I’ve been discouraged over my “effectiveness” for Christ recently. It seems that, though I love Him, I am not accomplishing the work for Him that I imagine. At 10 a.m. this morning I took a 15-minute break and kneeled in the hospital chapel, just asking for Him to do what He wanted with me for His service.

She’s had two cancers and is free from both now. She moved to be near her daughter, but her daughter has rejected her. “I have to love her from a distance. She got a new job and bought a Range Rover. Now she acts like I never loved her. She don’t know that you can’t take nuthin’ but your good works with you when you die.”

It was a number I didn’t recognize and answered too late. When I called back, no one picked up. Later the same number called me and said, “Dr. ___?” I recognized her voice from the past immediately. I called her name and said, “You must have butt dialed me.”

Last week I felt inspired. I delivered the first half of a Christian-life lecture to local healthcare students, and it was smooth.

The hospital notified me today that one of the residents I supervise had more than 600 “view alerts” on her computer that had not been addressed. Alerts contain critical labs, radiology results or notes from other physicians who need a response.

We were sitting at a small table in the cheap furniture section of the hospital employee dining room, my first chance to get to know her: a young, chief of in-patient psychiatry, mother of three small children, follower of Christ—me: an old guy, chief of oncology, 50 years married, grandfather of six, follower of Christ.

He spoke of the Lord often as we addressed his malignancy, acknowledging Jesus as the one he trusted with his health. But somehow, he sidetracked us into a conversation about his sexual exploits in ways that were natural to him but too graphic for me. I was somewhat perplexed by these two lines of conversation that seemed a bit oxymoronic.

I was visiting a patient in the rehab center who had undergone a knee replacement. He was fine except for the slow pace of rehab. His wife was there, vivacious, energetic, appearing far younger than her stated age, which I will not share. I asked her how they had met.

“We actually met in church,” she shared. “You know, I am older than he. When we started dating, he wouldn’t tell me how old he was. I called the church office to find out, but they wouldn’t tell me either. By the time I found out he was five years younger, I was already in love, and the rest is history.”

What difference does age make anyway?

Quite a bit, actually…