Just Kidneying – For Real

The chief transplant surgeon swept into my room at Barnes-Jewish Hospital in St. Louis, seemingly pulling the entire medical staff of the hospital behind him. lnterns, his surgical team, associates, student fellows – it was the "white coat swarm" that my nurse, Renee, warned me would be coming into my room to stare at me for a while.

But they were more than an hour late in their appointed rounds, which should have told me something.

The surgeon fixed his eyes and set his jaw. "I'm afraid it's bad news," he said solemnly.

Another doctor proceeded to give us the details: the kidney that had been designated for me, the one that prompted Karen and me to toss our clothes in a bag and race 200 miles to St. Louis at a moment's notice on a Sunday afternoon, the one that kept me overnight in a hospital though I wasn't sick, the one that necessitated a chest X-ray, EKG, blood screenings and a battery of other tests to make sure I was healthy enough to receive it – that kidney wasn't coming.

In keeping with the arcane rules and protocols of organ donation, at the last nanosecond another hospital in the region stepped up to claim the kidney for a patient whose condition was far more dire than mine. The doctor said a lot of other things, most of them apologetic, but I became lost in my own thoughts after that. The next thing I remember hearing was the chief surgeon saying, "You can get dressed now," before the swarm drifted back out of my room.

That's it. False alarm. So sorry. Just kidneying.

How ironic.

I was disappointed, of course, and very weary after a night of being poked, prodded and roused from my sleep every few hours on those wonderful hospital beds. The drive back from St. Louis seemed to take days. But I was neither upset nor discouraged. This revived relationship I have with Jesus Christ has given me an amazing sense of calm in matters such as these. It must be what the Bible means by "peace that passes all understanding." God knew this wasn't the right kidney for me, even though all the outward signs suggested it. When the perfect organ for me comes around, He will handle all the paperwork. God is in complete control.

What this experience showed me was the incredible fragility of this organ donation process. If an organ becomes available and if it's undamaged; if it's an acceptable blood and tissue match; if the potential recipient can get to the hospital in time; if he or she doesn't have a low-grade fever, undetected infection or some other physical impediment to surgery. Even then, there are no guarantees the transplant will actually take place. So many things have to go exactly right. It's a life lottery.


What saddens me most is not that I missed out on the transplant. It's that so many other people, who had offered up so many prayers, positive thoughts and good wishes, seemed more disappointed than I was. I'm told my father-in-law cried openly when he heard a matching kidney had been found. Larry is my personal version of John Wayne; he's not a cry-at-the-drop-of-a-puppy kind of guy.


My wife's BFF took the day off from work and drove to St. Louis to be at the bedside with Karen. My in-laws showed up to lend their support, bringing the twins with them. Madison, who really is becoming a talented young artist, used the trip to create paintings to adorn my hospital room, including one with a Bible verse she selected herself. We taped it to the front door of my room.

The passage is from Psalms 73. It reads, "My health may fail, and my spirit may grow weak, but God remains the strength of my heart; He is mine forever."

My pastor, Tony Caffey, and his wife, Sanja, drove in from distant Arthur, Ill., arriving about 90 seconds after we heard the unfortunate news. The gang truly was all here, and ready to rejoice. Their joy, alas, was short-circuited. So we all gathered in a circle and prayed instead.

So many of you put forward so much love, prayer and support on my behalf, I could actually feel it in my room at Barnes-Jewish. It's a phenomenal feeling to be cared about that deeply. Thank you. Thank you so very much.

The good news is, this call means I am at the top of the transplant list. I was told there have been instances where patients have been called in four or five times before they actually receive the transplant. (Oh, Lord, tell me that's not going to happen!)

I'm going to keep praying. You keep praying, too. Together we'll get through all this. And someday, after I've had a healthy replacement kidney for years and am doing better than any of us thought possible, we'll look back on these days and laughhhhh.

Parking With the Pastor

I have returned, tired but inspired, from "Harvest University," an intense three-day conference in Elgin, Ill. It was hosted by Harvest Bible Chapel, the exploding string of Bible-based churches worldwide that has a branch in Decatur, Ill., which I am proud to attend.

At a Harvest church, everybody works in service to God's glory; I am a member of the Hospitality Team at Decatur, and in between the University's exhilarating worship services I took workshop courses designed to help me do what I do better.

The church was founded in 1988 by Pastor James MacDonald, a simply amazing man of God. Funny yet fearless, passionate and unapologetic, he is one of the finest Biblical scholars and ministers it has been my privilege to hear.

I'm always thrilled to see him preach in person, so I was anxious to get from the hotel where 17 of my fellow Decatur parishioners and I were staying over to Harvest Elgin for the final day of classes and Pastor MacDonald's closing sermon. Because we all had checked out of the hotel and were going our separate ways at the end of the conference, I was driving by myself.

About a quarter-mile from the church, I found myself stuck alongside a bald, burly biker in a black leather vest who was slowly putt-putt-putting his Harley in the right-hand turn lane leading to the entrance. "This guy can't possibly be going to Harvest University!" I grumbled. "What the heck is he doing in my way?"

I had the option of either slowing waaaay down and slipping in behind the motorcycle or hitting the accelerator, gunning it a bit and zipping in front of him.

Did I mention that I drive a 2011 Camaro?

There was no option. I stepped on the gas, made a sharp right and pulled in front of the biker. "That's more like it!" I grinned.

I looked in my rear-view mirror to make sure I hadn't cut him off too severely. "Man, does that face looks familiar," thought I.

Then I took a closer look. The joy-riding biker was none other than...Pastor James MacDonald.

Oh, Lord.

Scanning his eyes in the mirror for any trace of anger, I felt relieved that (a) he seemed OK and (b) thankfully no one from my church witnessed my moment of sheer idiocy.

I was half right. The moment I opened my door after parking in the Harvest lot, my pastor in Decatur, Tony Caffey, was standing next to my car. "You know you almost ran over the founder of our church?" he asked.

I heard the raucous laughter of my fellow Harvest Decaturites in the background.

Well, perhaps an apology might be in order.

As I entered the lobby I spotted MacDonald – he's a hard man to miss, especially in a black leather vest – surrounded by members of my church. I walked over and shook his hand.

      A grinning Pastor James MacDonald with Harvest Decatur attendee Lori Nelson, apparently uninjured.

"I'm really sorry about cutting you off," I said.

"That was you? In the Camaro?"

I nodded sheepishly.

"Man, I couldn't help but check out that car! That is one sweet ride!"

Saved by the sports car.

As we later learned, MacDonald was dressed as he was because the church was giving a new Harley to assistant senior pastor Rick Donald for his decades of faithful service to the church, and MacDonald actually rode the bike into the sanctuary to present it to him. I don't think that was the bike he was riding into the parking lot, but I can't be sure. Had I cut my steering wheel a split-second sooner, I might have ruined a thoughtful, expensive gift and derailed a marvelous closing sermon from MacDonald. Harvest Holy Enemy No. 1.

The takeaway for me that day? God's grace even extends to impulsive drivers. And you can't judge a biker by his "vest"-ments.

A Moving Experience

                          A Swarm of a Few Good Men Descend Upon Our Home


Well, our move from Champaign to Decatur, Ill., Saturday could not possibly have gone smoother. Six (count 'em!) husky, prairie-strong young men – Ryan, Jeremiah, Rick, Mark, Alan and Michael – from Harvest Bible Chapel where my in-laws are members drove the 50 miles from Decatur to our apartment with pickup trucks, strong backs and cheerful attitudes.

It wasn't so much that they volunteered their free time to haul the furniture, beds and appliances of near strangers on a Saturday morning, though that was remarkable enough. It was the way they did it. You know how sometimes you agree to help out with a big, physical task on the weekend, then dread having made the commitment once the weekend arrives? Not here.

Every one arrived with a smile on their face, goodwill in their heart and a tangible sense of camaraderie. These guys clearly enjoyed being in each other's company, and it showed. Many hands didn't just make light work; they made lighthearted work. We were completely finished in less than four hours, including the one hour for transportation.

Words cannot even begin to express my, and our, appreciation for their efforts. I was deeply touched, and thankful. And the next day at church, they were still happy to see us! Imagine that. The simple acts of caring and compassion, the willing spirit; this is how being a Christian manifests itself in daily life.

And when Emma looked Karen in the eye Sunday night and asked, "Now are you going to be living with us forever and ever and ever?" all the sweat and muscle aches seem justified.

Busting a Move

Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Chaos.
Chaos who?
Total chaos.
Oh, I've been expecting you. Come on in!

No, it's not funny. And I'm not laughing. As the crowning blow to this dizzying rollercoaster of a year (and month!), this is the weekend of the Big Move.

On Saturday, at least four wonderful men from Harvest Bible Chapel in Decatur, Ill., where my in-laws are members but we are not, will make the 50-mile trek to Champaign-Urbana to help Karen and me move from our Champaign apartment to the basement of my in-laws' home. I feel like such a slacker whenever I say or write those words, and I've had some fun watching the reaction of my friends. "Yes, we're moving into Karen's parents' basement," I'll say, mournfully. "You know, times haven't been good...."

Actually, they've been very good. The real reason we're relocating is to help take some of the parenting pressure off my in-laws, Linda and Larry, as we all try to raise Emma and Madison, the 9-year-old twin girls entrusted to their care. (And, although we don't talk about it as much, to provide some family assistance in case my condition worsens or I receive a kidney transplant and need continuous care.) The basement has been remodeled, a new bedroom and closet space constructed, and it's all quite nice and cozy.

Now, I can't begin to tell you how impressed I am that Harvest Bible parishioners would give up a chunk of their weekend to help essentially two church visitors move their household. I don't know a single person on earth who enjoys moving in any fashion, and as far as I'm concerned this is Christian charity in action and we are extremely grateful. But if you count the year I spent in a Ferndale, Mich., apartment before marrying Karen and coming to Champaign, this will be my third move in two years. I am plumb sick of moving.

On top of it all, after writing four feature stories on deadline this week, today is the first day I've had time to assist Karen with packing and organizing. One day to prepare for a major life change. Whoopee.

Since our lease in Champaign doesn't expire until the end of the month, our plan is to move the furniture and big items out Saturday and keep a TV and air mattress here so that Karen and/or I can spend the last two weeks cleaning out the place. This actually doesn't sound too bad to me; in Ferndale, I slept on an air mattress in my living room every night, even though I had a bed in my bedroom, because I wanted to stay close to my 50-inch TV. I've never claimed I was sane.

So at least until November, I'll be living in two cities and not completely entrenched in either one. Meanwhile, I'll be packing, discarding, recycling and working steadily. Chaos, as long as you're here, hand me that empty box, willya?