Healing

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Medicine To Die For

Inspired by events recorded in I Kings 22:48-54; II Kings 1:2-18; and II Chronicles 20:35-37

Calloused fingers. Parched tongue. Battered legs. Twisted ankle. Banged thumb. Beads of sweat that stung his eyes. All in a day's torture.

A horse fly buzzed in his ear. He cursed. Blasted insect! Why wouldn't it leave him alone?

A familiar voice called up from below. "Need a little help?"

"No, thanks. Nothing I can't handle."

With one hand he squeezed the nail. With the other he grasped the hammer. And swung.

"Yow!"

Missed again.

Down fell the hammer, followed by a blood-curdling scream.

"Oh, stop complaining, Max, and throw it back up!"

"You know, they have carpenters for things like this," mumbled the humble ladder holder. He threw the lethal weapon back to his boss.

Who caught the hammer. But made the hint a boomerang.

"How dare you suggest I hire an expert? Just for that, you're fired!"

The words stung worse than the growing welt on Max's forehead. He let go the ladder and stomped off to care for his throbbing cranium.

But Mister Do-It-Yourself Shipwreck, president of Shipwreck Lumber, ignored him, too absorbed in his ill-fated project to give a hoot about his faithful employee's well-being. He had been trying for several days to fix the leaky roof. And by golly, he'd nail it if it killed him!

All by himself. Alone.

He steadied himself, took aim, and swung.

Crash! Oh great. Another hole in the ceiling.

And there was that infernal fly again! Blasted...! He swatted. And lost his balance.

Good thing the ladder was there for support.

Or was it?


The fall must have crushed every vertebra in his body.

And there was that blasted fly again.

"Shoo!" he yelled. "Go away!"

He tried to move an arm to swat it. But the arm just sat there, limp as a dish rag.

The dreaded truth hit him like a jackhammer. He was paralyzed!

His ship had been wrecked. And he had no one to blame but himself.

The fly had stopped buzzing and was now cleaning its hands. On his nose.

Would somebody please do something about this ridiculous black bug?

For the first time in a long time - how many years? - it dawned on Mr. Shipwreck that perhaps, just maybe, here was a situation he couldn't fix by himself. Perhaps, just maybe, it wouldn't hurt to ask for help.

So that's what he did. He called for help. He yelled as loud as he could. He yelled and he cursed and he screamed.

But there was no response.

People were used to his mad ravings. They paid no attention.

And so he lay there on his deserted island.

All by himself. Alone.


It came five hours later.

The sound of footsteps running toward him. A concerned face. A frightened voice.

"Are you okay?"

Of course he wasn't okay.

Mr. Shipwreck looked up.

He recognized the welt.

"Don't go anywhere."

As if he could.

Two choice swear words escaped his lips. He demanded that Max call an ambulance. "Or else."

"Or else what?"

Mr. Shipwreck wasn't exactly in a position to bargain.

Two more choice words. "Just call, okay?"

"All right. But you really shouldn't use the Lord's name in vain. It's bad luck."

Max turned to leave.

Mr. Shipwreck felt a sudden wave of panic wash over him.

He couldn't, he musn't be left alone.

"Max!"

"Yes?"

"Where are you going?"

"To find a pay phone."

"Can't you use your cell?"

"I can't afford one."

"Why not?"

"I, uh, don't make enough money."

"You don't? What kind of a cheapskate employer to you work for anyway?"

"You know the answer to that question," replied Max. And off he went to find a pay phone.

Leaving Mr. Shipwreck all by himself to ponder his independent lifestyle, and the choices he had made.

All by himself. Alone.

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