It’s been four months since our crazy PTE surgery and I’m dying to describe the “rest of the story,” or at least the beginning of it.

       I once called myself Lazarus. Now I may be Rip Van Winkle. After four years of leaving the house only every six weeks or so, I feel like I’ve awakened to a new world. $7.50 for a theater Pepsi? In the grocery checkout I have a compulsive instinct to have the clerk recheck the prices. I now see children who have blossomed into teens, toddlers who have long legs clearly stolen from other unfortunate seven-year-olds, and buildings which have miraculously appeared without having been constructed. How else could they stand on what was only yesterday a vacant lot?

       God has kicked me around these last 3½ years in a hospital bed. I am most naturally a gonzo extrovert, and while I’m still no mystic God has shown me the value of silence and solitude. I learned it complaining and kicking, but still, I learned it. As a kid my family teased that I wanted company even in the bathroom. Now I can spend a couple of days without reaching for the phone.

       I’ve lost 70 pounds from my high point in 2022. That’s what happens when your kidneys go on hypertension strike AND you decide amidst a terminal diagnosis to eat whatever the hell you want. It was gloriously fun, too, until my future reappeared and I wanted my deconditioned body to have a swinging chance at health. I’ve lost more than 30 pounds since getting home, with 15 to go until I’ll be where I was before all this mess started. That will be a happy, healthy day.

       Of course I have no clothes to wear. I gave most of them away, along with many of my most prized possessions. Can you imagine the awkwardness of asking people to give them back? No way I’ll do that. God has shown me that I don’t need that stuff. I pray to carry this discovery to my postponed death.

       I’m now conscious that amidst my terminal diagnosis, I never allowed my spirit to grieve the loss of my professional life. When you’re dying, why bother? Denial has its place. Since I have a future again, I know that, as Richard Shindell says, “what’s put down gets up somehow.” I suddenly see my great mistake; allowing my identity to come mainly from my professional ministry. Now that it’s over, I am meandering in the dark. Most days I view it as an exciting divine dialogue in search of a refreshed purpose. Other days, not so much. But it’ll come. I trust that. I’ve always believed that God does not call us to tasks for which God does not prepare us, so the operative question is; what has this down-time prepared me to be and do? Jesus is whispering in my head, “Pick up your mat and walk.”

       So I’m walking, up to almost two miles now. And going to physical therapy, and occupational therapy, and respiratory therapy. While on hospice I never saw a doctor. Now I have seven. I almost miss hospice. It’s providential I that don’t have a job; I don’t have time!

       I’m driving again, after five years. All it took was getting off of opioids, a considerable challenge. I’ve learned never to judge people who are addicted; it can happen to anyone. Anyway, though I still can’t find the release button for the fuel door, I’m behind the wheel. I asked Jaci if she is finally convinced of my driving ability. She murmured, “You’re getting better.” Such faint praise.

       Our hospice, Community Healthcare of Texas, has asked me to join its Board. I asked if I was the first graduate of their program to do so. I am. Hilarious. I told the CEO not to let the word out; it would be bad for business.

       I am more madly in love with Jaci than the day we met halfway in the First Pres aisle and said, “We do.” She is so impressive. Jaci has landed a short-term, part time position coordinating FWISD’s Human Trafficking Youth Prevention Education Program. She’s also volunteering at our hospice. She is dreaming about what her new full-time vocation will be. With her initiating a new professional track and my no longer needing caregiving, we are discovering an energizing need to see one another in new ways. It remains breathtakingly clear how well I married. Fascinating, how God nurtures that which God has created.

       Speaking of First Pres, I have attended my last regular worship service there. When I was dying I could rationalize remaining connected, and thank God, for that congregation has been our crutch and our resting place. My successor, Brian Coulter, is doing a bang-up job and has been more than welcoming, but no one should live in the past. Most of our Fort Worth friends are at First Pres, but don’t worry; we won’t talk about church. It is time for us to stumble forward towards a new worshiping community.

       I do not understand why some die prematurely and some, like me, receive almost inexplicably a second life. But I know two things. First, such is a gift from God. I’ve skirted death so many times that I can explain it no other way. How can I possibly thank the Creator for such an unlikely, unexpected, unearned gift? The ubiquity of God’s generosity can send us only to our knees.

       Therefore, second, mind-full of those I’ve known who didn’t receive a second breath, I resolve to honor them by leading a loving and faithful life until the shadows grow long and I finally, finally, at long delayed last, join the company of saints.

       So help me God.

       Which isn’t much of an ask considering all that God has already given me.