Reflections From a Hospital Bed

When I turned 70 in January of last year, I was filled with fresh faith for what God wanted me to do in the coming decade. My thoughts involved writing books, leading music at conferences, working on songs, pastoring in my local church, investing in my kids and grandkids, discipleship, and raising up my replacements. “I want my 70s to be my most productive decade yet!” I told a few friends.

But in early December, I slipped on ice while on a mini-tour in Harrisburg, PA and ended up in the ER. I found out later I had partially torn my quadratic tendon above the left kneecap. After some physical therapy, I was walking somewhat normally, if carefully, by the end of January.

February arrived and I was walking down two steps into my garage. I decided to see if my left leg was strong enough to bear my weight. Evidently not. My knee gave way, completing the tear on my left tendon. As my right leg came around, it hit the stair and I heard a distinct “pop.” For the second time in two months I found myself writhing on the ground, screaming in pain.

My wife and friends eventually got me to an ER, where I was providentially admitted right away, thanks to a nurse friend who happened to be on duty. The next evening an MRI showed I had completely severed both of my quad tendons. After a 2 hour surgery on Thursday I spent 10 days in the hospital. I then moved to an acute rehab facility for 9 days before I finally went home.

I know many have experienced more serious and significant health trials. But until now I had never been in a hospital overnight, other than when I was with Julie. And I’ve learned lessons I don’t want to forget. Lessons God knew I wouldn’t learn any other way.

So I’m writing them down mostly so I’ll remember them. If they’re helpful to you, well, that would be a bonus. And who knows…you might find yourself in a hospital one day!

1. God defines what fruitfulness looks like.

I thought had a good handle on what God wanted me to do and what it looked like. Lots of productivity. Lots of action. Lots of going places. Lots of getting with people and getting things done. Lots of bearing fruit for the kingdom.

But there I was: legs locked in braces, pain of varying levels (thank God for meds), unable to do anything for myself. Was I just supposed to wait for the day I could walk again before I could be fruitful for the Lord?

During the early days after my surgery, Julie sent me a quote from a book she had been reading, He Will Be Enough, by Katie Faris. It was a defining moment, and I’ve quoted the bolded sentence below numerous times to others since then.

Your service might not be what you thought it would be or look the way you thought it would look. Along the way, you may have to redefine ‘good works;’ remember, our good works don’t have to be spectacular to be valued in God’s kingdom. Suffering with God’s name on our lips may be the very good work he has in mind for you to do! (emphasis mine)

After cancelling numerous trips and events I had been scheduled to lead or participate in, I had to “redefine good works.” And it was a great joy to realize that turning to Jesus as I lay helpless on a bed or in pain brought him glory. It was exactly the good work God had prepared for me to do (Eph. 2:10).

2. Jesus not only understands but takes our suffering.

During the days leading up to the surgery, and especially the days after, nights were hard. Apart from the fact that locked braces, compression boots, and ice packs weren’t my normal sleep practice, the pain was inescapable. But I found myself saying at different times, “Jesus, I can’t take this pain. You have to take this for me. I don’t have the resources. Please take it.” And he did.

I’m not sure how grace worked in that moment, but I found relief in knowing not only that Jesus had suffered more than I ever have or will through taking the punishment for my sins on the cross, but that he was with me in my pain and was bearing my burden, just like he promised. “Blessed be the Lord, who daily bears us up; God is our salvation.” (Psalm 68:19)

I’m thankful that advances in medicine have enabled my pain, and the more significant pain of others, to be far less than it would be otherwise. But in the end, only Jesus can bear our greatest suffering. And he has. So he can manage the rest.

3. The Spirit isn’t limited by our weakness.

Being confined to a bed in a hospital room for three weeks isn’t exactly the ideal ministry platform. But as it turns out, my need opened doors.

As I got to know the people who were serving me every day, I found out some were far from God, others had a relationship with him, while others only thought they did. I was able to talk about my church, Sovereign Grace Music, the Bible, my conversion, and more. As one nurse’s aid was finishing up, she looked at the open Bible on my lap and asked, “Do you have any tips for reading the Bible?” I was happy to oblige. I gave away copies of my book, True Worshipers, and invited a number of nurses and therapists to visit my church.

I’m pretty sure I have shared the gospel more in the past three weeks than in the past three months.

4. Worship songs are a means of grace.

One would think that since my job involves producing music that seeks to point people to God’s goodness and glory in Christ, I would know this. I do know this. But now I know it better.

As a rule, I don’t listen to a lot of worship music. I often find myself evaluating songs when I hear them and generally prefer to sing with others, or when I’m alone, to focus on what I’m hearing.

Turns out in a hospital bed you have a lot of time to focus. And in the most difficult days after the surgery, God used biblical truth wrapped in melody and harmony to bolster my body and soul. I often began the day with Stillcreek’s song, The Lord is Good, to remind myself of realities like this:

In every trial You go before me
Guiding my steps with grace
You’ve marked my life with lovingkindness
Oh, I can’t help but say
The Lord is good, the Lord is good to me

“Guiding my steps with grace?” Yes, even the ones that led me to a hospital bed. I listened through our entire Knowing God album and found the faith-filled lyrics were sweet balm for a tired soul. Comfort for a weary heart. Strength for a weak body.

God’s kindness in letting me be on the receiving end of what we do was a mercy I don’t take for granted.

5. One of the best presents is presence.

I’ve been literally overwhelmed with gratefulness by the number of people who have expressed care through texts, emails, calls, and social media. But being on the “injured” side of injury has also made me aware of the unique impact of just showing up.

As soon as McKenzie, our only local child, heard what had happened, she rushed over to the emergency room and stayed for a few hours. When some of our out-of-town kids heard about my accident, they made plans to travel to Louisville at different times to be with us. Once they were here, we had conversations we never would have had. We laughed, we reminisced, we fellowshipped (and played a little Scrabble).

David Zimmer, my co-worker who is also one of my dear friends, was with me every day before and after the surgery, encouraging me as I started physical therapy. Some times he brought his wife, Julie, and kids.

Individuals, couples, and families from my church began to text or email asking if they could just stop by. Most of them asked, “Can I bring anything?” Some did without asking. Parents brought pictures and cards their kids had drawn with prayers for my healing and sometimes sage counsel (No Starse!). Seeing them taped up on my wall was a daily reminder of God’s care.

Again, I had conversations that most likely never would have taken place apart from them taking the time to come visit me in my hospital or rehab room. Every interaction was a gift.

And if that weren’t enough, Mckenzie, her husband, Zach, and their 3 kids moved in with us the day I got home and stayed for two weeks to make sure we would have a smooth transition.

One of the best presents is presence.

6. The local church is meant to suffer together.

As one of the pastors in my church, I’m aware that a lot of the suffering goes on. What I’m not always aware of is how much caring, serving, and ministry is happening in response. Scripture tells us, “If one member suffers, all suffer together; if one member is honored, all rejoice together.” (1 Corinthians 12:26) I know that in a fresh way through the way my church has cared for Julie and me in this season.

We’ve received texts, emails, meals, assurances of prayer, Scriptures, Goetze’s caramels, and dark chocolate (IYKYK). Church members have given us rides, built a new set of steps in my garage (ones that I can go up and down with locked leg braces), and offered to do various household tasks.

And I know that we’re not receiving special treatment. This is what our church does. This what the church is meant to do, by the grace of God.

7. Christianity isn’t like physical therapy.

For the first time in my life, not only do I actually have some understanding of what physical and occupational therapists do, I have the deepest respect and appreciation for them. When you’re lying in bed with no clue as to how you’ll be able to stand up, much less walk, and someone not only teaches you how you’re going to accomplish those things, but does it with joy, care, and thoughtfulness, it feels like they just performed a miracle.

I told a number of the therapists who worked with me, “I thank God for you. I would have no idea how to begin this process of moving toward rehabilitation, and through your patient instruction I’m starting to have hope it will actually happen some day.”

The day before I left rehab, I had the opportunity to thank the staff. First, I told them how grateful I was for what they were doing. I thanked them for choosing to go into a profession that gave people such hope. I then commended them for how cheerful, responsive, kind, and thoughtful they were. No one ever left my room without saying, “If you need anything, just let me know.” They treated me like royalty.

Then I went on to say, “You know, people often think Christianity is like physical therapy. God takes messed up people and then he works with us, and we get better. But it’s not like that. The Bible says that we’re dead. We don’t need therapy – we need a resurrection.” I went on to talk briefly about how even though we’re dead in our sins, Jesus, through his death for us and his resurrection, offers us forgiveness and eternal hope. Then of course, I invited them to check out my church.

I don’t know what seeds will bear fruit, but I do know that most people think God just wants to help us better ourselves or improve ourselves. But only Jesus can give us what we need – new life.

8. Busy-ness and movement isn’t always productive.

I already knew this. But now I’ve experienced it. Until I’m able to walk without braces (which may take 1-2 more months), I spend most days in my new recliner. It’s where I spend my time with the Lord in the morning. It’s where I eat my lunch. It’s where I read. It’s where I send emails from. It’s where I plan and make decisions. It’s where I lead meetings from. It’s where I’ve been watching March Madness from (although the recliner is optional for that).

Before my fall I often thought going somewhere equated to getting something done. Getting in my car might be doing the Lord’s will. It might also be avoiding doing the deep work I should be giving myself to.

I still pray my 70s will be productive. But I think I understand better what that means. I want these years to be productive in the way the Lord wants them to be productive. Not necessarily getting alot of things done, but the right things.

Lord willing, I’ll still be writing a few books and songs, leading at a few conferences, equipping the next generation of leaders, and serving in my local church. But I want God to define what my “good works” are.

9. I still don’t deserve my wife.

I’ve known for decades and repeatedly told others that when God chose Julie to marry me, he was displaying immeasurable kindness and mercy. My stay in the hospital reminded of that reality.

Before I entered this season, Julie’s cancer came back for a 3rd time, metastasizing to her bones. She’s been undergoing infusions every three weeks for the cancer and that seems to be going well. But since September she’s has been using a walker due to significant pain in her legs. I’ve loved serving her in whatever ways I could.

But when I had my legs knocked out from under me, so to speak, she became my caretaker (although she definitely had some help!). When I was in the hospital she came to see me every day but one, enduring intense pain. She arranged dinners for us to share. Encouraged me. Got the house ready for me to come home. She loved me.

People have commented on our strong faith during this season, but I’m pretty sure we just know we have a strong Savior. Just the other day, I read this in Letters on Living the Faith by C.S. Lewis:

Two men had to cross a dangerous bridge. The first convinced himself that it would bear them, and called this conviction Faith. The second said, “Whether it breaks or holds, whether I die here or somewhere else, I am equally in God’s good hands.” And the bridge did break and they were both killed: and the second man’s Faith was not disappointed and the first man’s was.

We have no doubt that our faith will not be disappointed. We are in God’s good hands.