(2 minutes, 11 seconds)
Eleven years ago today, my surgeon—unbeknownst to me—handed me off to a student surgeon who ruined my hip.
At an appointment many months after my total hip replacement surgery, when everything was still going steeply south rather than getting better, my doctor leaned in to look at my x-rays, saying something didn’t look perfect but that he wanted to “give it another six months.”
Unsatisfied, I stopped by the records office to request and wait for the detailed surgical notes dictated by my doctor after my procedure. I wanted to read for myself what happened to my unconscious body in that small, sterile operating room.
What I read in the surgical report stunned me.
I had gone to this surgeon on the other side of the state because of his particular niche in operating on young and athletic total hip patients. I found out through my uniquely acquired surgical notes that my doctor didn’t do the surgery.
Do you know that feeling when the blood drains from your face, you feel woozy, and your stomach, which was fine a moment ago, is now in a fit-throwing brawl with what you last ate? I thought I was going to throw up.
On the morning of February 14, 2014, my surgeon had four operations going on at the same time. At the same time! He was not the guy with the saw; a much younger and inexperienced “doctor” was. This hospital was a teaching hospital, and my stellar surgeon, with all his accolades and experience, was also an instructor of student doctors. On this day, eleven years ago, my surgeon was overseeing four student doctors, one of whom did my surgery and royally screwed it up.
The surgical report stated that my doctor was “always available” during the entirety of my procedure. Apparently, he flitted between four operating rooms that morning to be “available” for everyone’s surgery. I imagine him stopping in the hall for a coffee break, while my body got mutilated by an intern.
In all my surgeries afterward to FIX my messed-up hip, I always looked my doctors in the eye and asked if they opened, closed, and did everything in between. I insisted they sign the paper I didn’t know about in 2014 that confirmed that they, not anyone else, would be holding the scalpel.
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Our God is eternally more than available; He is also ever-present.
Psalm 46:1 says, “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.”
Like water lapping gently and repetitively against the shoreline of my life, the Lord has used the words of Psalm 139 to minister over and over to my heart and broken body: God hems us in. He goes before and He comes behind, never taking His omniscient eyes off His beloved. He is the Author of our stories.
My heart is constantly softened with gratitude and humbled by our God, who counts us worthy to be watched continually.
In contrast to my doctor, God Almighty is always available AND constantly present. God’s affections, care, and touch are constant —His hand, His holy, scar-stained hand of blessing, is on your head. Always.
All because of Jesus, there is no waiting line for the constant, confident access to the presence of God Almighty. Jesus’ shed blood and sacrifice open wide the Kingdom of heaven to us who believe and trust in Him.
“And so dear brothers and sisters, we can boldly enter heaven’s Most Holy Places because of the blood of Jesus. By his death, Jesus opened a new and life-giving way through the curtain into the Most Holy Place. And since we have a great High Priest who rules over God’s house, let us go right into the presence of God with sincere hearts fully trusting him.”
Hebrews 10:19-22 (NLT)
(photo credit: Unsplash, Marcel Scholte)