Posts by Christian Medical & Dental Associations®

Kicking and screaming…most of the time. Protesting in the loudest and most ridiculous ways imaginable. Much like a disobedient child, who is being drug from a store by a parent; misbehaving just because they didn’t get what they wanted. That’s me. Why? How do you follow Jesus?

The Christmas season is upon us! I love the smells, the lights and the traditions. One tradition we have in our family is to not put any Christmas gifts under the tree until after the kids go to bed on Christmas Eve. It is a tradition born out of practicality: we had curious toddlers in our house for more than 10 years. But even now, when our youngest is 11, we still keep all the gifts safely tucked away until late Christmas Eve. It is so much fun to see the surprise on their sleepy faces Christmas morning!

Medical life takes grit. We wrap our minds around MCAT scores, acceptance letters, residency placements and job contracts, knowing it’s not easy. There’s risk in leaving a paying job and moving across the country. And it’s scary. Will you land on your feet? Will you live on this budget? Will you make friends? Regardless, we have hope. We see the endpoint, or the little milestones on the way—the white coat ceremony, the match and the job signing. 

Behind the smile I was shouting, “Oh goodness mercy of course!” I have been the new girl showing up at the team meeting, the book club, the Bible study far, far more often than I have been the one standing with friends. It can be excruciatingly hard. It can also be invigorating.

I don’t drag out my MD for just any occasion. Typically, I keep it tucked away. But today I thought I would speak (indirectly) to residents, especially first-year residents or interns, so it seemed appropriate. Perhaps you ladies, who are reading this article, will pass along my remarks to the young physicians in your lives.

We were doing a residency rotation in Florida when the triplets were four. One dreary overcast Saturday we were enjoying family time even though Wade was on call. We didn’t understand that in Florida rain can turn to sun in less than a minute. That day it did just that. And three four-year-olds began to wail. I couldn’t understand why the sun was making them cry. As I attempted to console them, I was asking why they were sobbing: “Daddy will have to go to work now.”

One day, a mole decided life underground wasn’t his thing. Ready for something new, he found a folded lawn chair in a driveway and thought, yes, this was his best next step. So he moved in.

I’m in my early 60s. This means I have about 50 years of clear memories of news events, politics, fads and fashions, stemming from the early 70s. I even remember when JFK died, although I was just a little girl; the reactions of the adults around me were so remarkable that I still remember exactly where I was. In all of that time I will tell you what I have learned: God is the only One we can trust to tell us the truth and the only One who can give us peace. 

The dog groomer took some sort of hiatus. And while I don’t begrudge her time off, away or whatever she needed, we have three dogs in this house. Two fairly large, all fairly fluffy dogs. And furthermore, finding a good groomer in our area is like finding gold at the end of the rainbow. It eludes most and did us for a long time. Finding a replacement was impossible.

My middle daughter has a problem with trust. She often asks me, “Mom, are you going to take me to dance today?” or “Mom, are you going to pick me up from school?” She frets over small things like have I signed a permission slip yet, or have I made that orthodontist appointment yet. It is frustrating as a parent to feel like my precious girl doesn’t know that I am taking care of her, that I am here for her.

As I write this, I am on Day 8 of a self-imposed quarantine for COVID-19. Dr. H and I managed to come down with it at almost the same time; so have several of our family members. No one seems to know just who gave it to whom, but at this point it doesn’t much matter. All of our happily vaccinated and boostered selves are doing better now, by God’s grace, and we are very thankful about it.

I knew I’d broken it before I hit the ground. I heard it snap. Breathing hard on the concrete, between cries for help, my mind moaned, “not again!”.  
 
Yes. Again. 
 
9 years ago I broke the same ankle, my right one. It was early Christmas morning and I was sleepily walking down the stairs to get baby Tylenol for my teething son. One wrong step and down I went. This time it was December 23rd. I think next year my family may cocoon me in bubble wrap and prop me up in the corner until New Year’s. 

The joke in our house is that Tigger married Eeyore. I bounce from idea to idea with romantic notions of how perfectly photographic and memorable things will turn out. My husband does the actual research to determine if the event/location/idea is actually something we can do, achieve, make happen. I want to jump at the idea and be spontaneous, and he wants to research the idea and be prepared for every contingency. My girls and I took a road trip this summer with only a tenuous sketch of a plan. More than once, one or three of us commented on how we wish Dad was with us and had planned the trip. My Tigger needs his Eeyore.

Sometimes we hear that Christians are the hands and feet of Jesus here on Earth.  It sounds saintly, but it’s not actually in the Bible anywhere.  I know, because I checked.  I’m not sure where the saying came from originally, and perhaps we don’t need to know.  But we do know this: As Christians we are part of the Body of Christ and it makes sense that putting Christ’s love into everyday practice with the people around us is like being the hands and feet of the Body of Christ.

I recently found a love note from a young wife to her medical student spouse. I’ll warn you; it’s mushy with ignorant glee. See for yourself:
 
“I love you. I’d love you the same if you were a park ranger. I’d love you the same if we had nothing because even then, we would have each other and God’s blessing and love for our marriage. We are so richly blessed by agape love. Everything else is details—icing on the cake. The way you’ve used the intelligence God blessed you with over the past two years of medical school is astounding. Today you are crossing into unknown territory. I feel so privileged to be sharing the experience by your side….”

The census taker arrived just as Wade was pulling in from a long stretch at the hospital. He told me to go on doing what I was doing—cooking supper with three toddlers at my ankles—and he would answer the questions. When the census taker asked Wade how many hours he had worked the week before, I stuck my head out of the kitchen to hear his answer. “All,” I wanted to scream. He worked all the hours. Wade answered 130. I watched at the gentleman looked at his form, looked at Wade and looked back at the form. “Sir, we are only given two squares. Is it ok if I just put 99?”

“I’ll just sleep while it’s red,” I reasoned. At the time, this made perfect sense to my sleep-deprived brain. Happily, I woke up a few seconds later with my foot still on the brake and the traffic light now a lovely shade of green. I thought I was the only intern this had ever happened to, but I soon learned my husband had once had a similar experience. After a different long night on call at the hospital, he had been awakened at a green traffic light by the horn of the driver behind him!

I love genealogies. Thanks to my beloved Grandpa Sam, I have a detailed genealogy going back to 1690 on my father’s side. It traces our family’s journey from the Isle of Mull in Scotland to the East Coast of the U.S., and eventually to Colorado. Looking at its 300-plus years of history, I wonder who these ancestors were and what they were like. If each one could tell their story, what would it include? I do know one fought in the Revolutionary War, and one had 18 children!!! I also know that none of them had any clue that their great-great-great…granddaughter would be writing this from a laptop computer in Palm Desert, California.

The snowstorm out my window made a rainbow of white as we towed our 23-foot travel trailer down the mountain pass. We hoped all would stay in order: truck first, trailer second. Ironically, in those white-knuckle moments, I was telling my medical man what the Lord had been teaching me recently—to hold loosely.

“You will keep him in perfect peace, Whose mind is stayed on You, Because he trusts in You.” – Isaiah 26:3 (NKJV)

Peace seems scarce these days. In fact, we seem to be living on a peace spectrum that runs anywhere from shaky armistice to literal dumpster fire. Even as I write these words, which you may read later, I am sure that if there isn’t something disastrous going on today, there will be tomorrow.

The call came maybe five months after we moved into the house I had dreamed of my whole life. Big front porch. Two porch swings. Rockers. And the icing on the cake—azalea bushes circling the big huge trees in my new front yard. I was anticipating the first of many, many years of Easter photo sessions in front of those bushes. But for that phone call.

The season of Lent has begun. Raised in the Baptist church, Lent wasn’t something that we celebrated, but I have always thought it was a beautiful way to prepare for Good Friday and Easter.

The May Day pictures from my daughter’s fourth grade moving up ceremony are some of my favorites. The girls are dressed in matching white dresses with ribbons around their waists and flower crowns in their hair. Those flower crowns alone made them appear angelic. But the fact that those little friends had skin tone ranging in every color made the photos seem like a little slice of what heaven will be. In hindsight, I was feeling pride about that. I thought we had found the way to move race relations forward in this next generation. I thought we had reached a better place—these girls cared far more about what they had in common than the skin tone that might otherwise separate them. Oh, what I was feeling was definitely pride bordering on smugness in the ease with which this could be “fixed.”

We don’t watch It’s a Wonderful Life every Christmas—it is always on our must-watch list, but I am pretty sure that is because it is my favorite and so the family tries to appease me. But trust me, if schedules are too busy, and we don’t get through our entire Christmas list, this is definitely the one that doesn’t get watched.

In a few days, we will be voting on who will be the President and Vice President for the coming four years. To say that this is important to us all is an understatement. It is not only important to the United States of America, but it is also important to the entire world, especially in light of COVID-19 and its subsequent fallout. Countries all over the world have been affected by the pandemic and by the economic consequences of it as well.

I once finished the Chicago Marathon. I ran right through the city uninhibited by the two million people who lived there. It was really something. I ran freely through a maze of normally congested streets. There were people pressing in on every side, yet I was unrestrained to work toward my goal. Do you know why? 

The meeting with my co-leader was held two weeks before the start of the new Side By Side session. I had my planner, my Bible and the study book. She had the same. But Deb also had a box of organized, color-coded, individually-bagged Scripture reminders for each student, for every week of the semester. On top of all of this, she also had already written meticulous notes on each lesson in her beautiful penmanship.

I haven’t been able to write for weeks. The peace of mind, which I so typically enjoy, has eluded me recently. Every time I’ve tried to put pen to paper, I have found horrible angry things drying in the ink on the page. I almost despaired of writing this article, but my husband, good man that he is, suggested I write about “peace of mind.” He figured I’d have to walk through some Bible verses and pray a bit to regain my peace of mind, so I could effectively write about it, and he was right…thankfully. I hope you will walk through this exercise with me.

“Mom, Tatonka is the only chick who wants to be held,” my eldest observes. Yes, the smallest of our chicks is often perched on a shoulder, held in a hand or hiding under someone’s knee as they sit crisscross apple sauce. The chick knows my kids are safe and, of course, she wants to feel safe.