MR. BARNACLES

  

In the first rehab hospital I stayed at after my stroke, I shared a room with a man I was never able to meet.  He was a stranger behind a large curtain, and I was beyond curious about who this guy was.  

This poor guy was sick while we shared the room.  The hospital staff had him on some ventilator that sounded an awful lot like the large fish tank I remembered my uncle had in his living room when I was growing up.  

The stranger’s ventilator ran all day and all night; it's all I heard from his mysterious side of the curtain, apart from the occasional cough attack.  

His coughing was unique.  To me, in my highly medicated, recently brain-injured condition, his cough sounded like a husky Disney character sobbing.  

Those closest to me know I have an overactive imagination.  I imagined, on the other side of the curtain, the stranger’s identity:   a half-man, half walrus person lying in a large water-filled tank, sobbing.  

I affectionately named him Mr. Barnacles.  One long, sleepless night, I even came up with a theme song and back story for Mr. Barnacles.

Every time I was wheeled out of the room, in my wheelchair, I’d look over at the stranger’s side to see what this mysterious person looked like.  But in the wheelchair, I was too low to the ground to see anyone; the stranger remained a mystery.  My low-to-the-ground position in the wheelchair affected my perspective.  

 

One day, I was lifted by a mechanical lift and was finally high enough to catch a glimpse of what I couldn’t see low to the ground in my wheelchair; the mysterious guy whom I’d imagined was half walrus, wasn’t.  He was just a regular, white-haired Hispanic guy with an awesome, dark black mustache.

About two months ago I had a seizure; this seizure has led to four months of strange feelings:  I’ve felt like the skin on my face is crawling, I’ve felt, what can only be described as, my head feels like an ill fitting mask and my eyes are looking out of the mask eye holes, I’ve felt dizzy (like my core is spinning), I began to see things that weren’t there, like shadows moving in the room.  

I’d feel a rush of adrenaline, and I felt like I needed to run away.  I can’t run anymore.  So the adrenaline makes me fidgety and irritable.  

After a stroke and a couple of seizures, any weird head feeling makes me panic.  Panic and adrenaline have been complicated to navigate.  It’s been a tough several months.  We don’t really go out much.  The neurologist can’t seem to figure out what’s happening.  Honestly, my faith is faltering.

I’ve felt something like a large curtain separating me from heaven.  Who’s over there?  I have no idea what’s happening on the other side.  What’s God doing?  Is He still there?  Who is He?  

When I can’t sleep, my imagination tends to run wild:  Who’s occupying heaven?  Has the real God, the one I grew up singing about,  been replaced with one who’s powerless or loveless?

When I’m not feeling well, I tend to feel weighted down, tied to this compromised, broken earth, as if gravity is holding me down.  Yet my childhood has trained me to be preoccupied with heaven when suffering.

I’ve been able to go into great detail on how I’m feeling.  Isn’t that just like us?  So preoccupied with what ails us that it becomes the greater reality.  I can describe my problems better than the God I’ve spent my lifetime explaining and trying to understand.  I’m reminded of a verse in Psalms:

I lift up my eyes to the mountains —

where does my help come from?

My help comes from the Lord,

the Maker of heaven and earth. Psalm 121:1 (NIV)

Last week, during a tough day, my wife, Sarah did what she often does so well.  She lifted my gaze upward, reminding me: “What do we know about God’s character?  It may seem like He’s not working, but behind the scenes God is always working.”

Today, I’d like to remind you that you may feel broken and stuck. You may feel forgotten and forsaken.  Lift your gaze to where your help comes from.  God is always up to something.