Striving

It’s hard to read the Sermon on the Mount these days without feeling that it sets almost impossible standards for modern Americans. Much has been written about the Galilean’s claim that he has come not to abolish but to fulfill the law (Mt 5:17). In fact, some scholars interpret what is meant by “fulfillment of the law” is not the demand to keep it exactly as it stood before, but rather as a new expression of the will of God. Is it possible that he meant that some things in “The Law” might pass away and be replaced by more exacting standards of righteousness?

What might the strictures of The Beatitudes replace? Could the list include the laws against eating shellfish, adorning the body with tattoos, executing misbehaving children, obtaining knowledge, a man’s having a relationship with … oh, let’s not give Franklin Graham a heart attack.

It would be hard enough simply to abide by The Beatitudes in modern America. Many politicians seem to despise the poor in spirit. Those who mourn for their children who were taken from them at our border receive particular spite and wrath in social media. Those who are merciful and forgiving receive ridicule and condemnation. The supporters of our current president say he may not be pure in heart, but at least he hates the same people we do. Try hungering and thirsting for righteousness and see where it gets you with Fox News. Peacemakers? Forget it.

If the Sermon on the Mount contains the roots from which righteousness grows, folks in our land will say it’s a hard row to hoe.

SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER TWO

In the last chapter we found Gideon Nelson at the Little Rock Veteran's hospital. Before his appointment, he learned from a young friend that a young student had been murdered.

            Nelson continued through the main waiting room of the hospital. He entered a large seating area in which veterans sat waiting for prescriptions to be filled. Digital signs announced the numbers being served at that moment. Their owners sat before open windows expectantly, like prisoners awaiting release papers. The uncalled sat staring into space or dozing. A walkway divided the two groups and a security guard at the nearest end and chatted with a young nurse. As Nelson approached, the guard looked at him with a hint of a snarl, saw no challenge, and returned his attention to the nurse. Nelson stepped through the area quickly and proceeded to a bank of elevators.

            On the seventh floor, he followed a twisting maze of hallways to a door marked “Surgery” and entered. Several veterans, some with family members, occupied seats in a large reception area. They looked at Nelson as he entered but showed little interest. He walked to a window where a pleasant-looking lady sat typing into a computer. She looked up, smiled, and took the ID card he produced. Looking at it, she said, “Mr. Nelson,” let me log you in.” As she entered his name into the computer, he studied the room. It was worn, but comfortable, the furniture sturdy, and the walls decorated simply with posters advertising support and benefits offered by the United States government.

            The woman returned his card through the window and said, “If you’ll take a seat, we’ll call you when your time comes.” She smiled and he took the card. “Some of our veterans like to keep up with the latest,” she said, handing him a brochure labeled “Your VA.” He took it and found a seat among those lined against the wall.

            He didn’t read the brochure. Instead, he studied the room. The atmosphere was calm and lifeless. Most of those in the seating area stared ahead, lost in some memory, fear, or dread to which they alone held access. One looked a magazine but didn’t appear to be reading it. One man held the hand of a companion, likely his wife, although the ages of those in the room defied easy placement and a daughter would have been a possibility. A stout woman in her 30s sporting close-cropped hair fingered an I-pad, smiling. A tattoo emerging from her shirt sleeve identified her as Navy. She glanced once at Nelson, showed no recognition, and returned to the device.

            The opening of a door violated the quiet, floating atmosphere of the room. A Nurse’s head appeared and said “Mr. Owens.” A thin, frail man wearing a baseball cap with the words “Korean War Vet” embroidered across its front stood, and on shaky legs, followed her through the door. Nelson watched as he left. The others in the room paid no attention as they again seemed to float quietly in place.

            The nurse continued to call names. More of those in the room departed in obedience to the call and they were replaced by new arrivals. The woman at the reception window greeted each arrival as if they had been the first of the day. When one complained that his prescriptions hadn’t been filled properly, she smiled and assured him that his primary physician would want to know all about it. When the room became quiet again, Nelson set the brochure aside and looked at his watch. It was two minutes before his appointment time. At that moment, the door opened and the nurse called his name. He rose and followed her into the hall.

            She proceeded to his left and he turned sharply to follow her. When he did, and had taken a single step, he stopped and bent forward. He grabbed he muscle above his right hip with a grimace. The nurse turned to see the color drain from his face. “Mr. Nelson,” she said as she walked back to him.

            “Spasm,” he said.

            She stepped back to him and placed one had on his back and the other under his elbow. She said, “Are you all right?”

            “Spasm,” he said again. “Give me second.” With that he set his jaw and, with the nurse’s assistance, moved to the side of the corridor and placed his free hand against the wall. With obvious effort, he began to take deep breaths.

            “Shall I get help?” the nurse said.

            “No,” he said between clenched teeth. “I’ll be okay.” He used the wall to straighten himself. He smiled at the nurse. “It happens from time to time.” She appeared puzzled and he said, “That’s what I’m here about.”

            When she attempted to help him again, he removed her hand and took a short step of less than a foot. With clenched teeth, he took another, then another. The color returned to his face and he motioned for the nurse to lead the way. When she did, he followed.

            They entered a small room and the nurse seated Nelson on the edge of the examination table. She asked him to remove his shirt and undergarment and, as he did, she busied herself disinfecting her hands from a dispenser attached to the wall. The she said, “Let’s get your vital signs.”

            When she had finished, she collected leftover materials and walked behind where Nelson sat to discard them into red disposal can. She stared a maze of scars across his lower back. “Oh my,” she said. “I can see why you may have spasms.”

            Nelson didn’t respond. She came around to his front and told him that “Doctor” would be with him in a moment and asked if he was comfortable.

            “Relatively,” he said.

            She laughed. “Some of our veterans complain that they get cold while they wait,” she said. “But I suppose you were trained to withstand the cold.”

            He shifted on the table and said nothing. She busied herself with a computer keyboard. An x-ray appeared on a large monitor. It elicited another “Oh my.” It clearly showed a view of Nelson’s torso with a black object an inch or so to the right of his spine.

            “Shrapnel,” he said.

            She said, “Where?”

            “Afghanistan.”

            “How long ago?”

            “A couple of years,” he said.

            Before she could respond, the far door opened and the doctor walked in. He was a Caucasian man in his forties, with a soft appearance and a pleasant smile. His hairline had begun to recede onto the top of his head, and his face and chin were melting into his neck. Neither event seemed to cause him any major concern. He greeted Nelson with a handshake. “How are we today, Mr. …,” he said as his dark eyes glanced to the file in his left hand, “Nelson? I’m Doctor Thurman Roberts.” Releasing the handshake, he began flipping through the file.

            Nelson waited and looked around the room. It was sparsely outfitted and smelled of antiseptic and age. A stainless-steel cabinet held the usual assortment of cotton swabs, tongue depressors, medicines. He stirred. There was a coldness about the room that spoke to sterility and mortality. No thinking person, no matter what the pain, would want to linger here.

            Doctor Roberts finished scanning the file and looked at Nelson. “There is more missing from your file than is contained in it,” he said. He laid it on the examination table and smiled. “You must have been up to some high-level mischief.”

            Nelson smiled in return, but said nothing.

            The Doctor turned to the x-ray, waiting on its screen like a dark puzzle. He touched the dark mass of shrapnel. “I guess this is what we are here about?”

            “It looks smaller than it feels,” Nelson said.

            The Doctor looked at it again and then at Nelson. “Problems?”

            “From time to time,” Nelson said.

            The Nurse spoke. “We had an incident with a spasm while coming from the waiting room.”

            The Doctor leaned toward Nelson. “Spasms?”

            “And dull pains at times.”

            “How severe are the spasms?”

            Nelson thought. “Enough to stop me from what I’m doing at the time.”

            “Could you put up with them for a while longer?”

            “A while longer?” Nelson looked confused.

            The Doctor glanced at the file and smiled. “I don’t imagine you are used to anyone’s asking you whether or not you can put up with pain.”

            “Not recently,” Nelson said.

            “Reason I asked,” said Doctor Roberts, “is that the reports from your primary physician, and your x-ray history, indicate the shrapnel is migrating.”

            Nelson said, “Migrating?”

            “It happens,” said the doctor. “Very rarely and it’s highly unusual, but can happen. Usually it is bad news. In your case it is good news.”

            When Nelson didn’t reply, he continued. “In your case it is migrating away from the spine. We would like to let it move a bit farther before we operate.”

            Nelson spoke. “And if it doesn’t?”

            “Then we will operate although the closer to the spine, the greater the danger.”

            Nelson said, “Will there be other complications?”

            “It may still aggravate nerves as it does now. The spasms may continue but we can treat those to mitigate them.”

            “Sound fair,” Nelson said.

            “Good,” the Doctor said. He turned to the nurse. “Could Mr. Nelson and I have a few moments?”

            “Certainly,” she said, surprised. “I’ll be next door if you need me.” She looked them both over and then exited the same door that Nelson had entered.

            When they were alone, Doctor Roberts motioned for Nelson to dress and he, himself, sat it the room’s only chair. He relaxed and looked at the ceiling. “Are you in a hurry?”

Nelson looked at him, evidently confused.

“My next veteran had to cancel,” Doctor Roberts said. “Thought I might take a break if you have a moment or two.”

Nelson said, “I must return a call, but it can wait.”

“Thanks,” Doctor Roberts said. He leaned forward and clasped his hands around his knees. He said, “I understand that you know Dr. Merlin Garrison.”

            Nelson looked surprised. “I do,” he said. “Do you?”

            “I went through some surgical specialty training with him in Austin last year,” he said. “Nice chap.” He folded Nelson’s chart and placed it on the table. “He and Luther had my wife and me over for dinner one evening. We enjoyed the hospitality.”

            “Merle and I served together in Afghanistan,” Nelson said.

            “So I understand. He called me, you know.”

            “I did not,” Nelson said.

            “He knew that with my specialty, I might be the one treating you. So he called to make sure I, or whoever else it might be, took good care of you.” He released his hands, uncrossed his legs and leaned back. “He thinks highly of you.”

            “And I him.”

            “He said you saved his life.”

            “Actually, he saved mine,” said Nelson, gesturing toward the x-ray. “There would be a lot more there if he hadn’t been on the scene.”

            “He gives you the most credit.”

            “That’s Merle,” Nelson said.

            “He would like to assist the operation when the time comes,” Doctor Roberts said.

            “Is that why we are waiting?”

            “No, the reason we’re waiting is the reason I gave you.” He lowered his voice. “But I must tell you the Veteran’s Administration is not in any hurry, either.”

            “Oh?”

            “We get caught in these eternal budget struggles. Concern for you guys tends to evaporate in direct proportion to the distance you are from battlefield.”

            “Some things never change,” Nelson said.

            “Some things,” Doctor Roberts said. “Plus, we have new maladies to treat.”

            “New maladies?”

            “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is eating us alive. So far it hasn’t interfered with a needed surgery but it eats resources and invites malingering.”

            Nelson cocked his head. “Is there really such a thing? I mean such a thing as PTSD?”

            “Do you doubt it?”

            “I have no way of knowing,” Nelson said. “I am just naturally suspicious of—as you call them—maladies that suddenly appear from nowhere.”

“Oh,” Doctor Roberts said. “It’s not new. In the Civil War it was ‘soldier’s heart’ and in World Wars One and World War Two it was ‘shell shock’ or ‘combat fatigue.’ In WWII they discovered that prompt return to the soldier’s unit could prevent long-term disability. The name PTSD was coined in the Viet Nam era and politics and compensation for veterans got so mixed up with it that it’s difficult to sort out the medical realities anymore.”

“It sounds a little slippery,” Nelson said.

Doctor Roberts nodded. “I suspect that some of the PTSD veterans had pre-existing psychological factors and might have had a similarly dysfunctional present even without the exposure to war trauma. Alcohol and drugs are often involved. Now, with multiple deployments, it can be a real phenomenon.”

            “So the problem is?”

            Doctor Roberts looked toward the door and then turned back. He said in a low voice, “All I can give you are generalities. I think it is a real condition, but I think it has been wildly over-diagnosed, has been fostered by well-meaning psychologists who lead patients to fixate on their symptoms, has been politicized, and is hard to define objectively since it is based on self-reported symptoms.”

            Nelson said, “If I say I have it, you have to treat it?”

            Doctor Roberts nodded. “What really disturbed me was when the DSM expanded the definition. It’s no longer just trauma that happened to you personally. Now it can include witnessing an event that involves death, injury, or a threat to the physical integrity of another person; or learning about unexpected or violent death, serious harm, or threat of death or injury experienced by a family member or other close associate.”

            “And the medical community goes along with it?” Nelson said.

Doctor Roberts said, “By these criteria, watching the evening news or learning that your elderly grandfather had died of a stroke could precipitate PTSD. This goes beyond ridiculous. Over-cautious psychologists are attempting to prevent PTSD by crisis counseling, but studies have shown they do more harm than good.” He stared off. “A friend of mine was a boy in Germany during WWII and he had to walk through a liberated concentration camp full of dead and mutilated bodies with his mother. His counseling? She told him not to look, which of course he did anyway. He never developed any kind of symptoms.”

“But,” said Nelson, “it now seems everyone becomes afflicted.”

Doctor Roberts smiled, “It has become more of an excuse for poor coping skills than a disorder. Hell, we had a fellow in here that spent his entire four years at an Air Force base in Florida and claimed he was suffering from it.”

            “Fly-boys,” said Nelson as if he found the word sour to the taste. “And you didn’t believe him?”

            “He was worthless drunk and a wife-beater when he enlisted and was more of a worthless drunk and a wife-beater when he was discharged.” The Doctor looked away. “Years of war and an all-volunteer military have caused us to lower our standards. We have to take some in that we wouldn’t have given a thought to in times gone by. Some of them find redemption in the military and make good troops, even outstanding troops. Others drift through, hone their bad habits, get out worse than when they started, and then want to waste our time and resources and would let real wounded warriors wait, if we let them.” He turned to retrieve Nelson’s file. “Sadly enough, that includes the ones who are paying the price for our little experiment with Agent Orange during the Vietnam days.”

            “So,” said Nelson, “if I were to tell you that the shrapnel has caused me to have bad dreams, you might move me up on the list?”

            “I’ve not had to do that to anyone yet,” Doctor Roberts said, “but you wouldn’t do that to me would you?” He smiled.

            “I can wait.”

            “I thought so.” The Doctor said. He turned and retrieved Nelson’s file and made notes in it. “I’ll give you a shot of cortisone and prescribe some muscle relaxer, say Flexeril. You don’t have any strenuous activity planned for the next few months, do you?”

            Nelson said, “Thought about taking a course at your local university. Carrying textbooks okay?”

            Doctor Roberts smiled. “As long as they aren’t medical textbooks. You need a wheelbarrow to move some of those.”

            Nelson shook his head. “English Lit, maybe.”

            “Study Tennyson if you are still interested in tortured souls.”

            “Will do,” Nelson said.

            “Thanks for jawing awhile. You enjoy yourself,” Doctor Roberts said. “Take a vacation. Even though I can’t tell much from your file, I suspect you’ve earned it.”

To be continued …

Friday Fiction

The Prayer List

By Jimmie von Tungeln

            Horace Lundsford was doing just fine until Gracie Rodgers reported his name on a prayer list. Shortly thereafter, things fell apart. The unfortunate thing was that he didn’t even know he was on it until the calls started. Prayer lists originate in church on Sunday morning and Horace didn’t spend Sunday mornings in church although his wife, Sarah, did. That had everything to do with it. He would understand it all much later. As for now, he was minding his own business and not bothering a soul, as his parents had taught him.

            The first to call—he was finishing a breakfast that he had cooked for himself—was the oldest Thorton girl, the nosey one.

            “It’s Carlota,” she said though it wasn’t necessary. She had this snorting sound that she made when she breathed. To him, when she really got excited, it sounded like a pig trying to read scriptures. He would have recognized that voice anywhere. It was one of the many reasons he didn’t attend church.

            “Sarah’s not home,” he said, hoping to head off even a short conversation.

            “It’s you I wanted,” she said. “I called to talk to you.”

            Horace remained perfectly quiet, the way a child who has broken something will, hoping in that instant that the disastrous thing didn’t happen, but knowing against that hope, that it did.

            “Did you hear me?” she said.

            “Sure I heard you. What’s up?” His mind inventoried his collection of tools, believing that must be why she called: to borrow something. He began to weed out the most precious of them—the ones he wouldn’t part with—from the ones he might let her use.

            “You tell me,” she said. Just like that, “You tell me.” What the hell was that supposed to mean?

            “Tell you what?”

            “Why I need to pray for you.”

            “I don’t you to pray for me.”

            “Then why, tell me, is your name on a prayer list, big as the state capitol building, right there in the Armistead County Informer?”

            “The what?”

            “The paper. Gracie Rodgers put in the Mt. Pisgah Baptist Church news that you are on the prayer list,” she drew a breath and snorted. “And I need to know what kind of troubles you got.”

            “I don’t have any troubles.”

            “You got to have troubles or your name wouldn’t be on the prayer list.”

            “I’m tellin’ you I ain’t got no troubles and you can keep your prayers to yourself.”

            But like a tree planted by the waters, she stood firm. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

            “A what?” He could see his face in the large hall mirror and it was growing red like there was a fire lit somewhere deep within it—a volcanic fire that rested directly on top of an explosion.

            “Are you and Sarah having trouble?” She snorted again and sounded proud of her own nerve.

            “What?”

            “Trouble. Are you two having, you know, marital problems?”

            “Damn it, who told you that?”

            “If you are going to blaspheme, I shall refuse to pray for you.” Snort!

            “Well don’t then!” He crashed the phone’s receiver into its cradle so hard that a piece of plastic detached and shot from it.

            “Sarah!” he yelled, then remembered that she was visiting her mother in Dallas County.

            Before he could think, the phone rang again. It was Ida Covington.

            “Is it cancer, Horace?”

            “Is what cancer?” he said. Then he remembered.

            “My cousin had it and he didn’t live but six months. And he had two churches praying for him.”

            “Your cousin?”

            “Uncle Fred’s oldest son, Chester. But Horace, it was the most wonderful thing. He surrendered his soul to Jesus just before he died and he’s in heaven right now. Not a doubt in my mind but what he is praying for you.”

“Jesus,” Horace said aloud.

“Yes, Jesus. Oh Horace, if you coulda just seen that smile on his face layin’ there in that coffin. Why you…”

            “Ida,” he said and he said it loud so she would pay attention.

            “Yes Horace.”

            “Get off this telephone,” and he slammed the receiver again and another piece of plastic flew away and bounced across the floor. He looked at his hand. It was shaking. As soon as the fact settled upon him, the phone rang again.

            “Shit,” he said. Then “Hello.”

            “Horace, if you need money…” It was his brother.

            “I don’t need any money,” he said, this time quietly, like he was expecting the call.

            “Don’t let foolish pride keep you from seeking help from those who love you,” his brother said.

            “I don’t need money,” he said. “But I’m touched that you offered.”

            “Oh, I couldn’t help you,” his brother said. “No, no, not at all. I just wanted to remind you of what the scriptures say: ‘Pride goeth before the fall.’ Don’t be prideful, Horace.”

            He placed the receiver gently in its cradle this time. Before he could leave the room, three more people called. Mostly, they were just nosing around, except for a nephew asking what would become of his tools if he died. Pressure mounted in this head. Each call added to it as if someone was pumping air into his brain.

He reached for his coat and was going to go outside, away from the kitchen and the phone.

It beat him, though. The ring caught him just as he reached the door. He turned and stared at it, hoping it would stop. It rang louder.

            “It’ll just follow me outside,” he said to himself. He flung the coat across a chair so hard that it knocked the chair over and it slid into the kitchen cabinets. He snatched the receiver from the cradle and yelled a hello into it. It was Gracie Rodgers. She started to say something but he cut her off. The whole stupid, ridiculous, malevolent monster of a morning erupted deep within him.

            “Gracie, tell me one thing,” he said calmly but with the force of far away thunder.

            “What’s that, Horace?”

            “Why, tell me why, in,” he struggled for a second before expletives poured out in three languages, “ …  hell is my name on a moth… on a…,” he was having  difficulty breathing now, but he managed to yell, “On a [stinking] prayer list?”

            “Well Horace, if you must know—and I wish you could ask it a little nicer—Sarah said you have a problem with your temper.”

April 2009

Forget my birthday?
Take that!

Sunday Break

Dear Friends:

I take a break this morning to contemplated the passing of an honorable American. With a warning of partisan leanings, I invite you read my thoughts elsewhere if you choose.

Be back soon with more events from a less than historic life.