BIRTHDAY

It’s June, my birthday month. Birthdays are not as fun as they were growing up. Maybe we’re doing them wrong. Or maybe, that’s just part of getting older. Kid birthdays were fun. Having a June birthday meant swim parties were a possibility. My grandparents had a pool, so put on your arm floaties because Israel’s birthday bash is here! There would be a cake, the horrendous birthday song, and presents! I hated the birthday song. I never knew what to do while being serenaded by my friends. Where do I look? What do I do with my hands? Should I join in and sing? Should I correct the pitchy singers? “So-n-so, your note is up here, but you’re down here. Clean it up. You’re ruining the song and my party with your subpar singing.” Or perhaps I should throw in harmony for a flashy ending. Then, after the awkward song, you’re told to smile for a picture with the cake in front of you. If you were to look back at those pictures, I imagine my mouth was smiling, but my eyes weren’t. The song was that awkward for me. While they sang, little Israel told himself, “Just get through the song, then the presents come. You can fake a pleasant look until this song is over.”

Following my stroke and the dark period in the rehab hospital, this church-ism kept me going: “This too shall pass.” I’d tell myself, “Israel, push through the discomfort today because soon it will be over.” But “This too shall pass” isn’t in the Bible, so it’s not a promise of God I can stand on. But mistakenly, I did. 

When life gets turned upside down in a moment, you’re left trying to get a handle on things and make sense of it all. I was left grasping for context after my stroke. I was trying to figure out what God was doing. Was I supposed to accept disability as my new reality? Was I to reject this and believe in God for complete healing? I grew up in a church that believed in God as a radical healer able to do the impossible. This God seemed to be really into people who had faith. I was a man of faith. But I had never gone through something that required such great faith. As a pastor, I felt I was supposed to have all the answers. But in this situation, I had none. I was confused and crying out to God for direction and understanding. “This too shall pass” was a hope I had. I wanted everything to go back to the way it was, but it didn’t, and it hasn’t. The longer I waited, the more confused I got. God, did you forget about me? Did you forget that I’m waiting for this to end? Many would call my situation a season, but seasons change. This hasn’t. People tell me I’ve improved since my stroke. I sincerely don’t remember how bad I was. It seems like I’ve been here forever. I consistently tell myself, “Israel, just get through the day, and hopefully, tomorrow will be better.”

When I came home from the rehab hospital, I was dealing with the most excruciating pain in my left hand. Touch wouldn’t send a “touch” signal to my brain. It would register as a “pain” signal instead. The pain wasn’t coming from my hand but from my brain. No one could touch my hand. Occupational therapy was a lot of arm and hand stretching during those days. I yelled in pain during most of those sessions. Since I was a pastor, cussing wasn’t part of my lifestyle. When the pain was more than I could bear, I came up with clean bad words: “Riboflavin” was my go-to. The pain felt like a mixture of knives stabbing my hand and my hand being on fire. Fire and knives, “Riboflavin!” Today my hand is about 95% pain-free. It took some time, but I’m grateful my hand pain has subsided. Some things have changed. Just not the main thing: I want to walk. Perhaps the hand pain getting resolved is a taste of more to come. I don’t know. All I know is that my hand pain was so bad I thought it would never end, but it did. 

We grew up poor. We didn’t realize it, but we didn’t have much. Friends spoke of birthdays much differently than I’d describe them. Birthday talk sounded like a competition I could never win. Each kid tried to impress the others with stories of their great haul - all the presents they had gotten. I quickly learned to manage my expectations. Mom was a single mom, and even when my biological father was with us, we didn’t have much. I had to keep my expectations in check.

I’ve sincerely been asking God if I need to manage my expectations about getting better. Should I be content with where I am? Should I accept my reality? The truth is I never really accepted this life. I remember the morning the doctor came into my room at the rehab hospital to tell me I would never walk again. I cried. I was devastated. When my physical therapist came later that morning, she told me I needed to reject what the doctor said. She wasn’t trying to speak faith into my situation, but instead, her belief that, through therapy, I may be able to walk again. But when she told me to reject what the doctor had said, it triggered faith in me. I remembered the greatness of God. People are limited, but God has no limits. I remembered all the verses, sermons, and songs about how great my God is.

The birthday song was uncomfortable to sit through. People were trying to wish me a happy birthday, but I wasn’t receiving it. I felt so awkward. I was waiting for the uncomfortable part to end and for the good part, the presents, to come. I’m waiting for the after-stroke good part to come. It’s taking a long time. This awkward life song is getting old. Maybe you’ve been there, too, stuck in a place you wish you could move on from.

On the day of my stroke, I was preaching about hope in God. Because of this, most of my early stroke days were framed by that sermon stuck in my mind. Preaching about hoping in God is easy when things are going well. But real hope is needed during dark days. The verse I was preaching on while having a stroke says: “Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful.” Hebrews 10:23. This verse is hanging on the wall to my right. I made a living professing hope. Now’s the time to hold tight to that hope.