Classic Vulnerability

      I’ll just go ahead and say this right up front. I’m not the man I used to be. I’m more and more like a 1956 classic car, full of modern replacement parts on the inside but showing all of 66 years on the outside. And I probably don’t need to point this out, but I will anyway, the replacement parts cost more than OEM parts. 

        My friends have taken to calling me the Six-Million Dollar Man. But I didn’t get motors in my knees and telephoto eyes. Should have spent the 6MM, I suppose. 

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      At home, the day before we left, I told Cyndi, “You don’t need to hang around the hospital during the entire surgery. I’ll be fine on my own.”

      She said, “I don’t intend to. I’m planning to spend the day having fun with my granddaughters.”

      On Wednesday morning (June 22) the girls traveled with us from Mansfield to Dallas. We stopped to have breakfast at McDonald’s (I couldn’t eat, but they could) and they went upstairs with us to check me into the North Central Surgical Center. The administrators gave me a code number that Cyndi could use to check on progress and all that.

      Then Madden said, “Look, you’re on the board.” She pointed to a big tote board showing where each patient was in the sequence, and she recognized my code number.

      A nurse came to fetch me, so my three girls took off. They figured I could handle whatever came up.

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      When all of this started building momentum back in May, I knew I wouldn’t be allowed to put weight on my left foot for several weeks, so I dug out my crutches. I was offered a knee scooter but I turned it down. They seemed too awkward.

      However, at the last minute I borrowed a scooter from my friend Darrell, and immediately changed my mind. It was great. I realized the knee scooter is one of the finest inventions of this generation. It’s right up there with portable GPS, fleece pullover sweaters, and seedless watermelons.

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      My inaugural ride on the knee scooter was at Love Field in Dallas. Cyndi dropped me off at passenger departures with my scooter and backpack, and she circled around to return our rental car. I scooted inside, through TSA Pre-Check, and into the security pen.

      They asked if I could stand up without the scooter and go through the scanner, but I said, “No, my left foot must stay off the ground, and I can’t reliably hop that far.”

      So they pulled me over to one side for a personal pat-down. The young TSA agent thoroughly searched my backpack, my scooter, and me. The searcher must’ve been new to searching and pat-down protocol because he was excruciatingly deliberate and detailed. He even called a supervisor over to witness the whole thing.

      The process took so long Cyndi caught up to me and cleared security before I did. She returned our rental car, rode the shuttle bus to passenger departures, worked her way through the ticketing line so she could check bags, and still won the race.

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      Cyndi has taken great care of me these days in spite of our family’s reputation for expecting everyone to get better on their own. And also, in spite of my reluctance to ask for help (also a family thing).

      Part of my recent growing up has been learning to embrace vulnerable moments, to let God speak to me through them, and let my own heart speak to others. We have the greatest opportunity to change the world when we are willing to be open and vulnerable.

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      Thanks, Cyndi, for holding my hand through these vulnerable moments. I’m glad I don’t have to do all this without you.

“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32