A Problem of Hearing

A Problem of Hearing

by Ken Wade

"Oh No!" Dad exclaimed.

I had been sitting at the foot of my mother's hospital bed reading when Dad came in after going to a restaurant for dinner. Now I looked up, expecting the worst. Had he noticed that Mom was not breathing? Had her I. V. fallen out? Was she bleeding?

But Dad wasn't looking at Mom. He was looking at me. "Oh No!" he said again, louder. He was feeling around in his jacket pockets. "Oh No! I put my hearing aids in my pockets, and one of them is gone. I've got to go back right now and look for it!"

With that he rushed out of the room.

I stood up as if to go with him and help, but he was gone before I could offer.

I sat down in the chair closer to the head of Mom's bed now, hoping she had been asleep and not heard Dad's exclamation. She didn't need the added stress of worrying about an uninsured $700 hearing aid right now.

"Why this now, Lord? Haven't our fortunes tumbled far enough already?" I prayed. It was part of the fatalistic declivity my thoughts had been slipping down for the past week.

It was Thursday now. I could remember walking along a sidewalk a week ago Tuesday, thinking how beautifully things were going in my life. I loved my work as assistant editor of a magazine for pastors. I had a happy, prosperous family, and I was looking forward to an upcoming business/pleasure trip from my home near Washington, D.C. to Portland, Oregon just a few miles from my parents' home. It almost seemed like things were going too well.

I'm not superstitious. I quit knocking on wood even facetiously when I became a committed Christian. But still somewhere in the back of my mind resides a fear of things going too well, or of feeling too enthusiastic. I suppose it stems from a childhood fear that if you let someone know what you really enjoy, they're sure to threaten to take it away the next time you misbehave.

But that Tuesday I felt liberated from childish fears. I could trust the Lord, I knew. I need no longer fear to feel good.

Wednesday afternoon I was interrupted in a research project. My secretary called the office library to say that my parents wanted me to phone them right away. A mild fear grabbed the bottom of my spine as I made my way up the two flights of stairs to my office. Mom had been complaining of loss of appetite for some time, and had had some tests the day before.

The news was not good--a tumor on the pancreas--they were going to see a surgeon today. They wanted my opinion--if things looked bad should they even schedule a surgery?

Of course they should, if there was any hope, I told them.

My thoughts flipped onto autopilot as I hung up the phone and took a quick trip through a similar call I'd received in 1975. That time it was Linda, my 27-year-old sister, a missionary in Bangladesh, who had been diagnosed with cancer.

But this time maybe there was more hope--after all, cancer research has made a lot of progress since then. And for all I knew, pancreatic cancer might not be life threatening.

I called again that night, after Mom and Dad had gotten back from seeing the surgeon. Now the news was worse. Very radical surgery offers the only ray of hope for those with pancreatic tumors.

Yes, there was a slight possibility that it might be benign, but even if it was, the surgery and three-week hospitalization would be a terrible ordeal.

I had been prepared for bad news, but this was worse than I had expected. Stunned, I offered whatever reassurance I could think of and hung up, promising to call a surgeon friend to see what he would advise.

My friend was sympathetic, but his comments only helped me realize how grave the situation was. Surgery offered the only hope, he said, but some surgeons have recently quit removing pancreatic tumors under any circumstances because the risks involved in the surgery are too high.

"From your end of the conversation it didn't sound too hopeful," my wife said as I laid the receiver in its cradle.

"No, not at all," was all I could say. I could sense that she wanted to know more, but . . . "Just leave me alone for a little bit." I needed a good cry.

From the heights of Tuesday I plunged to utter despair on Wednesday night. As my parents' only surviving child, I booked a Friday flight to be with them over the weekend. Surgery was scheduled for Tuesday, and now the trip which had been the crowning touch to my ecstasy became a dull ache in my mind, and a hassle that would require sudden preparation instead of leisurely anticipation.

Now it was Thursday, two days after surgery. Mom was recovering, but making only slow progress. I laid my head on my arms and stared at the hospital floor. Does God really hear any more? I wondered. Oh, sure, I knew the answer academically. I'd spent years as a minister assuring people that He did.

But He hadn’t healed my sister. And that had led my mother to her own crisis of faith.

Shortly after I arrived at my parents' home I approached Mom about an anointing. "Well, Linda was anointed . . ." she broke off in mid-sentence. She didn't really want to say what she implied--"and God didn't do anything special for her."

By referring to James 5:13-15 I convinced Mom that anointing was the right thing to do, because that is what God instructs.

But I'm afraid I didn't really convince myself. Yes, I knew God could heal. But with the prognosis so bad, I hardly dared to hope that anything could be done. I, and a multitude of others, continued to pray. But I hesitated about the anointing. It was as if I was a small boy again, afraid to ask for an electric train for fear that the answer would be no.

We had prayed that the tumor would be benign, or that it would not spread beyond the point where it could be easily excised.

But when the surgeon came out to talk to Dad and me after only two and one half hours in the operating room, I knew the news couldn't be all good. The procedure for removing a tumor from the pancreas requires four to five hours.

Dad took the news hard. The cancer had spread too far to remove. They would do everything they could to keep Mom comfortable, but her life expectancy was six to twelve months.

All those prayers and nothing so far, I thought as I stared at the floor that Thursday night. Can I really expect God to hear my prayer about something as small as a hearing aid?

I had prayed instinctively as soon as Dad discovered the aid was missing. But did I dare hope that he would find it? How many places had he been? Could he remember them all?

Mom stirred and said something about $700, so I knew she had heard. I continued to pray--pleading the desperation of the situation, and that Dad was having a hard enough time hearing Mom's weak voice already.

Did I dare hope for a positive answer? I remembered contact lenses that had been found in answer to prayer "when all else failed."

But for the most part I tend to pray more general prayers. You know the kind--"Please bless us in this effort, lead us throughout the day, help us in our witness to those around us."

Those are "safe" prayers. Ones you can always figure were answered in some way, whether or not you can point to visible evidence.

But a lost hearing aid is different. I knew I could expect a yes or no answer within minutes. Did I dare put my faith in God to such an empirical test? The struggle raged in my mind, and hadn’t resolved itself several minutes later when Dad returned.

He tapped on the door and came in. I tried to read the expression on his face. At least he didn't look worried.

"Did you find it?" I asked.

"Yes," he said with a smile. "Right in the middle of the parking lot."

"Whew! That's an answer to prayer."

We didn't say much more about it right then. But my attitude about prayer and faith began to change. On Saturday night Dad showed me where he had found his aid--lying unharmed in the middle of the busiest part of the parking lot at a Denny's restaurant.

Maybe it wasn't a flat out miracle. But it came at just the right time to stop my slide into despair. It helped me remember that God's ear is not deaf that He cannot hear. And reminded me that my heavenly communication problems start on my end, not His.

A few days later I approached the hospital chaplain and arranged to participate with him in an anointing. My crisis of faith was over, and I could read in Mom's expression that hers was too.

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