I developed legendary fears of all things medical at an early age. The first item to garner my full attention was the tongue depressor wielded by the skillful hands of Dr. Harrison. Though there has never been a shot made that wasn't terrifying, the tongue depressor, disguised as a mild-mannered popsicle stick, could create panic and nausea within seconds of being placed on the table next to me.
Physicians have long marveled at my healthy gag reflex.
I recently discovered that my son has inherited this awesome trait. After checking in with the doctor with a sore throat, he had to be held down by four MMA fighters while a group of nurses calmed his nerves by singing "Don't Worry, Be Happy" in the background. All of this, just to check out the back of his throat with that precious little stick. It was a proud moment for me, though I am getting nauseous while thinking about it.
I thought Dr. Harrison had done his worst to me with that tongue depressor, but I was wrong. One Sunday night after church, the youth group headed to the youth center to play some table tennis, which mustered such competitive juices in me that I was overcome with adrenaline. This particular evening had me working up a sweat as I drove my opponent mercilessly from corner to corner of the table. Suddenly, my foe hit a lucky shot that landed just past the net on the right side of the table while I was standing to the far left of the action. Not to be defeated, I rushed like a road-runner with bad brakes to the opposite side to rescue the point and, more importantly, my pride.
My pride suffered irreparable damage as my feet lost all traction on the varnished wood floors of the youth center. I'm certain that I made a marvelous shot, but that's all I remember before I landed chin first on the floor, gaining a sizable split in my flesh that left me bleeding profusely. My youth pastor's wife made a vain attempt to put me back together before giving up and sending me to the emergency room, where the good Dr. Harrison arrived an hour or so later. To say that he was a bit grumpy from being disturbed on Sunday night would be an understatement. He muttered all manner of things about kids playing in church after hours and why my parents would allow me to where slick-soled shoes while playing table tennis. In all of his musings, he forgot to ask me if I won, but I suppose stitching me up had his full attention. The good doctor's quilt-like patterns that were not-so-gently stitched in to my chin left a mark that has forever ruined my chances of growing an award-winning beard. Such is life.
The thing about doctors is that they are crafty. When they tell you something is going to sting, you should probably prepare for something that feels like Mike Tyson punching you in the face or biting your ear off and that's the bright side of things. When the doctor informs you that their actions are going to be "uncomfortable," you should make sure your life insurance is up to date. Years ago, I had an unfortunate encounter with an antibiotic that decided to kill everything in my body. Some of the most memorable consequences of the drug involved a fissure in my rectum that was roughly the width of the Grand Canyon.
I'm sure the fissure grew to this width because of the deceptive practices of my physician, who said he merely needed to "take a look." He failed to mention that taking that look would require inserting a magnifying light that resembled a watermelon. He was quite content to peruse my inward parts slowly, as if he was touring a favorite museum. I felt as if I had been dilated to the point that twins could exit the area while holding hands if I had been a woman in labor. After the diagnosis, I mustered the courage to have the damage repaired six months later.
Recently, my back was giving me its daily dose of torture when the chiropractor suggested an unusual method for improvement. Had he suggested walking barefoot across a floor covered with Legos, I would have been game for it if it meant help was on the way. Instead, he offered something called "suction therapy." The practice consists of putting a number of suction cups across various muscles in your back and cranking those bad boys up until they have sucked all of the lint out of your belly button. The initial feeling of this procedure is somewhere between eating a tablespoon of wasabi sauce and having a hive of bees practice acupuncture on your back.
What led me to the decision to submit to this ordeal was the doctor's statement about why it was worth a try. "The thought is that by collecting lots of blood into central locations, it will speed healing," he said. "After all, life is in the blood." He had my full attention with that statement, because it is true in both the physical and spiritual world.
Blood does it all. We transfer our nature from one generation to the next through it. Jesus shed his to wash our sins away and change our nature to reflect His image. His blood proclaims the power of grace and forgiveness before the Mercy Seat of God. Despite all that is wrong with the world, His blood speaks of better promises.
We all need to remember that the blood of Jesus is all that matters. No matter the political climate or any other source of turmoil, His blood stands ready to make us whole and to make us one in Him. If believers will focus on this truth with every decision, every Facebook post and every aspect of their lives, peace will prevail, if peace is truly desired. Nothing can stop that. No other war needs to be won other than the one within our own souls, where the real problems lie. Jesus promised a peace beyond what the world has to offer. It is a peace that flows straight from Him. Take it. It's good medicine and it won't hurt a bit.