“He who’s begun a good work in you will complete it until the day of Christ Jesus." ~ Philippians 1:6
The care facility’s sterile ceiling
felt cold. At eighty-eight, Pastor Dave wasn't used to experiencing life from a
horizontal perspective. For decades, he’d been the “Energizer” of the United Methodist
Church, keenly adept at pastoral care and mission work.
Parkinson's had brought the slow theft of his steady hands
and gait. A late-night trip to the fridge at their cottage up north ended with
a sickening thud and an emergency trip to the ER.
Now, with a rod in his femur, a shattered clavicle, and
stitches across his scalp, Dave was trapped. When the nurse leaned over to
adjust his pillows, frustration flared in his chest. For the first time he
could remember, he was the patient. He hated it.
"Why this place, Dave?" his wife had asked
earlier, wiping his brow. The facility was twenty miles past their home in the
city and their own church family. It made no practical sense.
Dave answered with only a cagy smile.
By day two, he was cleared for a
wheelchair. His right arm was pinned to his chest, but his left could manage
the wheel. The moment the staff turned their backs, the old pastor rolled into
the hallway.
"Just testing the equipment," he chuckled,
easing beside her bed. With his left hand free, he reached for hers. "I
heard about your biopsy. Let's talk to God about it."
When they finished praying, tears streamed down Martha's
cheeks. "I've been so afraid," she whispered. "I
prayed God would send someone."
Dave squeezed her hand gently. "He already
has."
That visit was his first of
many. For the next three hours, Dave navigated the corridors. He consoled a man
whose memories were slipping away. He paused to encourage a weary nurse whose
smile had been buried under a difficult shift. He listened more than he spoke.
He didn't see a rehab center;
he saw a mission field. Having visited the facility for years, he knew many of
the residents by name, along with their fears. These weren't strangers; they
were his flock.
To the staff, Dave was a stubborn patient who needed rest.
To the residents, he was the hands and feet of Jesus.
That evening, the Pastor sat beside his window, watching an
amber sunset sink below the horizon. Though his body ached, a deep peace
settled over him. He no longer wondered why he'd fallen or when his service
would end.
Dave leaned back, a knowing smile crossing his face, and
closed his eyes. His assignment had changed. His calling never had.
Heavenly Father, thank You that our purpose
is never dictated by our physical strength, but by Your enduring grace. When we
feel broken, sidelined, or weak, remind us that Your hands are still shaping
us, and Your Spirit is still sending us. Amen
