Life Matters - March 19, 2025
Nurse got a firm grasp on the feeding tube with both hands. She had explained to me that they don’t cut muscle anymore to insert feeding tubes. That they find a spot where they can go between belly muscles with the tube so they only need a small incision through the skin and a small incision through the stomach wall. When they pull the tube out, the stomach wall and the belly muscles contract back into place naturally, tightly closing up the gaps, they bandage the skin where the tube went in and, presto! It’s done. “This is going to hurt!’ she now warned me as she pulled. And pulled. The tube stretched. And stretched. About the time I thought my torso was lifting off the bed, the tube and my belly parted ways. The tube whip-lashed in the air above me and the bed, spewing its greenish-gray contents across the room where said contents splattered against yonder wall…and then the pain hit my gut…excruciating pain…blackout pain…except I didn’t black out…the pain subsided as quickly as it came. As my gasping for breath subsided I was now thoroughly educated on why the motherly type nurse had firmly grasped my right hand when the nurse on my left began to pull on the tube. Now addressing the lady who had done the explaining, I ruefully said “Thank you for warning me, but what you didn’t say is that it’s going to feel like you’re pulling my guts out!” One may ask how I know what that feels like, “you still have all your guts.” To which I might add “I believe I now have a reference point!”
There was, however, emotional pain that there was no escape from. I began to overhear bits and pieces about the struggles the boys were having to keep the business afloat. Caleb turned 21 years of age when I was still in a coma, Steve was 18, Jeremy was 13, Kenny was 10, almost 11. The boys were used to workload responsibility, but now the office work, the work schedule, the materials schedule, payment schedules, equipment decisions…all was suddenly dumped in their laps, besides doing the actual work on the job. The oldest two shouldered the bulk of the load with most customers being understanding of the setback. A painful few were not so much. The ones I wondered if they would be, usually were, and the ones I expected would be, were not always. A painful “not always.” I hurt for my sons as I overheard (and from asking Sadie) what they were going through.
I also began to overhear about the hospital and doctor bills already being delivered to our mailbox. I gathered that Sadie didn’t want me to hear about them as yet, concerned that it would be a hindrance to my recovery. We both knew we had no personal injury insurance, we only had contractor’s liability coverage, and this hospital bill loomed large in both our minds.
The day came when I beckoned Sadie to my bedside and we talked finances. By the time we were done I had gone through enough brain math to know that we could expect half a million dollars in invoices, if it even stopped there.
Not having insurance coverage meant selling the small farm that had been home to us for going on ten years. Which meant we would need a place to live…which meant we would need a shop, or something, to work out of…I estimated the value (in my head) of the land, the house, the barn, the shop…a number of times and from various perspectives, and could only hope it would cover our hospital bill and leave enough to buy a small, older house. It was painful. Letting go of my dream farm was emotionally excruciating, but as I did so, peace came. God, who had proved Himself faithful over and over again in our 30 years together had proved Himself worthy of our trust. We could, and would, trust Him. As I released the farm to our trustworthy and faithful God, peace came, flooding my heart and mind.
Then, before I was even released from the hospital, help in the form of checks began arriving in the mailbox back home on the farm. The first was from a church pastored by a brother for upwards of $30,000. The second was from a wealthy businessman church brother, who pastored in Pennsylvania, for $50,000. A wealthy businessman Bishop, whom I had met when his car broke down along the interstate, sent $10,000. I gazed at those numbers and, as I did many times in the ensuing months, I thanked the Lord for His provision, for the generosity of those whom He had blessed, and that He would pour out more blessings upon them. And I whispered, “Thank you God, the cattle of a thousand hills are yours.’’ (Psalms 50:10)
Jesus warned us not to set our affection on things of earth and teaches us to set our affection on things above “where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal.” (Matthew 6:19-20, Colossians 3:2) Letting go of the farm was a good spiritual exercise.
I have still never lost everything I own, literally and materially speaking. I believe, though, that I now have a reference point…
Life Matters!