He spoke with honesty. Confessing what he can no longer do, describing how his gifts have departed, admitting new fears and weaknesses, his testimony did not proclaim peace. It told of pain, of pressure, of depression.
“Why do I have to take this medicine?” he asked. “I’ve prayed for many others to be healed, then watched God miraculously change them. He healed them. Not me.”
What do people in the congregation think when they call and hear, “No, the pastor isn’t available now; he is resting”
His name is known. His accomplishments have amazed people. Now he struggles to perform tasks that felt so simple before. Doubt and defeat appear housed nearby.
I listened. We cried.
I encouraged him to release those hurts. I have him keeping a journal to avoid denial or despair. He meets with friends who accept the new man as he is.
And he talks to me. Why? Because of my counseling degree or my gift of encouragement? No. My talents or title didn’t open his heart. My sickness did. When he heard me speak about a life-changing experience, he felt I would relate.
My new unwanted identity
That’s the way it is now. people call me because I’ve lost my mind, or a least an important part of it. TV and radio hosts interview me and promote my book, Beggars Can Be Chosen. But what do they really want to know? About my br /ain damage, about how it feels to have seizures, about my MRI results, about my forgetfulness.
I’m not asked to speak about how I’ve maintained good relationships with my three sons or how I communicate consistently with my wife. Reporters and editors, pastors and congregations want to ask: Does it embarrass your sons to regularly remind you of their names? How does your wife feel when you pause in a conversation because you can’t pronounce a simple, common phrase? What do people in the congregation think when they call and hear, “No, the pastor isn’t available now; he is resting”?
How can a br /ain infection and flaws in perception and memory make a man more real? Good question.
Several years ago an illness changed me. I had viral encephalitis. Ten days in the hospital, months of therapy, a lifetime of tests and medicine. Now, under the category of epilepsy, the “new me” is a man I would not have chosen to be.
Now I know about aphasia: because of injuries or disease, weakness mentally to grasp or gather.
The former me had no trouble spelling. The new me thanks God for spell check. This br /ain once had no trouble remembering names or memorizing Scripture. Now? Our members remind me of their names; my three sons repeat what their father forgets; my wife works to accept her new husband who goes by the same name but isn’t the man she married.
Know more by knowing less?
What a learning experience. New words. Illustrations. I play games to track numbers, rules, or order. The poster at my clinic gave this prophetic utterance: “An impairment of the power to use or comprehend words, usually acquired as a result of a stroke, and sometimes from head injury or br /ain tumor.” They needed my picture beside it.
V.S. Ramachandran’s words in “phantoms in the br /ain” mirrored my thoughts: “parts …. had forever vanished, lost in patches of permanently atrophied br /ain tissue.”
Therapists evaluated, tested, tricked, trained, and drilled my removal of skills. They reached conclusions: “Mr. Maxwell demonstrated mild anomic aphasia marked by word retrieval difficulty, reduced spelling ability, and difficulty taking on new information. Mr. Maxwell needs speech and language treatment to target these deficit areas.”
Viral encephalitis affected my left temporal lobe, causing deterioration of nerves within the br /ain. My new weak points included language, learning, and memory. A friend said, “He is more real, more sincere.”
How can br /ain infection, abnormal electrical discharge of neurons, and flaws in perception and memory make a man more real? Good question.
New obstacles, new limits
I have many of those and other questions.
Will I remember to order chicken soup when the waitress calls my name? Do they giggle at my rhythmic reminder as I order a six-inch-turkey-sub-on-wheat with lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, oil, and oregano?
How many times will I walk around a baseball stadium, an airport, or a business center searching for my car?
During my sermons do I admit that I can’t remember what to say next, or do I pretend the Spirit inspired my stall? Do people realize my powerpoint presentations help me, the speaker, more than them, the listeners?
Are my three sons holding anger because their dad gives them a look, expecting them to tell him someone’s name?
My wife, Debbie, described my illness to those who never knew the prior me. I was pleased she talked with honesty. I thanked her as I typed and cried.
“This is my second marriage,” she said. “God switched husbands on me in the fifteenth year of our marriage.” I later wanted, or thought I wanted, to know more. I asked Deb, “Describe your second marriage.”
“You have a totally different sense of humor,” she said. “You go to bed early instead of watching movies at night. We go to meetings in separate vehicles because I want to stay longer than you can. I need to fill in the blank and depend on my memory more because you forget so often. You have the most trouble remembering peoples’ names. You are more emotional, crying more often than you ever did. It is difficult communicating.”
Okay. I asked, “Is that all?”
“No,” she answered. “You are not flexible at all about schedules.”
Since men need a little ego boost, and since I was desperate for at least one positive point, I pleaded for a more balanced synopsis.
“Yes, in some ways you are better. You’re less inhibited; you are willing to say anything you feel you should say, but you say it carefully. You are more aware of what you eat.”
Dr. Hal pineless, my neurologist, described my new situation and some of the intangible factors: “Faith in God gave you the realization he would get you through. You were motivated. Stubbornness helped. You set goals, letting nothing get in your way. You also have a supportive wife, family, and church.”
He said, “You now have epilepsy. You need to use memory devices like your palm pilot. Remember what Clint Eastwood says in the Dirty Harry movies, ‘man’s got to know his limitations.'”
My first reaction is that the word limitations is a curse. How can I view it as a blessing? A divine calling, a sincere desire to do good, and an inner longing to succeed all inform me that limitations must be overcome. I can’t accept it. This “limitation” is sheer disability. To accept it feels like giving up hope, giving up my calling as a pastor and leader. So at first, I want to act as though I’m not what I am.
In time, however, I realized that each of us, in our own areas of sickness and weakness and doubt, relate to the apostle paul as he correctly faced his own limitations. I noticed that he had serious setbacks while still remaining true to his Director. Though I struggled to read, paul’s confession (2 Cor 11:24) hit the headlines of my new mind: lashes five times, rods, stones, shipwrecks, swimming in the sea at night, on the move, in danger, needing sleep, starving, naked? Elsewhere he describes a “thorn in the flesh” that God did not remove, despite his repeated prayers.
So now I work to join paul, boasting of weaknesses, acknowledging the sufficiency of God’s grace, and trusting the God who “chose the weak things of the world to confound the strong.”
What I want to do, I do not
When blood flow, neural activity, and mental modification seem to labor in vain, what is occurring? br /ain cells arrive at birth in a lifetime supply. portions of mine remain permanently on pause. A word I expect to say transforms into an unrelated word before my mouth tosses it through the air. A name I said four sentences before sits, hides, and refuses to allow me to locate it until I ask for help, feel embarrassed, and wonder why others think it is no big deal. previously memorized Scripture keeps its distance.
I’m a different, unique me. But what are the real positives?
I previously taught a congregation to care, to use gifts, to serve. Then, during a season not planned or directed by our strategic visionary management, they got their chance. And many of our people applied those principles as I stuttered, struggled, and wondered why.
A speech therapist reworked my thinking on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Doctors rescued me and became my friends.
Garrett had attended college with me and then served as a leader in our church. When I returned home from the hospital, he watched me weekly, like a babysitter. Maybe he just enjoyed the food our friends br /ought. Or maybe he knew Debbie needed time away from her new husband.
people cared. Mowing grass, writing letters, cutting hair, serving food, driving this new Chris who wasn’t allowed to drive for five months. None cheered when I drove three months too soon. Their rebukes revealed their love.
How do vanished parts of a pastor change a church?
My congregation knew me. At least, the old me. Suddenly, without election or debate, they had a new pastor. Same name, same wife, same sons. Similar, but unlike their former Chris. This one cried daily, paused often, and struggled to remember. This teacher needed to be taught. powerpoint outlines, palm pilot dependence, no calls at certain times: my college professors never informed me we would one day make radical changes for mere survival.
Mary, a writer and counselor and friend, described her new pastor: “It is the strangest thing I have ever seen in my life. Chris can’t remember names or words. It’s like the ‘name file’ on the computer of his br /ain has been deleted. He would know you if he saw you. He just wouldn’t be able to remember your name.”
The church staff watched me weep, listened to me ramble, helped me spell, and reminded me of names, words, plans. Our secretaries didn’t just type and answer calls and copy. They tried to discern how to help. Ministers, leaders, parishioners, prayer warriors, and those who rushed away when their pastor lost his mind all facilitated by reminding me of reality. Sadness and confusion blended with acceptance. Rejection stood beside agape love.
New opportunities
God, though, had more medicine I needed. I still need it. I’ve finally learned to use this emotional madness in the river of gladness. Laughter really does do good like a medicine.
Relatives sent a t-shirt. It announced the new me: “Insufficient Memory at This Time.” It should have included my picture. We laughed.
Others mean well when telling me, “Oh, I forget all the time,” or “I never could remember names,” or “It’s not your illness; you are just getting old.” My face smiles. My heart doesn’t. I think, Age didn’t do this; it happened to a man in his thirties; it dove in quickly, altering everything.
But instead of pouting, I joke. Often I’ll tell the true story of me walking out during the night of my “near-death experience,” carrying tubes and preaching sermons no one understood. I wasn’t, let’s say, dressed for the occasion.
When I visited that hospital before my illness, the hospital staff called me “Reverend.” After that midnight madness, they called me “the preacher with the cute butt.” They still laugh. So do I. I forget for a moment about my forgetting.
Naps? people from many countries let America’s work-all-day philosophy rob them of their traditional, midday Sabbath. I have no choice. I fade. I shake. I know. Those around me know: naptime. An honor? A privilege? When a person tells me they wish they had such an excuse, I want to shout, “You do not want what I have.” But they mean well. I laugh. And fall asleep for twenty-two minutes.
For many in my Charismatic tradition, illnesses like mine cause countless problems. Some hold to the naming-and-claiming doctrine that blames pains on doubt, but others have an unwavering faith that even mess-ups might cause mass revival.
So while speaking at a convention, I said, “If I pass out while speaking, I hope the not-so-spiritually-inspired have the courage to call 911 while revivalists assume I’m slain in the Spirit. My twitches and mumblings might not be an outpouring either. Those seizures always keep us guessing. Medication, instead of an interpretation or revival, should follow.” It got their attention. It reminded the new me to laugh.
Dr A. D. Beacham, Jr., a leader in the International pentecostal Holiness Church, wrote a note answering many of my questions, “I rejoice that God has spared your life. You may, like Jacob, speak and think with a limp, but I suspect that God will use that in a special way.”
I believe him. I also seek to achieve continued improvement. Now, though, I must know the new me is the me I am. To remember, I paste it in my palm pilot: “Face it! Let God grace it!”
Last month I thought it through again when I was asked to speak at a hospital leadership conference. Maybe my writing informed them. Maybe my speaking inspired them. Maybe my leadership interested them.
No. I knew better. My illness and recovery intrigued them. They could glance at my MRI results and wonder what I might say. They wanted a br /ain-damaged preacher to stand and speak while they watched, listened, observed.
I chose to say yes, even though I knew. I wasn’t saying yes only to them. I said it to my Sovereign Doctor who instructs me to face the fact that my cheese has moved, to face my own disappointment with God, to face my table in the presence of enemies, to face my sinking in the water, to face the new me and still tell the old, old story.
I pray that, like Jacob, I will be blessed in this ongoing midnight wrestling match. And I hope I share it with a world of people whose names I can’t recall.
Chris Maxwell is pastor of Evangel Assembly in Orlando, Florida
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