BARRACUDA

I had difficulty differentiating between dreams and reality at the first rehab hospital following my stroke. It’s all really fuzzy, but I think I was watching a TV program about classic car restorations one evening while I should have been sleeping. I got so caught up in the big car reveal at the end of the program that I thought I was the recipient of the car in the episode, an early '70s Plymouth, Barracuda. It was green and black. I was convinced it was mine, and I wanted to go home to see it and drive it. 

As I lay in my hospital bed, I thought about the car and realized I needed to make some life changes: I lacked the persona of a person who drives a beast of a car like that. I needed to roughen up my image. On a scale from Mr. Rogers to Mr. T, I leaned more on the Mr. Rogers side. If I was going to be driving a muscle car, I needed a "bad boy" upgrade. I needed to look more edgy. I drove the opposite of a "muscle car." Muscle cars have loud engines and are known for not getting good gas mileage. My car was the complete opposite of this. I drove a Prius. They are known for being quiet, they make a gentle whizzing sound, and they get incredible gas mileage.

So I thought a Barracuda was waiting for me at home. To toughen up my image, I decided I needed a tattoo. For my arm tattoo, I chose lyrics from a song. My wife Sarah wrote them down for me. I guess she believed I was serious. Poor Sarah was supportive during those early rehab days even, though I said a lot of weird nonsense. The lyrics for my tattoo are from a Christian song. And they’re not even from a Christian rock band. The band is super good boy music. They’re a Southern gospel group founded in the '60s called the Imperials. Even my "bad boy" attempts are good boys. The lyric I wanted on my arm says:  

Now Satan is a liar, and he wants to make us think,

That we are paupers, when he knows himself, we're children of the King

My Uncle Jr. reminded me of these lyrics when he visited me in the rehab hospital. These words illustrate where my mind was: the struggle between the lie that I'm a beggar before God and the truth that I'm a son. That shift in thinking will change the way you pray. A beggar can only beg before God, but being a son comes with certain privileges. As I would tell my church, my mom makes the best Puerto Rican food. If I want some, I only need to ask. And it's mine, why? Because I'm her son. However, if you were to ask, you might not get any because you're not hers. I have privileges as a son that you don't have. It's the same with God. As a son of the King, I can ask big. And I do. It's my privilege as a son.

It's been four years since coming home following my stroke, and I still have no tattoos, but I bought a Plymouth Barracuda t-shirt. Now I love those car restoration shows. There's something remarkable about seeing an object ready to be scrapped brought back to life. That's my hope. I feel broken down and purposeless following my stroke. Often, I feel worthless and too much of a drain on Sarah. Like the injured guy in an adventure movie, I want to tell Sarah, "Go on without me! I will only slow you down!” I struggle with depression and the desire to end it all. I've felt too young to feel this way. Part of me feels discarded by God. I wonder why He allowed this to happen to me. I fear I wasn't valuable enough to keep healthy. Like a broken down car, useful in its prime, but that was then. So I'm hoping in the Great Restorer to re-knit the broken parts of my brain and do a mighty restoration, so once again, I can take these defective legs out for a spin (these are my big prayers). 

Every car restoration show episode ends with revealing what's under the hood, the engine they chose to put in the car. I have to admit I know very little about engines. All I know is that high horsepower is a plus with muscle cars. They lift the hood, and everyone ooh’s and ahh’s, as they talk horsepower. I know that God has been working on my "engine," the part of me that runs my life, and this stroke has made me a better man. I'm more compassionate than I was, and I've learned to slow down. I used to be in a continual rush (I drove Sarah nuts as I always wanted to move on to what was next). But what I value today has changed from what I did pre-stroke. I imagine the sermons I'll write will come from a deeper place than they did. I think ministry will flow from healed wounds, making me far more effective. One day I'll be back on my feet, and you all will see what I can do. Also, I look sleeker than I have in years, having dropped 120 pounds. Car shows speak of body lines. I'm looking healthier than I ever have.

We still get around in our Prius. It's great on gas mileage. It's my edgy "bad boy" car. I'm a good boy.