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“Merry Christmas!” – Pat Patterson

Posted on December 27, 2011 by Senior Editor

The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and they will call him Immanuel—which means, “God with us.” Matthew 1: 23

I never cared for the Christmas breakfast. It was a mandatory affair at the college where I worked, an event that occurred every Christmas just before semester break. To me, it was always kind of a waste of time. A little boring really. But the Christmas breakfast of 2001 was anything but boring. In fact it changed my life.

“Can I have your attention, please?” The Dean of Health Sciences tapped her microphone. “It’s time to eat. Now, I hear Pat says a good prayer,” she continued, smiling and looking my way. My eyebrows rose. “Pat? Would you say the blessing for us?”

All eyes turned my way.

“Umm—” I gave an embarrassed shrug. “Sure.”

I felt honored as I accepted the microphone, but also a bit confused. Who told her I said a good prayer? And if I did pray, would people be, well…offended?

I shrugged, asked them to bow their heads and began. I thanked God for America, and that in the wake of 9/11 we still had our families, our homes, and our lives. I thanked Him for our jobs, and for freedom and friends and peace. I thanked him for the food, and everything was going well, but then I went and did it. His name rolled off my lips.

“And thank you most of all for Christmas, and for what it still means to us. That two thousand years ago our savior was born, The Lord Jesus Christ.” I ended the prayer in his name, and closed with a hearty, “Amen.”

When I opened my eyes I realized we had a problem. No one moved. I saw confusion on many faces, anger on many others. Most looked stunned, several definitely offended. I felt like running for the exit doors, but then I saw a timid smile appear on one person’s face. And then another. And then slowly, and meekly at first, someone began to clap. Soon others joined in, and after a moment half the room was caught up in celebration. The other half still frowned.

Now I felt stunned. But then several people wandered over. “Thank you,” someone whispered to me. “Oh, thank you!”another exclaimed. “That was so great!”

A friend walked up to me shaking his head. “Are you nuts? Don’t you realize the Dean’s a Jew?”

“Jesus was a Jew,” I replied. “Merry Christmas!”

You can’t say Christmas around here anymore; it’s now the holiday season or some nonsense like that. And they never asked me to say the blessing again, but that’s okay, I learned a valuable lesson that day: Some people are truly offended by His name, others are filled with courage. So this “holiday season”as you get caught up in the bustle of buying gifts and running here and there, share his name with others, and then tell them, “Merry Christmas.” Some will be offended, but others will be filled with hope. It’s not the holiday season—it’s Christmas.

“Merry Christmas!”

Pat Patterson is a writer, a photographer, a paramedic, a volunteer chaplain, and an instructor of Emergency Medical Science. He is the author of Answering the Call. Pat’s stories are true, based on real experiences from the streets of Durham, North Carolina where he served as a street paramedic for seventeen years. Contact Pat at psquare@nc.rr.com. Pat is a winner of the Blue Ridge Christian Writers Conference.

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Is It the Lord? – Pat Patterson

Posted on May 24, 2010 by Senior Editor

“Then Simon Peter, who was behind him, arrived and went into the tomb. He saw the strips of linen lying there, as well as the burial cloth that had been around Jesus’ head. The cloth was folded up by itself, separate from the linen.” John 20:6-7

APRIL 11, 2010 – I followed my wife and son through the massive wooden doors. The Cathedral of San Giovanni Battista was filled with people, and yet, a reverent silence filled the cavernous room. Many knelt in pews praying. Others stood in silent wonder, gazing at the warm glow that emanated from the front of the church. A feeling of expectation overwhelmed me. We were about to witness a true mystery—The Shroud of Turin.

The line moved slowly to the front of the church. We stopped and waited. Then again. And then it was our turn. Our group stepped in front of the Shroud. It hung behind heavy glass, a long sepia-colored cloth adorned by a thick wooden frame. I allowed my eyes to roam over the details. I knew every inch of the thirteen foot relic by heart. Every bloodstain, crease and fold. And the image of the body was perfect. Subtle. Difficult to distinguish, but there. From the wounded wrists and feet, to the bloody scalp and spear-pierced side, every detail rang true, clearly pointing to the scriptures. To Christ’s passion. His terrible death.

I fought to compose myself. For thirty years I had waited for that moment, studied its history and the evidence it contains. Given lecture after lecture. Defended its authenticity before Christians and non-Christians alike. But as I stood before The Shroud I found myself in awe, wondering as I had so many times before…Is it the Lord? Is this really his shroud?

And then it hit me…it didn’t matter. Either way, my faith in Christ was secure. But what did matter, I realized, were the years of wonder and curiosity that had led me to that moment. The innocent pursuit of a young man that had begun in his professor’s office so many years before. For in my search for the truth about The Shroud I had gained deep understanding. Knowledge of what my Savior had accomplished for me. Knowledge to share with others of the depth and magnitude of Christ’s love.

Did we stand before his shroud that day? The same one Peter found as he entered Christ’s tomb on that first Easter morning? We’ll never know. Not on this side of Heaven. But for me it no longer matters. Jesus suffered, he was crucified, and he rose again to conquer death. And if he left his image on a cloth to remind us of what he had accomplished, so be it. Either way my faith is secure. The Shroud of Turin remains a mystery, but for me there is still no doubt that Jesus Christ is risen. He is the Lord.

Pat Patterson is a writer, a photographer, a paramedic, a volunteer chaplain, and an instructor of Emergency Medical Science. He is the author of Answering the Call. Pat’s stories are true, based on real experiences from the streets of Durham, North Carolina where he served as a street paramedic for seventeen years. Contact Pat at psquare@nc.rr.com.

Pat is a winner of the Blue Ridge Christian Writers Conference.
Read Pat’s devotions.

What About Me? – Pat Patterson

Posted on October 10, 2009 by Senior Editor

“Do not love the world or anything in the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For everything in the world—the cravings of sinful man, the lust of his eyes and the boasting of what he has and does—comes not from the Father but from the world.” 1 John 2:15-16

Okay, I admit it—I love the world. I always have. But there was a time when it had me in chains, dying to get out there in it, to live a little. My situation simply wouldn’t allow it. And God? He never seemed to answer my question, What about me? So I decided to put my foot down. One of two things would happen: he’d talk to me, or I’d run until I dropped. I had to get his attention…

“Lord, do you hear me?” I took off down the lakeside trail shaking my fist at him as I ran. “Are you listening to me? There’s so much I want to see. So many things I want to do. My friends are having fun. What about me?”

Silence.

“Why won’t you answer me? All I ever do is work. I deserve more.”

More silence.

“It’s not fair!”

And, boy, I sure showed him! I ran until I couldn’t take another step, still God remained silent. Finally I stopped in the middle of the trail, doubled-over, dejected and frustrated, sweating and gasping for air. Physically and emotionally I felt drained. Spiritually I was spent.

“Oh, God,” I cried, tears flooding my eyes. “Where are you?”

A funny croaking sound answered me. I turned as a frog leapt into the lake. “Very funny,” I muttered. “Is that the best you can do?” Then a deer caught my eye. She lifted her head from the water’s edge, glanced and trotted into the woods. “Hmm.” A fish jumped and landed with a splash. “What is this?” I murmured. And then I noticed this dragonfly. Crazy thing buzzed past my face, landed on a small branch less than three feet away, and sat there staring at me. I felt puzzled. Was someone trying to tell me something?

Then a high-pitched mechanical sound caught my attention. Distracted, I looked up. A fancy motorboat zoomed across the lake. I glanced back at the dragonfly. It sat perched on the end of the stem watching me. I felt a strange paradox in my heart. Then another boat cruised past. My face hardened again. I wanted a boat so bad I could taste it. I balled up my fist and opened my mouth to yell at God, but something stopped me—His voice. It came to me, powerful and resounding, and yet as gentle as a whisper…

You listen to me now. This world…all those things you so desperately want and can’t get your hands on…don’t you see? You love those things more than you love me.

My problems were still waiting for me when I got home, but something about me had changed. I ran into the woods that morning angry, frustrated, and shaking my fist at God, but I walked out at peace, quietly acknowledging Him and thanking Him for my life.

Are you angry with God? Do you ever shake your fist at Him? Demand your rights? Then maybe you love this world just a little too much. Put your foot down. Run out there and find Him. And when some silly bug lands on a branch in front of you and boldly stares you down, close your mouth and listen for God’s voice. Then follow Him out of that deep, dark forest. He has a better life waiting for you…a life of contentment, of hope, and of joy.

Pat Patterson is a writer, a photographer, and an instructor of Emergency Medical Science. His stories are true, based on real life experiences and from time spent on the streets of Durham, North Carolina where he served as a paramedic for seventeen years.

Pat is a winner of the Blue Ridge Christian Writers Conference.
Read Pat’s devotions.

It Is Finished — Pat Patterson

Posted on January 27, 2009 by Senior Editor

And they crucified him. Mark 15:24

I’ve been a paramedic for seventeen years. Witnessed the brutality of man. I’ve seen people shot and stabbed. Heads crushed. Limbs twisted and broken. I’ve even seen a small baby girl dipped into boiling water by an insane mother. But this? What we did to the Lord? I can’t even fathom it.

“Crucify him!”

The hammer fell. Clang! The point of the spike drove through the bones of his wrist and into the wooden patibulum. The victim screamed. A hot spasm shot up his arm and exploded at the base of his skull. A wave of pain seized him, so intense it dulled his senses and stole his breath. He writhed and cried and groaned as the Roman soldiers pinned his other arm to the beam and repeated the process. Clang! Again the same results. Blood spewed from the wound. His fingers groped and bent like spastic claws. His breathing came in shallow ineffective bursts.

“Now his feet,” the Legionnaire shouted. “One on top of the other!”

The torturers grabbed his tired swollen legs. They bent his knees. They placed one foot atop the other and then hammered a single nail through the top of each foot. The sharp steel penetrated the flesh, pushing the bones apart and pinning his feet tightly against the wooden beam. An indescribable wave of excruciating pain raced up his legs, shot through the small of his back, and gripped his spine. The damaging blow hit his brain, a powerful nervous impulse that shocked his nervous system and locked his chest in spasm.

“Okay,” the guard shouted. “He’s crucified. Raise him!”

The head of the cross began to rise. Jesus felt his torso shift and slide down the length of the splintered cross transferring the weight of his entire body to the nail holes in his tortured wrists and feet. The cross reached vertical. It locked into place. Jesus hung there in agony, barely able to breathe, his chest wall pulled tight. And for the next few horrible hours, as he looked through blurry eyes down on the world, a terrible battle raged. He’d stand up on the nails to relax his chest wall enough to breathe, but only for a moment. His feet screamed for mercy. His tired thigh muscles cramped and burned. Exhausted and no longer able to stand the pain he would collapse and fall once again upon his wrists. And the excruciating cycle repeated itself. Again and again. Back and forth he shifted his weight searching for relief but finding none.

And so it went for hours, until our Savior’s battered body could take no more. Deep in shock he finally succumbed and lost all strength in his legs. He fell full force upon the nails within his wrists. His arms pulled at their sockets. His wrists writhed with pain. His chest wall tightened for the last time, and an intense pressure began to crush his heart. The organ quickly congested, began to struggle and fail. And finally, as his precious lungs filled with fluid and drew their last and most difficult breath, Jesus murmured his final words…

“It is finished.”

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but no portrait could ever reveal the true price Jesus paid for us at Golgatha. For you see, he was human, human in every way—they beat him, and scourged him, and nailed him to a cross, and he died—but he was much more than that. He was the Son of God. They took him down, and placed his body in a tomb, and they even posted a guard, but forty-four hours later when they rolled away that huge entrance stone and looked inside, he was gone. Jesus Christ. The Son of God. He overcame death that you and I might live.
And now, it is finished.

Pat Patterson is a novelist, a paramedic, and an instructor of Emergency Medical Science. His stories are true, based on real experiences from the streets of Durham, North Carolina where he has served as a paramedic since 1992.

Christian Devotions’ Tribute to Pat Patterson

Christian Devotions prays daily for God to provide willing writers with the heart of a servant who could add heartfelt and compelling devotions to the ministry. He graciously led us to Pat.

As a paramedic, Pat has translated true-life experiences into words, carefully pouring his heart into his writing. The result has been devotions which have brought readers to tears, touched their hearts and moved them closer to Christ.

So it is with great sadness that we say goodbye to Pat.

Today marks the end of our First Responders devotions. God has called Pat in other directions. We are grateful for his willingness to share his gift and love for Christ.

Throughout the last few months we’ve received numbers of comments regarding Pat’s devotions, as so many of you have taken him into your homes and hearts. This is a relationship that Pat appreciates, as does Christian Devotions.

For us, Pat is a both a close personal friend and fellow servant. But for many of you he has become your Tuesday inspiration. Join us in thanking Pat for his beautiful work. We will miss him on our staff; however, perhaps from time to time, God will call him back to us for a visit.

To be called by God is an honor, to obey the call a blessing. Pat has been a blessing.

From Christian Devotions, Eddie and Cindy, we wish Pat the very best in his service both as a paramedic and as a writer. Thank you, Pat!

Follow Pat’s writing and ministry at: http://pat-patterson.blogspot.com/

The Cross — Pat Patterson

Posted on January 20, 2009 by Senior Editor

“Finally Pilate handed him over to them to be crucified. So the soldiers took charge of Jesus. Carrying his own cross, he went out to the place of the Skull (which in Aramaic is called Golgotha).” John 19:16-17

So there he was: Whipped nearly to the point of death, lacerated and punctured, his back and chest a cross-hatched pattern of torn bloody stripes. Blood seeped from every inch of his torso and legs. His head dripped from the deep puncture wounds that covered his scalp. And his crown? A nasty skull cap of tangled limbs and thorns encircled his head, gouging the tender flesh and causing unimaginable pain.

“He’s tougher than I thought,” one of the scourgers exclaimed. “Most men would have died from that beating.”

“Get out of the way,” the chief guard shouted pushing him aside and cutting Jesus loose. Jesus fell to the ground exhausted and short of breath. “Now pick it up,” the guard demanded, “or you’ll get more!”

Jesus picked up the gnarly piece of heavy timber they’d dropped by his side. He lifted it onto his shoulders and started walking, stumbling across the court.

“Move,” the chief guard growled. “Get going, you!”

But Jesus couldn’t take another step. His tortured body cried for mercy. Weak and weary, deep in shock, he fell to his knees. And that awful patibulum. His cross. It weighed his shoulders down and pinned him to the ground, shoving his face into the dirt and crushing the cartilage at the bridge of his nose. His nostrils filled with hot dusty soil. Agony gripped his soul.

“He’s shot,” a Legionaire scoffed. “Look at him.”

“You there,” the chief guard shouted pointing into the crowd. “Pick it up! You’ll carry it the rest of the way!” A stout African stepped forward and lifted the heavy board from Christ’s shoulders.

“Now get up,” the guard shouted striking him atop the head. Jesus cried as the needle sharp thorns gouged deeper into his scalp. “Get going,” the guard yelled. “Move!”

Christ struggled to rise to his feet. He strained to see. Blood covered his face. Pain clouded his senses. He continued up the road dragging his tortured body through the city gates and up the steep dirt path that led to Golgatha…

The place of the skull.

I wonder what Jesus was thinking about at that moment. Death? The agony yet to come? Well the Gospels tell us that on the night before this all began, Christ knelt in the Garden of Gethsemane to pray. But he didn’t pray for himself, he prayed for us.

Why? Didn’t he know what was coming? I can assure he knew what was coming. Luke tells us that his agony was so intense, his sweat fell like drops of bood. A physiological phenomenon, called hemohydrosis. Something that occurs only rarely when the tiny capillary beds in the victim’s skin come under such intense pressure that the blood literally seeps through the capillary walls and into the ducts of sweat. Oh yes, he knew what was coming. And yet instead of running away he knelt and prayed, for his disciples first, and then for you and me.

So in his darkest hour as he mounted that horrible skull-shaped hill, I’m certain he knew what was coming. But he was thinking of us.

“Stretch him out!”

The guards wasted no time. They threw the battered Jesus atop the wooden cross. They grabbed his arms and legs. Pulled them tight.

“Now, crucify him!”

And three horrible nails appeared. Ugly nine inch spikes formed on a blacksmith’s anvil for one purpose: To crucify the Lord.

Have you ever stopped to think of the true price Jesus Christ paid for you? Well this frightening adventure is not over yet. It’s really just beginning. And as you anticipate the finale, that bloody spectacle of Roman sport they called crucifixion, consider this: He did this for us. He did it for you.

The Scourging — Pat Patterson

Posted on January 13, 2009 by Senior Editor

“Then Pilate took Jesus and had him flogged. The soldiers twisted together a crown of thorns and put it on his head. They clothed him in a purple robe and went up to him again and again, saying “Hail, King of the Jews!” John 19:1-3

Do you realize what Christ did for you? The suffering he endured? Well in EMS we see a lot of cruelty. A lot of mean cases, and a lot of needless blood. But most of us will never see anything to compare with this…

“Spread his arms,” the chief guard roared. “That’s it, now lash them tight. Tight I said! Tighter!”

He knew what was coming. The anticipation alone would have been enough to make most men cry for mercy, but not him. He stood like a man. He knew what he needed to do and he did it. He loved us that much.

“Ha,” the chief guard growled. “You call yourself a king? Let’s see what you got.”

The scourgers readied themelves, one to each side, each with an evil grin on his face and a cat-of-nine-tails in his hand. But these Roman soldiers weren’t savages. Not at all. They were artists, skilled in the art of torture, and they carried out their jobs with practiced precision. They knew just how much punishment to inflict, and exactly how to do it to evoke maximum pain. It was a well rehearsed performance, a punishment equal to the crime.

“Proceed!”

The first scourger stepped forward gripping his lethal weapon. “King of the Jews, huh?” He spat on Christ’s back. Whacked the side of his head. “Take this, your majesty!” He swung with all his might. The wicked instrument flew. Its deadly thongs whipped through the air then struck with exacting purpose, ripping and tearing at Christ’s bare flesh. Blood spewed forth. The scourger stepped back grinning; the second one stepped in. He repeated the brutal onslaught as if part of a terrible game. And back and forth they went with their sick, sadistic sport, whipping and lashing, and lashing and whipping, and on and on and on…

Christ cried out in agony. His flesh fell away in bloody chunks leaving behind a mural of horrible stripes. The battered skin swelled and oozed. Capillaries leaked. Shock soon set in and his blood pressure began to drop.

“Enough,” the chief guard roared quickly tiring of the game. “Cut him down. He’s done.”

The soldiers cut him loose and The King of Kings stood on shaky legs, his physical body robbed of strength, his spirit pushed to its near limit. “Here,” a guard said stepping forward and placing a purple robe across his back. “A gift. A garment fit for a king.”

“No, here,” another guard bellowed. “Take mine.” He brought an ugly crown of twisted thorns and shoved it onto Christ’s head. “Behold, your majesty. Your crown!”

Then they placed a staff in his hands, and the crowd of soldiers knelt before him and mocked him. Then they grabbed the staff and hit him over the head with it, again and again, crying, “Hail, king of the Jews. Hail!”

Of course I didn’t witness this terrible event, but the Bible paints a clear picture of what happened. Pilate took Jesus and had him flogged. He was scourged. A common form of punishment in Christ’s day, and one well documented in the history books.

Today my coworkers and I still see a lot of blood-battered skulls, broken limbs, gunshot wounds and burns-and these images will be forever written on my mind as terrible reminders of the savagery of man, but for me one image remains the most vivid of all. And it’s not a pretty one. It’s the picture of my Lord walking away from that ill-conceived whipping post and picking up that awful cross. Lacerated. Punctured. Beaten and bleeding to the point of death. Most people would have died from those injuries alone, but not Christ. He still had a job to do, and this torture was only beginning.

The worst was yet to come…

Respond, Your Life Depends on It — Pat Patterson

Posted on January 6, 2009 by Senior Editor

As Jesus was walking beside the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon called Peter and his brother Andrew. They were casting a net into the lake, for they were fishermen. “Come, follow me,” Jesus said, “and I will make you fishers of men.” Mt 4:18-19

Imagine if you called for help and nobody responded. How terrified would it make you feel to realize you were all alone? Well what I’m speaking of here is far more important than that.We’re speaking of eternity. I’m talking about someone’s life…

“C’mon, partner, we need to go!”

“Unh uh, I’m not going.”

“Right. Put your boots on, man. I’ll be in the truck.”

“I’m serious. I wanna see the end of this game.”

His partner gazed at him, incredulous, as if trying to see the humor in a sick joke without a punchline. At first his face revealed confusion, and then a small degree of anger, and then outright disbelief.

“You what?”

“I want to see this game.”

“Medic-seven?” the dispatcher exclaimed. The station radio crackled as if to emphasize the frustration in her voice. “Are you en route yet?”

“Don’t answer her.”

“What? We can’t just ignore this, man. We have to go!”

“Look, I’m not wasting my time on another silly call. It’s a cardiac arrest for crying out loud. There’s nothing we can do for the poor guy anyway.”

The radio crackled again. “Medic-seven?”

“Seven to dispatch—stand by please.” His partner’s expression deepend. A stern frown soured his face.

“Are you insane? Do you realize what you’re doing?”

“Sure I do.”

“Medic-seven!”

“Seven,” his partner answered, his voice revealing total confusion.

“I-I’m sorry, but you’ll have to send another unit. It’s my partner, he’s…well he’s refusing to take this call.”

A few seconds of uncomfortable silence passed before the radio erupted in a swarm of heated responses. The dispatcher, their supervisor, the fire department squad unit already en route to the scene—everyone fighting for radio space trying to understand the madness taking place. His partner stared at him dumbfounded.

“I can’t believe this, man! Someone’s life is on the line and you’re just gonna sit there and watch that game?”

“Sit down and relax. Ignore it. It’ll go away.”

Sound ridiculous? Well sure it does. But what if it really happened? I meanwhat if you dialed 911 and nobody came? Be pretty scary, huh? Well don’t worry, no serious first responder would ever consider ignoring an emergent call. In fact, as a whole, EMS personnel are some of the most dedicated people I know. They jump into action whenever the tones sound, regardless of the weather, or the time of day, or of how crummy they might be feeling at the moment. They jump, and as a result lives are changed. Many are saved. And yet I wonder, do these people care as much for themselves as they do for others?

You guys understand what I’m talking about. All of you firefighters. You police officers and paramedics. And all you ER nurses and doctors. You understand the importance of diligence. That another’s life may hang in the balance each time you’re called to act. You do it because you care. But I have a question for you—what about you?

Jesus said, “Here I am! I stand at the door and knock.”

Will you dare to answer it? Will you respond with the same diligence that you would an everyday call? I mean, listen! This is the call of your life! It will determine your ultimate destiny. Where you’ll spend eternity. So will you open the door? Answer Christ’s call and let him in? Or will you sit there and ignore him and hope he simply goes away?

When Peter and Andrew heard Christ’s call they jumped. They followed him. And on their backs Christ built his church. If Jesus Christ is knocking on the door of your heart today, please don’t ignore him. Do as they did. Respond to his call. You must, for someone’s life depends on it…

Yours!

Do You Believe This? — Pat Patterson

Posted on December 30, 2008 by Senior Editor

“Jesus said, “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?”’ Jn 11:25-26

I can’t believe it! Another year has come to an end. And in a couple of days, if you’re like most people, you’ll be asking yourself this question: How did I do? Well if you find yourself down, full of regrets and depressed by the realization that you once again missed the mark, relax, you’ll soon get a chance to do it all over again. Most of us will anyway…

“Medic-seven,” the dispatcher said. “Cardiac arrest.”

My heart still skips a beat every time I hear those words. Cardiac arrest means someone else’s heart has stopped beating, and the way I respond, the way I function and hold it all together may be the determining factors as to whether that victim lives or dies. We call it a code. It’s actually one of the most well rehearsed calls a paramedic ever runs, a scenario we practice over and over and over again to perfection, but somehow it always seems to produce the same effects: mild tachycardia, sweaty palms, and a feeling of impending doom followed by a few moments of controlled fury as we feverishly struggle to save another person’s life. But this time there was nothing my partner and I could do.

“A ninety-two year old female,” the dispatcher continued. “Not breathing.”

My partner entered the address into the GPS unit. I hit the gas. We made excellent time weaving through traffic and arrived on scene only four minutes after the dispatch, but it wasn’t soon enough. Our patient was already gone. She lay on the floor beside her bed with no sign of life. Her eyes, frosty and opaque, painted a picture of recent death. Her heart made not a sound. No rigor mortis gripped her limbs, but it was easy to see she was dead. Any resuscitation attempt would be futile.

“And right before Christmas,” I murmured. “How sad.”

We returned to base feeling a little blue. I backed the truck into the bay at Station-2 and was just about to climb out of it when we received another call similar to the first, only this time the victim was much younger. Only four months old. We found her lying in bed, her tiny limbs stiff and cool, her skin a sickening shade of blue.

I felt my heart break. I glanced at the young family standing on the other side of the room. I wanted to say something to them but couldn’t think of the words. On the children’s faces I saw shocked innocence, and on their mother’s unimaginable pain. A bright Christmas tree glowed in the corner of the room but it seemed to lack the luster it might have just hours earlier, before death entered their home robbing them of Christmas joy.

The loss of these two fragile lives should serve as a grim reminder to us that death is inevitable. And no man knows when his time will come. So I have a question for you: Are you ready to die? Do you know where you will spend eternity? Death can come at any moment and will eventually visit us all, so don’t let another year go by. Make it your New Year’s resolution to consider this: Jesus said, “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?”

I do! Christ came to bring everlasting life, and now death is just the beginning. Yeah, I believe. I pray that you will too.

A Child is Born — Pat Patterson

Posted on December 23, 2008 by Senior Editor

“For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given; and the government shall be on his shoulder; and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.” Isaiah 9:6

“Hey, I know you!” I stared at the woman trying to make a connection. She looked vaguely familiar to me, standing in the booking area of the police station with handcuffs about her wrists, but I couldn’t place her face. “You delivered my baby,” she said as the arresting officer removed the cuffs. “Six months ago in the elevator? Remember?”

And suddenly I did remember. Oh, how I remembered…

The house was cluttered. Dingy and hot. A drunk, heavyset male lay passed out on the living room floor. She lay by his side in the middle of the room cursing, her knees apart, her swollen belly exposed. “How far along are you?” I asked kneeling to begin my assessment.

“Don’t touch me,” she shouted. “Just take me to the hospital!”

“Relax, I’m only here to help.”

“Well I don’t want your help, I just want a ride!”

Her face drew up tight. She took a breath and held it. Her cheeks turned red. And then suddenly, as if releasing the energy of an internal explosion, a loud cry burst forth. She moaned and screamed and panted and cried until the contraction eased. Then she sat there panting, angry and belligerent. And the rest of the call was pretty much the same. She griped and complained all the way to the hospital, fussing about her treatment in life and all of the bad things people had done to her. “I deserve better,” and on, and on, and on.

I ignored her vulgar language and pulled together the equipment for a complicated delivery, all the time praying for the baby yet to be born. We backed into the ambulance bay. My partner opened the doors. We wheeled her inside the hospital and entered the elevator that would take us upstairs to Labor & Delivery. Another contraction gripped her. Tore her at the seams. “It’s coming,” she screamed as the elevator began to rise. “Oh God, it’s out!”

I lifted the sheet and saw a small baby boy lying on the stretcher between her legs—small and blue and slippery looking…and still.I picked him up and toweled him off and suctioned his mouth and nose, then vigorously rubbed his tiny back to stimulate respiration. He gasped and took a breath, then began to cry and pink up. I felt an excitement one can only understand upon having witnessed the arrival of new life. But my heart sank a few moments later. The doctor told me the mother had confessed to smoking crack—that night! Well no wonder he’s premature, I thought, so small, depressed, and unprepared for life.

I left the hospital with a sick feeling in my stomach. “That poor child,” I said. “He doesn’t have a chance.”

I can’t help but wonder: what kind of life will he have? Will he delve into alcohol and drugs like his mother? Join a gang? Kill or be killed? Well when I think of his birth, and the circumstances surrounding his untimely delivery, I am reminded of another poor baby born in a lonely stable in Bethlehem, before hospitals, before medical care. I mean, who would have thought he had a chance? And yet on that first Christmas morning two thousand years ago, with cattle lowing and shepherds keeping watch, a wonderful event occurred: A child was born, and unto us a son was given.

I believe in Christmas, the day eternal life entered the world. In Christmas I find hope, for the lowly, for the down and out, and for those born under the worst possible conditions. So please join me in praying for a baby boy who was born in an elevator six-months ago this week. In the eyes of the world, he doesn’t have much of a chance. But then, this is Christmas. And unto that small baby boy, a savior was born—Jesus Christ. The Lord.

We Need a Revival — Pat Patterson

Posted on December 16, 2008 by Senior Editor

“I am not ashamed of the gospel, because it is the power of God for the salvation of everyone who believes…” Romans 1:16

Someone needs to tell these kids. They’re all gonna die…

“Medic-7,” the dispatcher announced. “We’ve got a subject shot!” I grabbed my stethoscope and headed for the ambulance. Colorful images flashed through my mind as I climbed into the passenger seat. The dispatcher continued her voice high and sharp. “A teenaged male shot once in the head. Police officer on the scene requesting Code-3 response. Code-3.”

“10-4,” my partner responded jumping behind the wheel. “Medic-7 en route.”

I tried to calm myself as we hurried to the scene. Relax. You’ve been a medic a good long time. Surely by now you’ve seen it all. But as we pulled onto Hopkins Street and arrived on the scene, I felt my stomach tighten. My palms began to sweat. There’s just something unsettling about a young man with a bullet hole in the side of his head, his life blood spilling out all over the ground and a dangerous crowd pressing in on you demanding you get to work.

There was nothing we could do of course. He was already dead. But for the sake of our own skins and the fact that we were standing on their turf and outnumbered about a hundred to one, we made a good show of it. Loaded him up and moved to the truck assuring the angry crowd we would do our best to save him. Once clear of the scene, however, my partner killed the lights and sirens and slowed down to normal traffic. I stared into the victim’s lifeless eyes trying to guess his age. Eighteen years old, maybe? Nineteen? Oh, Lord, what a waste.

“Duke ER,” I said keying the radio mike. “I’m sorry but we’re bringing you a corpse. Another gang member. There’s nothing we can do.”

What in the world is happening out there? It’s like warfare. The gang situation in our cities has never been worse. Drugs, robbery, murder—they’re as common on our streets as rain. And I often find myself angry, craving righteous revenge. After all, those kids are killers. Punks! We should just put ‘em all away and be done with them, right?

Well that might be the thing to do if we had nothing more to offer them, but we do.

This is Christmas. The time we celebrate Jesus—the light of the world. And I can personally attest to that light. If it weren’t for him I would be lost, living in darkness, with no hope for the future and no idea which way to go. But thank God for Jesus Christ, and for the people who cared enough to lead me his way. He saved my life. And if he can do it for me, he can do it for them. So it occurs to me, why don’t we tell them about Jesus too?

Now I realize that gangs are here to stay. I’m not naïve enough to believe they’ll disappear. Shootings will still occur. People will always die. But sending those kids to prison, just locking them away, that won’t solve the problem. And one thing is certain: they will never know the truth if no one tells them. So I think it’s time for a revival. Time to stop talking and start acting. The gospel of Christ is the power of God unto salvation. Are we using it? Are you? Let’s take our streets captive for Jesus. Take the gospel out there and see what God can do.

Please join me in praying for a revival in the city where I work. Pray that God will organize a group of people with a burden for the gangs. Pray for power and protection. Pray for opportunity. And pray that when the time comes we might find the courage to risk it all for Christ.

Lord, we need a revival. Every one of these kids is going to die. Send someone to tell them before it’s too late. Send someone soon!

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