attention. Then the next thing I knew Mom would be pinching the fire out of me, demanding why I didn’t obey her. I was stunned that she would think I wanted to disobey! My answer? “Mom, I just forgot.”
A NAME BY ANY OTHER NAME
Hey men, do you remember the day it became uncool to call your father Daddy— especially in public? Oh yes. If you were over eleven and still called him “Daddy,” you were made fun of in the boys bathroom at school. (It was at about the same time that “Can I go play with Walt?” turned into “I’m going over to hang-out with Walt.”) Your father could be referred to as “my Father” and a guy would keep his self-respect intact. But most of us moved straight to saying “Dad.” Some smart alecks might venture into “my Old Man,” but that was dangerous– especially if your “Old Man” got wind of it. I never tried that. I never even wanted to.
YES & NO
Yes and No– two powerful words. Both say a lot. But use them together and you have ambiguity. Use them together in a courtroom and you have trouble.
Several years ago I was subpoenaed to testify in court for a simple custody case. A fine couple in our church were hoping to get custody of their young niece, who’s mother had been arrested for drug possession several times and hospitalized in a mental institution. It seemed like an easy case to me. As their pastor, they needed me to be a simple “character” witness, testifying about their family stability, moral character, and suitability to be loving guardians for the child.
MORTALITY ON THE VIA VENETO
I remember it like it was yesterday. I was in Rome, Italy. January 20, 1977. The day Jimmy Carter was inaugurated President. I was a 2o year old college student studying abroad. That may sound a bit Ivy League, but it really wasn’t all that. I signed up for a Jan-Term archaeology course at Samford University that included a three week trip to Israel and Italy. “Studying abroad” just sounds cooler.
Our class spent two weeks in Israel seeing the sights and visiting archaeological digs .(Basically, we visited what other people had dug. Interesting, but not really National Geographic material. We were, however, housed in the cold attic of a three hundred year old church. That was cool.) I enjoyed the trip very much. Just being in the land that Abraham claimed, that David ruled, and that Jesus walked was inspiring enough. But we got to visit places that regular tourists couldn’t even see. It was an exhilarating adventure. I thought about Jesus every single day. It was quite a spiritual romp for a twenty year old.
One day in Jerusalem was especially memorable. We were strolling through the Valley of Hinnom, on the southeastern side of Jerusalem, just outside the ancient wall. It is a beautiful municipal park now, but in the time of Jesus it was Jerusalem’s garbage dump. No kidding. In Jesus’ day it was called Gehenna, where there was always garbage burning and dead animals smouldering and swelling in the hot sun. Imagine the stench!
