Matt’s relationship with Jennifer, the job at the medical school. Matt opened his email folder labeled “family,” found Joe’s reply to his message, and read it again.
Little Brother, so glad things are going well. Just remember that bad times will follow good, just as good times will follow bad. The only constant in the world is God. He’s in control. Set your sights on Him, and you’ll make it fine. Matthew 6:34.
Matt clicked on the utility he sometimes used to call up Bible verses, and read the Scripture Joe had cited. “So do not worry about tomorrow; for tomorrow will care for itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” Matt had to agree. Each of his days recently had presented plenty of trouble. He could only hope there’d be less tomorrow.
He picked up the phone and dialed the number of the Mission Board.
The ring of his phone brought Matt instantly awake, a reaction honed by long experience with being roused by a pager, a phone, or an alarm set for an early case. Surely Joe wasn’t calling back this quickly. Heeased forward in his recliner, muted the TV, lifted the receiver, and said, “Dr. Newman.”
“Matt, did I wake you?”
Matt searched his memory to identify the voice. Then it clicked. Ken Gordon, his neurosurgeon. “I guess I went to sleep in front of the TV.” He glanced at his watch—almost eight. “What’s up? And why are you still at work?”
“The second question’s pretty silly for a doctor to ask. I’ve just finished my last case of the day,” Gordon said. “As for the first, your chart was on my desk when I got back to my office, and that reminded me to check on you. It seems you got away from the hospital without a follow-up appointment.”
“I’m afraid I wasn’t functioning too well right then. I still had visions of a squad of armed policemen meeting me at the hospital entrance and carting me off to jail.”
Gordon laughed. “Well, since you’re obviously a free man, let’s get you back here. I’ll bet you’re ready to get those staples out.”
Matt stopped with his hand halfway to his head. Don’t rub the incision, don’t mess with the staples . “That would be great. Just say when.”
“They’ve been in for . . . Let’s see.” Matt could picture Gordon checking his calendar. “Looks like a week, yesterday.”
Matt had been counting as well. Surgeons often left staples in place for two weeks to allow for full healing, but the scalp had a rich blood supply and generally healed rapidly, so in that area stitches and staples could come out in ten days, sometimes as little as seven. Maybe Gordon would go for it. “How about tomorrow? Nine days should be long enough. The wound is healed. And I’ll be careful—”
“Easy, there. I know you’re anxious to get back to your activities, but even after the staples are out, I don’t want you doing too much for a few more days. And you shouldn’t drive for at least another week.”
The argument—well, more like negotiations—went on for another five minutes before Gordon gave in. He would see Matt tomorrow and remove the staples, but his patient had to promise he’d take things easy for another week. Matt carefully avoided further discussion of any restriction on his driving. He’d had no suggestion of a seizure after his injury, and he didn’t intend to sit at home for another week. He’d go crazy. It was time to get his life back together. Sandra’s words rang in his head. “What I want to hear you say is, ‘I’m ready to rebuild my life.’”
He was more than ready.
Edgar was playing solitaire, cheating most of the time, when Lou called.
“Be outside your apartment in ten minutes. The big man wants to see us.”
“Why?”
Lou’s voice got rougher, if that was possible. “I didn’t ask him. And if you’re smart, you won’t either. He says, ‘Jump.’ We say, ‘How high?’ Be there in ten.”
Edgar raked the cards into a rough stack and shoved them aside. He rose from
Little Brother, so glad things are going well. Just remember that bad times will follow good, just as good times will follow bad. The only constant in the world is God. He’s in control. Set your sights on Him, and you’ll make it fine. Matthew 6:34.
Matt clicked on the utility he sometimes used to call up Bible verses, and read the Scripture Joe had cited. “So do not worry about tomorrow; for tomorrow will care for itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” Matt had to agree. Each of his days recently had presented plenty of trouble. He could only hope there’d be less tomorrow.
He picked up the phone and dialed the number of the Mission Board.
The ring of his phone brought Matt instantly awake, a reaction honed by long experience with being roused by a pager, a phone, or an alarm set for an early case. Surely Joe wasn’t calling back this quickly. Heeased forward in his recliner, muted the TV, lifted the receiver, and said, “Dr. Newman.”
“Matt, did I wake you?”
Matt searched his memory to identify the voice. Then it clicked. Ken Gordon, his neurosurgeon. “I guess I went to sleep in front of the TV.” He glanced at his watch—almost eight. “What’s up? And why are you still at work?”
“The second question’s pretty silly for a doctor to ask. I’ve just finished my last case of the day,” Gordon said. “As for the first, your chart was on my desk when I got back to my office, and that reminded me to check on you. It seems you got away from the hospital without a follow-up appointment.”
“I’m afraid I wasn’t functioning too well right then. I still had visions of a squad of armed policemen meeting me at the hospital entrance and carting me off to jail.”
Gordon laughed. “Well, since you’re obviously a free man, let’s get you back here. I’ll bet you’re ready to get those staples out.”
Matt stopped with his hand halfway to his head. Don’t rub the incision, don’t mess with the staples . “That would be great. Just say when.”
“They’ve been in for . . . Let’s see.” Matt could picture Gordon checking his calendar. “Looks like a week, yesterday.”
Matt had been counting as well. Surgeons often left staples in place for two weeks to allow for full healing, but the scalp had a rich blood supply and generally healed rapidly, so in that area stitches and staples could come out in ten days, sometimes as little as seven. Maybe Gordon would go for it. “How about tomorrow? Nine days should be long enough. The wound is healed. And I’ll be careful—”
“Easy, there. I know you’re anxious to get back to your activities, but even after the staples are out, I don’t want you doing too much for a few more days. And you shouldn’t drive for at least another week.”
The argument—well, more like negotiations—went on for another five minutes before Gordon gave in. He would see Matt tomorrow and remove the staples, but his patient had to promise he’d take things easy for another week. Matt carefully avoided further discussion of any restriction on his driving. He’d had no suggestion of a seizure after his injury, and he didn’t intend to sit at home for another week. He’d go crazy. It was time to get his life back together. Sandra’s words rang in his head. “What I want to hear you say is, ‘I’m ready to rebuild my life.’”
He was more than ready.
Edgar was playing solitaire, cheating most of the time, when Lou called.
“Be outside your apartment in ten minutes. The big man wants to see us.”
“Why?”
Lou’s voice got rougher, if that was possible. “I didn’t ask him. And if you’re smart, you won’t either. He says, ‘Jump.’ We say, ‘How high?’ Be there in ten.”
Edgar raked the cards into a rough stack and shoved them aside. He rose from
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