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Instruments of GratitudeBy
Stuart D. Kent “Blessed
be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies, and the
God of all comfort; Who comforteth us in all our tribulation, that we may be
able to comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we
ourselves are comforted of God.” (II
Corinthians 1:3-4) Thanksgiving is not usually a holiday of sacrifice, unless you happen to be a turkey. It is a time to eat and spend time with family. However, on Thanksgiving of 1999, I had to work a 24-hour shift at my job as a fireman. I was allowed two hours leave for dinner. My family was scattered across the foothills of South Carolina, but my wife and kids were at her parents’ home a few miles north of our home in middle Georgia, so I decided to make a dash there for dinner. At 11 a.m. at the firehouse, I reported to my officer that I was leaving. I was walking out the door when the alarm sounded; it was a “10-61A”¾child struck by auto. I stopped. As a paramedic, I had a duty to help, especially when the call involved trauma. I ran to the firetruck and jumped in, telling my lieutenant that I was going on the call after all. I always play down calls in my head, so I decided that the child probably had just gotten bumped on the leg or something. Probably nothing serious at all. The house was almost directly across the street in a cul-de-sac neighborhood with $350,000+ houses. I walked three miles every day up and down that street for exercise. I had watched the children play in their yards and driveways. The truck stopped, and I jumped out and walked into the house. Then I saw the boy. A little three-year-old boy named Jon was lying on the sofa. I looked at his leg, then his face and eyes, which were closed. I heard someone say that a car had hit him. A man and a woman were looking at me in disbelief, as if I were only there to show my firetruck to the kids. I felt for a pulse and found one on his wrist. His eyes, however, still did not open. I pulled open one eyelid and saw that his pupil was very large, what we call “blown.” Not good. My lieutenant was beside me now, taking the boy’s blood pressure. He, too, is a paramedic and had spent years working on an ambulance part-time. I told him under my breath about the pupil, but he looked distant as though he did not hear me. I felt as though an hour had gone by. In reality only one or two minutes had passed. I looked at the woman. Then I looked at the man, who was yelling at himself. He was the neighbor who had been driving past the boy’s house when Jon came whizzing down the driveway in a toy car into the street. The car bumper had caught Jon on the forehead and sent him flying into the grassy front yard. The ambulance arrived. Soon I was riding about 95 m.p.h. down the interstate, assisting the little boy’s breathing efforts with a bag-mask, squeezing the bag to the rhythm of the boy’s chest rise-and-fall. There was only a little blood on the boy’s head, but his skin color was pale. His hands and feet curled up in an odd way (called “posturing”). It was a clear indicator that there was pressure from bleeding in his brain. The ambulance parked in the basement dock of the hospital. We rushed him onto the stretcher and into the emergency room (ER). My job was finished¾the boy was alive. I could go back to the station now. I could visit my family for dinner. Yet I waited, feeling there was something else I could do. I had spent 14 months running the halls of the ER as a paramedic for the ambulance service, so I knew the doctors by name. I knew the guys who came out on the call¾they were two of the best. I also knew that there was a private room near the waiting room for families of critical patients. I knew I had pray. I stepped into the little room and closed the door behind me. There were two ladies and a man huddled together on a bench. I asked, “Who’s the mom here?” The lady in the middle raised her hand, so I asked her if I could pray for her and her child. I held her hand and prayed, saying that we must always give the Lord thanks, even when something bad happens. She smiled through teary eyes after my short prayer and thanked me. On the way through the door to the outside, I met the hysterical grandmother. I was glad to be leaving. I was late for dinner, and the adrenaline was still pumping my heart after that call. I thought about the boy throughout that day and all day Friday. Finally, on Friday night, I went to see the boy in the pediatric intensive care room. The father, a lawyer, was very positive. He told me his wife thought that I might have been an angel when I came and prayed for them. I was able to see the boy, with his mother sleeping soundly on a cot next to him. Things were actually looking up for the boy, the dad told me. He invited me to pray for them again, and I did. I had some doubts about myself. I really believed that my prayer had done some good for that man and his wife in the ER, but who was I? I was just a lowly fireman, and he a lawyer with an expensive home and car. I was actually a nobody, a secret agent Apostolic who believed in healing, even though the million dollar intensive care room could mend the boy with technology and the best doctors that insurance could provide. But at least I could pray. Jon took a turn for the worse and only lived two more days after that. I cried when I heard the news. I took a cake and card to the house that night where the family was eating, and they invited me in, thanking me for my prayer and telling me the boy was an organ donor. They gave me bread and cookies and thanked me again. I went to the funeral, but the large Presbyterian Church was packed with people, so I had to stand in the foyer for a solid hour during the funeral service. A lady with a huge guitar sang children’s songs, and the minister told happy stories about Jon. The family walked out front, the father sad, but with faith. The mother looked utterly crushed. After all, her three-year-old baby was gone forever. Standing there in the midst of my city’s doctors, lawyers, ministry, businessmen, friends and family, I felt out of place. I was just the fireman who happened to be the first to lay hands on the child after the accident. I felt totally insignificant, an intruder into the private lives of strangers. The family then formed a receiving line, and I practiced holding back my tears as I waited patiently to shake hands with Mom and Dad one final time. The mother looked at me weakly, leaned into me, and hugged me with the little strength she had left. I looked at the father, shook his hand, and hugged him with a brotherly hug. I turned to go on down the line, but the dad stopped me. “I wanted to let you know that Jon’s heart went to a little girl in South Georgia. With your getting there so quickly and resuscitating him so well, his heart and all his organs were in perfect shape. A little girl is alive today. And because of Jon, we have to look at the big picture of why God allows things to happen to us.” I was speechless, but suddenly alive with faith, hope, and the anointing of love that I know was the presence of the Lord. This grieving father had taken the time to try to find a reason to be thankful in the worst nightmare a parent could ever face. I smiled and walked away. I
had believed that Jesus had touched a family through me¾my
prayer and my concern. In the end,
however, it was I who was touched. It
was thanksgiving. ninetyandnine.com ã 2000, Stuart D. Kent. -------- Stuart D. Kent lives and works in Macon, Georgia. He has written a book about the training of a college graduate-turned-firefighter. He hopes to eat on time this holiday season. Have an opinion on an article? Let us know how you feel! Click feedback & fill us in. |
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