The California Central Valley, where I was raised, had a lot of Raider fans. In high school, many girls who wore Raider gear were menacing and known for fighting. I was intimidated and tended to steer clear.
In the rehab hospital after my stroke, I found myself under the care of a CNA who I was intimidated by. She was a big, strong lady in full baggy Raider gear. She scared me.
I went into survival mode and quickly devised a plan to stay safe: I'd pick on her with the silliest putdowns I could come up with, in the hopes that she would like me, and be good to me. Early on, I called her "Warden," hoping she'd think it was absurd and laugh. She did.
The CNAs would use a mechanical lift to move me from the bed to the wheelchair. Often, the battery would die mid-transfer, leaving me swaying in mid-air. I'd hang there until they'd finally find a charged battery. Transferring me became a time of great stress and fear. Later, I was shocked to discover that Raider Warden could grab me and, in one movement, fling me from the wheelchair to the bed safely. Her size and strength intimidated me. But they also made me feel safe. For all the picking on her I did, she ended up being one of the most protective staff members at that rehab hospital.
My first physical therapist was a big burly dude. I trusted the bigger people caring for me. The bigger the better. I was a heavy guy and never felt safe. I couldn’t move half of my body, and I never wanted to injure myself or someone else.
I struggle with minimizing God. I need a big God. My condition requires a God big enough to help.
These are the BIG GOD lessons I'm wrestling with:
God's might isn't idle
One Saturday morning, as a kid, I remember watching Mr. Universe with my birth father. It didn't take long for me to be disappointed. I wanted to see what all the muscles were for. What could they do? All I saw was posing and flexing. What good is that for?
I'm reminded of the prayer kids pray when blessing a meal: "God is great, God is good. Let us thank him for our food." If God were great but not good, we'd be a mess. He'd be strong enough to help but wouldn't care to help. If God were good but not great. He'd care but be powerless to help. But He's both great and good.
God is mighty to do something
In the 80s, I saw the Power Team. They were bodybuilders who quoted scripture as they performed feats of strength: breaking out of handcuffs, ripping the Yellow Pages in half, and bending metal pipes. I was impressed.
The Lord your God is with you,
the Mighty Warrior who saves.
He will take great delight in you;
in his love he will no longer rebuke you,
but will rejoice over you with singing. Zephaniah 3:17 (NIV)
The prophet indicates that God is mighty for a purpose. Mighty to save.
God's not too great to sympathize
One day, Sarah and I visited a baseball card shop. I had one great fear–my left hand. Any bump or touch took me to excruciating pain. Sarah rolled me into the shop, and a huge dog greeted me. I was scared. Then, I noticed he only had three legs. He approached me and lay right in front of my wheelchair. After some time, he stood up, licked my left hand, and walked off. This large three-legged dog understood me: "Your legs don't work either? I get you."
I probably shouldn't compare God to a sweet dog. But God, in his greatness, doesn't miss the little guy in a wheelchair.
This reminds me of another verse:
A bruised reed he will not break,
and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out.
In faithfulness he will bring forth justice; Isaiah 42:3 (NIV)
Last week, I felt like I was on the edge, barely making it. I questioned God: "Why don't you just put me out of my misery?" That's not God. He doesn't use His greatness to break the bruised person or snuff out the barely flickering. He's great and good.
God is big enough for me.
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