Made in God's image

It is in the Bible that we are taught that man is made in the image and likeness of God. It is for this reason that we ought to conclude that the most horribly disfigured and brain damaged of people and the most gifted and beautiful should be accorded the same fundamental love, respect and dignity by their fellows. I cannot for the life of me see how a thorough-going evolutionist can say such a thing without blushing out of embarrassment. I have for many years taught children that it is not their intelligence, beauty, strength, wealth or any other characteristic that makes them of any value in God's sight. (Of course there is the matter of our utter lostness and sinfulness to be regarded as well - but that is another question).

It is one thing to teach these things and another to feel them for oneself, particularly in time of need. In my hospital bed there were often times at which I had to recall the truth that my value lay in the fact that I am made in God's image and that I have been redeemed from my sin by the precious blood of Jesus Christ. The first time I needed this awareness was when I sat up in bed on Day two (of my stay) and wanted to adjust it. This should have been a simple matter of pushing a couple of buttons. But I couldn't do it. Whatever order and whatever combination I attempted had no effect. My frustration was compounded by the thought that I oughtn't to call the nurse away from her business for such a little thing. Yet I pathetically/helplessly put my hand up and mouthed a request for her to come. Thankfully she didn't see me. So what did I do? I started to weep (sorry). I thought of myself as a reasonably intelligent 48 year old man who is quite techologically aware and yet I couldn't even raise my bed. I know that the trauma of just having had major surgery had something to do with all of this but they were my thoughts at the time.

The first meal I had was at about 6 o'clock on Day two. I looked at it and started to give thanks to God for it. But then - guess what - I started to weep (this is getting ridiculous). Why? Because I had a catheter - that's the urine taken care of I thought - but I was about to take solids and - what would happen then? Would I mess myself in the night? Anyway, I ate and sat up to read and write. I didn't sleep a wink the entire night. During that night I called the nurse to tell her that my bowels were terrorising me (don't laugh!). The reason for this ridiculous fear was that I was aware of the condition of incontinence and the fact that in some cases there is no feeling when passing. "Would this happen to me?" I thought each and every time my tummy rumbled. I was later curtly (but kindly) reminded by Pauline that in giving birth women are often not in control of their bowels either - so I should just "deal with it". Why go into so much detail about this? Because again, my value as a human being does not depend one iota on how much I am in control of my bladder or bowels. Simple as that! It might be distressing, embarrassing or inconvenient to lose control but it has no fundamental significance. As a baby I had no control and if I become incontinent as an old man I will have no control - but I will still be a person made (and being remade) in God's image.

At several points I had trouble speaking, hearing and seeing as my brain "settled". But the more I took hold of the truth the less I was troubled. The lack of any of those powers does not affect my status at all. Needless to say then, that as I contemplated whether I would work again or whether my personality would change (as is frequent in such cases) the same truth came to comfort me in my thoughts and feelings - I am made a little like God and he sent his Son to redeem and restore my pitifully fallen soul. How wonderful is that?

Medicine for the Spirit

Throughout the seven days I spent in hospital forty friends and relatives called in to see me. They did enormous good to me just by being there. I thank God for the love they showed during what could have been a very stressful period.

My first visitor coming up in his cycling gear was such a surprise I was almost overcome (by emotion - come on reader you know me by now). But then every visitor was like a birthday surprise. I just didn't know who or what to expect so it was wonderful to see those who were able to come.

One nameless brother-in-law, surprised to find me in talkative mood, prepared a post-it-note to put over my bed, saying "Nil from mouth". I was conscious of the fact that I was very very talkative during those days. It sometimes took a real effort for me to allow friends to get a word in edgeways. But I did make the effort. Words from Paul's letter to the Romans came to mind when I think of those who came. He said "I long to see you so that I may impart to you some spiritual gift to make you strong— that is, that you and I may be mutually encouraged by each other's faith." I have always found this to be the case when visiting believers in hospital. Even in distressing circumstances we know that God is working all things for our good and so we ought not to be discouraged. Indeed it is often from those in a sick bed that great blessings have come to me.

The circumstances and nature of the visits were blessings from God. Most often friends would have a passage of the Bible to read to me and would close their time with prayer. This was always a great encouragement. Indeed it was so noticeable to others that one of my "neighbours" in the bed opposite asked if I was a priest. To wake up on Sunday afternoon and find a friend quietly and patiently waiting at my bedside was very affecting. To see another dear friend come from a good distance on a Saturday morning was wonderful too. The pastor who came out of visiting hours and conducted a half an hour conversation with me in whispers was, in hindsight hilarious, but at the time was strangely precious. I shouldn't have started picking out particular visits as they were all gratefully received. But each brought different lessons with them. To have a long conversation with an unbelieving friend about God's dealings with his people even in distress was a wonderful privilege. Again, totally unexpected was a Sunday night visit from a dear friend and her two children. Subsequently I learnt that the visit particularly affected her son (in a positive way).

Even from within the hospital I received several visits from Christians as God has his people in many places. A pharmacist who happened to come from a neighbouring church was senior enough to be able to come when she wanted and listened and encouraged. Then the Lord brought a Christian physio to me. She listened to my distress as I cried my eyes out on day one when I thought I heard the consultant say I would be in for seven weeks. I say again I wouldn't have missed that week for anything no matter how I embarrassed myself.

Patience

Sometimes it's very hard to be patient. But one of the most remarkable characteristics I noticed in the nurses and doctors who dealt with me was patience. It was not a patience learnt in a textbook but rather one that seemed to be a deeply ingrained quality. I experienced what I can only describe as a rainbow of patience. That is to say there were very many expressions and forms that it took.

I saw this quality in the doctor who dealt most gently and patiently as he tried to persuade me to go for my CT scan in my post-operative distress. He was a very busy surgeon whose time was in demand but who did every thing he could to gently cajole and convince me. Then there was the male nurse who stood by attempting to reassure me all the while. Another bore with my lame attempt at humour as he tried to do the very serious job of assessing of my state of mind. When he asked who was the prime minister I answered "Sarah Brown" - (Gordon Brown's wife, dear reader).

Of course I know that we all are sinners and that the Bible teaches that the heart is deceitful above all things. I also knew that I only saw these people in one setting and that not every one of them was equally patient. I knew that all the sins that lurk in and burst out of the human heart were in doctors and nurses as much as in anybody else. But the degree of gentleness and patience which I saw in them was remarkable. The Irish nurse, who in his chirpy way brought me a bedpan and explained how to use it, showed this patience. So did the young physiotherapist who quietly and reassuringly listened to me pouring my heart out and crying my eyes out as I explained how I felt on the day after the operation. Then I thought of the Jamiacan nurse of similar age to me who saw me quietly sobbing (very emotional aren't I?) about the "missing" couple of days of which I could remember virtually nothing. She noted that I had a Bible on my bedside and wisely and discretely advised me to leave those days in God's hands. She went on to advise that I might like to take time to memorise something from my Bible. I saw that same patience one night at about 3am when I had spent some time working myself into a state of feeling guilty about my flippant "Sarah Brown" answer. At this point I called for a nurse and told her that I thought my chest felt tight and my blood pressure had risen because of these thoughts. She showed concern, a reassuring tone and patience as she questioned and tested me.

The patience I saw in these folk forcefully underlined the fact that good character traits are found in all sorts of people not just in Christians. Many people take this truth and imagine that good character and good works can save a person. However, such character is by no means able to satisfy God's perfect standard (particularly if we dig a little deeper). Following this train of thought I concluded that it is only through God's mercy that anybody is able to do any good thing at all. Perhaps on the day of judgement there will be many (medics among them) who will regret that they never thanked God for the opportunities he gave them to show patience. Nor were they thankful for the strength he gave them to persevere in doing so. Even the examples and upbringing that taught and encouraged them to be patient were granted to them by God. My thinking at this time was leading me to conclude that patience that is not motivated out of love for God will surely be rejected by him.

No Fear !!?

A 48 year old Christian man who is used to being "in control" can find it hard to remember that he is simply a child of God. How on earth do you "teach" or make such a man aware of this truth. Thankfully God is able to teach his children in many ways. In my case I believe that I was being taught this lesson during my time in hospital.

When I come across a problem I almost instinctively want to throw time, money, thinking, work or energy at it. I am a man with others depending on me or at least looking to me. But too often it is possible to take away God's glory in the midst of our problems by causing ourselves and others to focus on human resourcefulness, ingenuity or power. We learn this in the case of Gideon where God says that he didn't want people to imagine that it was because of the vast numbers of Gideon's forces that a victory was gained. It is so easy for us to focus on the tangible rather than to exercise faith in the unseen God.

Well, gradually through my week of hospitalisation I realised that my position was that of a child of my Heavenly Father whether I am healthy or unwell. It will be all too easy for me to allow this truth to fade away but I pray that the Lord will keep me aware.

During my time in bed I thought about my wife and children and their needs, the Tyndale Academy (at which I am one of just two teachers); the Bill going through Parliament which I have been doing much work on; whether our business would go under and a number of other potiential problems. Other responsibilities could easily have weighed on my mind. Among them were my work as a deacon; the fact that we had just taken out a mortgage for a dormer on our house and the possibilty that I would never be able to teach again. Finally to be considered was the prospect that I might have the kind of personality change that I was told is common among those with brain traumas like mine.

Most strangely (for me) I was able to leave these questions and problems to the Lord, knowing that there was nothing I could or ought to do about them. If I was ever to teach again was in the Lord's hands. The building work and the Tyndale Academy were there too. Indeed I ought to have known that they had always been in his hands although I had only half noticed it. My lack of worry on these matters was not, I believe, a despairing resignation, or a "what will be will be". No. I think it was based on a trust and realisation that he cares for me (and all of his children). It would have been awful to have been powerlessly thinking about my responsibilities at such a time as this. (Of course I ought to have remembered that many people face far more serious issues than mine).

This was a time for me to remember that I was precious to my Heavenly Father and that at times I imagine that I depend too much on myself. I was learning that although the Lord looks for maturity in his people as time goes by, the fact is that we never get beyond being dependent children. This is our place. The verses that came to mind at this time were "such things are too high for me" and "I was like a weaned child". They just made me aware that it is my place to trust God whether I understand what he is doing in my life or not.

Down a blind alley

Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! As I lay on my bed that first evening these words wandered in and out of my mind. What had I said to the doctors and others around me in my state of confusion? Had I insulted them or sworn at them? Was I responsible for my words and actions? At one moment I would burst into tears at the idea that I had shamed myself and the Lord by my words and at the next I wondered if I had said anything at all. As a nurse or a doctor passed by I would ask if I had upset anybody by my words. One of my fellow patients had evidently been very upset by somebody and I had to wonder if it had been me who was responsible. As it turned out it was nothing to do with me at all. But it seemed as though almost anything wrong around me was something to do with me. What a horrible position to be in- not knowing whether I had done something reprehensible - and not being able to work out how much I was at fault.

I was brought up in the east End of London during the 1960s and 70s. For this reason it is hardly surprising that evil thoughts and vile words that were current then would find a place in my mind. This is why I had often, in the past, been fearful at the prospect of being in a semi-conscious state or even sleeptalking in a room with others. Why? Because I alone, among men, know my thought life and the words and ideas that swill about in the dark recesses of my mind. I have long been able to restrain and discipline my tongue from the worst excesses (at least from my point of view). But what when stress, mental illness, senility or injury rob us of that restraint?

But - thank God - I think I was delivered from blowing these thoughts up out of all proportion. As matters became clearer it appeared to me that I may have been straining at gnats and swallowing camels. Of course swearing, cursing and vile language are important and are often indicators of what is in our hearts, but I suspected that there were other sinful attitudes that were being uncovered in me.

One particular visitor, a pastor, helped me greatly in getting to grips with my thinking. He quickly reminded me of how it was possible to misinterpret God's dealings with us because of our irrational fears. He pointed out the episode in which David showed such fear after he had been annointed but Saul remained on the throne and attempted to hunt him down. He also went into the detail of the story of David and Ziklag to reinforce the point that God has good purposes for his people and that they, through fear, can forget those purposes. It was wondrous to see how a wise pastor is able to bring solid comfort from God's Word so readily. I have seen this up close on few occasions but was glad that this time the counsel was directed towards me.

Hospital - a "House of Mourning"?

It is better to go to the house of mourning
than to go to the house of feasting,
for this is the end of all mankind,
and the living will lay it to heart.
Sorrow is better than laughter,
for by sadness of face the heart is made glad.
The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning,
but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth.

Ecclesiastes 7:2-4


Of course I want to be in the house of feasting and enjoyment if this means enjoying every good and perfect gift that comes from the Father of Lights. Of course I want to glorify him and enjoy him forever (not enough though). Of course I look forward to heaven where there will be pleasures for God's people forevermore.

But now in this world there is a tendency for us to be distracted by those good things we enjoy. Even the Preacher (of Ecclesiastes) asked that he would not be made so rich that he would forget God. Then there was the foolish rich farmer who, distracted by his success, neglected his own soul.

Is it for this reason that it is good that we occasionally receive afflictions or sadnesses that we would never wish upon ourselves? These come from the hand of God just as much as the pleasant and enjoyable things we receive.

I suppose that anywhere is capable of being a "house of mourning" in some sense. Even a wedding, which we rightly would normally expect to be a house of feasting, can for some be a house of mourning and sadness. If this can be the case with a wedding it should surely not be out of order to call a hospital (for some) a house of mourning. It is a place, at the very least, where we are prone to experience fear, sadness, grief and stress or a place where disability and illness are discovered and death is present. There are many tears shed by patients and relatives in hospital. True, there are many smiles of joy and relief there too.

For me hospital was, I think, a "house of mourning", albeit not one of deep grief. It was certainly a place of sober and serious reflection which in some way approximates to what the Preacher said above. It definitely was not a place where I would naturally dance and sing for joy as a result of my circumstances.

What is surprising to me is that I wouldn't have swapped this "house of mourning" for a world cruise or any other enjoyment. In one sense this is a foolish thing to say, because if the Lord provided me with such a cruise there would be no better place on earth to be. But I am sure you can see what I am getting at; during the seven days which I spent in hospital I believe that I was greatly and immeasurably blessed. The Lord brought healing to me through the work of medics as well as through the workings of my own body. But much more than that, I believe he brought to my mind, through his word and my fallible understanding of his providences, much wonderful truth about himself, myself and others.

The Need for Narrative (fun and games)

On arriving at the Royal London Hospital I was operated on for the removal of a subdural hematoma. I was sedated using among other things morphine. On regaining consciousness after what was a two hour operation I found myself in the Recovery Room. What followed was most disturbing to me but apparently quite within the bounds of what doctors and nurses see in such circumstances. Perhaps what you will now read of are the desperate attempts of a disturbed mind trying to make sense (and a story) of what seemed to be confusion. I think that perhaps what I call "a need for narrative" is something God has put in us. I give you my permission to smile at what follows even though it is in some ways serious.

The doctor in the Recovery room asked me various questions to assess how well orientated I was. However, I had no idea that I had been to the GP, my local A&E or was at the Royal London. I had some idea that the questions asked were to get me to submit to a lobotomy or some such procedure (about 20 years ago I saw a film called One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest which may have contributed to my fears and irrationality). For this reason I was determined not to say the word "Yes" to any question at all lest it be taken as consent. My chief fear that I wasn't in a hospital at all was heightened by reading the badge on the nurse which among other things had the words "Nurse Bank". I also saw various laminated notices which I took to be lame attempts to disguise the fact that the buildings were not hospital buildings. Then I was told that the doctor wanted me to go down for a CT scan - but I had noted on the wall, signs for "Charrington Ward" and "Turner Ward" sign. I concluded that they had simply grabbed at the words Charrington and Turner and then made up the term CT (scan which strangely I knew to be an investigative procedure). Others tried to convince me to get into the lift but I simply sat up on the bed with feet overhanging the side so I couldn't be got into it.

Eventually I was told that my family was downstairs but as I doubted this I asked "which one" (not wanting to give away any information which they could use to later convince me). I got off the bed and tried to go walkabout (which worried the doctor as I was gowned and had various tubes and bags attached). I doubted whether these were necessary and wondered about taking them off. One of the security staff had been called to assist but as there was nothing he could do he withdrew. Then the doctor said he would go off to get my wife. I doubted this and as he left I told the nurse that he wouldn't be back as my wife wasn't here. But the doctor did return and I saw Pauline through the windows of a room or passage I had gone into. I wondered whether it was possible for some computer generated image of her to be projected onto the window but before that thought could go any further she came through the door.

This was the first encouragement since the operation had ended. I went towards her and hugged her and said "I can trust you. We are married and the Lord has made us one" and (don't tell Richard Dawkins) I sniffed her neck just to make sure. The nurse carrying my tubes and drips etc was of course in close by during all this. It was from this profound moment of reassurance that things began to go right. Although I was still nervous and looked around at sounds of closing doors or people behind us I was more trusting because she was with me. I told Pauline that I remembered the promises she had made to me (almost 20 years earlier) and this is why I co-operated. I think I needed somebody to trust somebody who I knew wouldn't deceive me. I was led not to the CT scan but the doctor thought it best to go straight to the ward. Even at the point of going into the ward I stopped and asked her "When I go into that ward will you still be my next of kin" (by which I meant will I be "sectioned" and she no longer have power to look after my interests/treatment). After her answer I was led to my bed.

You may ask how I remember so much (and more) although I was so deranged and recovering from sedation. Well pretty immediately afterwards I recounted these things to Pauline and several of the matters (though not all) were subsequently confirmed.

I am glad to have finished with writing up this episode as it means I can now go on to speak of the Lord's goodness to me as I spent the next six days in hospital. I trust you will be encouraged if you have not already been put off from reading this.

Setting the Scene

I was admitted to the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel in the early hours of Tuesday morning on the 22nd January and spent seven amazing days there which I hope, by God's kindess will turn out to be a means of lasting blessing to me, my family, my church and others.

I offer this blog in that hope - and if shortcomings are seen in my reasoning and reflections in it, then I really hope that they will be corrected gently by friends or otherwise by others.

I had been dizzy with headaches for a week before admission and during that time I had been to my GP who prescribed some medication. At this stage my symptoms were not clear enough to allow a full diagnosis to take place so I returned to teach. Later on the Friday, because of the severity of the symptoms I made my mind up not to drive to Stoke on Trent (from London) for my daughter's fencing competition. Instead I decided go up in the minibus and to return on Saturday with her on the train. Things went well and we returned on Saturday evening.

From Sunday morning everything gets hazy until Tuesday afternoon. I slept on Sunday morning and my wife, Pauline,left me in bed while she and our eight children went to church. In the afternoon I was awoken for dinner and it appeared to my wife that as well as being unusually quiet I was attempting to hide the fact that I was not using my right hand to eat. She was so concerned she took me to the local Accident and Emergency where I was checked out and sent off with a note to take to my GP the next day. On Monday Pauline, left me asleep in the morning and went in to teach at Tyndale Tuition Group instead of me. Then during the afternoon she took me to see the GP, who immediately rang the hospital and said he was sending me in as a suspected stroke case. I had barely been able walk or dress myself and I recollect nothing of these events at all, even though I was responsive to questions. I couldn't make the short walk from the surgery to our van and so an ambulance had to be called. This was about half past five in the evening. We got to the hospital at about 6 o'clock and I was sent for a CT scan. I was then taken to the Acute Unit in the A & E for observation at which point the doctors said that I would be transferred to the Royal London Hospital at Whitechapel and into the care of specialists there.

At about half past nine my dad my brother, one of my sons and my fellow deacons arrived at the Acute Unit to support my wife and to see me. I still remember none of this apart from a vague recollection that it was raining and one of the deacons read from a psalm. Then at about midnight I was "Blue-lighted" to the Royal London. Again, I have no memory of any of this even though I spoke to all who spoke to me.