Stainless Steel

It was July 5th, 1983.

I was working Food Services at the Rome City, Indiana Campus. Rome City is where the Family Way Corps were trained. It had been a Roman Catholic convent, the Catholic Order of the Sisters, before The Way purchased it.

This was the 2nd summer I'd been assigned to Rome City. This second Rome City assignment had been announced in May when I was still at The Way College in Emporia, Kansas. I had a feeling that the assignment was like an omen: Carol it's deja vu; you will fail again...just like the first time. I had immediately pushed that thought aside.

The kitchen at Rome City was different from the kitchen at Emporia; it didn't have that industrial campus feel. The atmosphere was more like a large nuclear family; probably having the kids running around helped with that. Plus we ate family style instead of cafeteria style.

Some of our food was fresh from the large organic garden. In the garden I enjoyed fending off potato bugs with 8-year old Renee. She taught me the children's song, "Walking with my Lord...through the darkest night..." We would sing together in the sun while we smooshed potato bugs between our gloved fingers. Those were magical times for me, serving those two summers in Indiana.

There was no air conditioning in the kitchen area. But the dining room next to it was air conditioned. I didn't mind not having the cool air and oftentimes volunteered to wash pots in the large stainless steel double sink. Over the sink was a big window with a giant fan. I was sweaty anyway and enjoyed getting wet, the fan breeze cooling my clammy skin. Sometimes I'd sing or make funny noises into the fan. It would echo back, a comical whirling noise of my voice humming back at me.

On July 5th I was at one of the long stainless steel counters cutting some vegetables. I wish I could remember my Corps brother's name who was cutting vegetables with me on the other side of the counter. I can see him, but can't recall his name, so I'll just call him Brian for now.

I said, "Something's wrong."

"What do you mean?" Brian asked

"I don't know; just something isn't right somewhere."

"Have you spoken in tongues about it? Whatever 'it' might be?" he replied.

"Yea. I've been speaking in tongues all day. It just feels like something is really, really wrong somewhere."

"Well, you're doing the right thing. Father knows what's happening, and if you need to know He'll tell you," Brian encouraged.

Speaking in tongues was such a comfort, to know I could pray perfectly in any circumstance reminding myself that God was always there. It was my love language with the Father.

The next day I got summoned for a phone call; it was from my brother.  The foreboding feeling grew as I walked toward the phone. What was going on? My brother never called me. I didn't have much contact with my family; something must be up for him to call.

My brother's voice came through on the other end of the receiver. "Hi Carol. Ummmm....Dad was in wreck yesterday. He's at Baptist Hospital in Winston-Salem. He can't move; he is paralyzed from the neck down." My brother talked a bit more, about how the accident happened and where. About the C-4 sever and what that meant.

I was stunned and silent.

How is a person supposed to respond after that kind of news?

I took a stroll in the dark hours speaking in tongues quietly communing with my heart, wondering how I was supposed to respond. I walked the path around the Hill.

Being a retired convent the Hill had stations of the cross strategically placed all around, in the hillside, like small altar shelves. I think the Ministry had agreed to not remove certain of the statues there, though we believed the saints that R.C.s prayed to were devil spirits, or at least devil spirit influenced. Right now that didn't matter. I just liked the peacefulness of nature.

The healing springs were on campus too, though the pools were now dry. Something else left over from the convent days. The water was supposed to have had some sort of healing properties. The campus was over 150 acres, enough room for gardens, buildings, some pasture land and woods. We even made maple syrup from our own tapped maple trees.

I had seen Dad just a couple months ago; he had come to Emporia during Parent's Weekend. He had stayed on campus at Emporia, in Uncle Harry Dorm. It was somewhat odd for him to visit; we weren't close, just cordial. We had danced; the first (and unknown last) time I'd ever danced with my earthly father. During that visit Dad had decided to take The Way's Power For Abundant Living Foundational Class. It was to begin in Hickory, where Dad lived, in July.

That's what was happening! The spiritual battle.

This wreck was a ploy to keep Dad from taking the Class, to keep him from the greatness of the Word. That's what really mattered. The Adversary maybe thought he had won; but he hadn't. An ambulance had been right there after Dad's head-on collision to get Dad immediately to the hospital in a little mountain town. That had to be God.

Should I go see Dad? No, not right away. Jesus waited 3 days before he went to see Lazarus. I should wait, just wait and see what I should do next. When I'd go, I'd walk in ready to minister to Dad. He would walk again. I'd keep that believing image of victory in my mind.

I let leadership know what had happened and was given permission to go see him when I was ready. Dad was prayed for at various mealtimes. The Corps ate most all their meals together. It was a time for announcements, prayers, singing, teaching, fellowship, breaking bread together. I always enjoyed mealtimes, especially at the Indiana Campus.

On July 9th, my family called back; I needed to catch a plane for North Carolina to see Dad. On the flight I worked the Word in my mind.  I believed I was God's representative; I would be His healing presence in that hospital, power from on high, warding off any negative believing.

I wasn't mentally prepared for the sight before me.

A 62-year old male body, stretched straight, held motionless, in place with a stainless steel halo around his forehead and some contraption around his lower limbs.

This was a man who loved to play golf and had been a skier.

His eyes open, unable to move his head, he stared at the drab, lifeless hospital ceiling.