Becoming Phillip

You might know me as Phil. To staff reading my medical chart, I was Phillip. I was in their care after my bicycle and I were struck by a half ton Dodge Ram pickup truck. After regaining consciousness three days later, I was completely unable to speak. When I began learning to speak again, I decided to keep my "new" name. Even in that time of fear and suffering, there were extraordinary experiences that I wanted to hold on to.  I wanted to hold on to, for example my intense desire to live and get better. I didn't realize how close to death I had come. I had no memory of seeing a white light. As far as I could tell, I had no divine encounter. I felt calm upon waking, until the reality of my badly broken body soon made itself known. I wanted to pray and found that I wasn’t able. I gestured to med techs and later to cleaning staff. I put my hands together, and they understood. They came to my bedside and prayed for me. With their help, I experienced connection, and wellbeing began streaming to me. Months later, one of the techs who prayed at my bedside knocked on the front door at my house. Her cousin lived next door. She was the only ICU or trauma staff I ever saw again. All those who cared for me in my time of need, were my angels. The experience of receiving their care gave me a tenderness like none I had ever known. Months later, I told friends that if they would call me Phillip, it would remind me that I was lucky to be alive. Those who saw me or knew the extent of my injuries understood. A policeman called to the scene of the accident later said that he couldn’t believe that I lived." One friend asked me where the accident had occurred. When I told him the intersection, he said "Right across the street from the Jewish Cemetery!" Chills went down my spine. Little hairs raised on my arms and legs. In the months that followed, chills went down my spine many times. Although the trauma had disquieting effects, it also brought post traumatic spiritual gifts. The map I had used to navigate life was no longer in tact. I realized how flawed that map always has been. Fortunately I felt some trust and awe along with the trembling. I wanted to keep these. My newly disabled state also brought some humility. I didn't want to go back to pretending that I had life all figured out. I was grateful that my vulnerability was met with care and support from strangers. The tenderness I felt as a result was profound. Along with humility, I needed inner strength and determination. I struggled to advocate for my needs. I shielded myself from people's negative predictions of my future. Taking back my full name, was an assertion that all of me was still here, and that I would become more (not less) as a result of this event. I surpassed most people's expectations for my recovery, and thrived with all the attention I received. Eventually the spotlight faded and the intense level of challenge remained constant. At times challenges seemed more than I could bear. I was largely unable to articulate the difficulties that came as a result of my brain injury. Fortunately, recovery continued, and is still happening! No one is more amazed at my progress than I am. Nearly the fourth anniversary, the recovery and learning curve continue up. A year ago, I assumed that my career in ministry was over. A few speaking engagements opened more doors. In August I was asked to move again in order to serve the UU Church of the Hill Country as their Minister! I’m still working for recovery, and receiving gifts from my time in ICU, Trauma Unit and Rehab. One thing that started in ICU is hard for me to explain. At that time I remembered the writings and instructions of Harvey Jackins founder of Reevaluation Counseling. Jackins describes as part of our "inherent nature" that we humans "get a whale of a kick out of being alive." At 27, that made sense to me. He also said that "if a person was born and lived only a few moments, and those moments were spent in agony, he or she would still have been fortunate to have lived." As I young man, I didn’t buy that. Four years ago, I experienced unbearable pain, and my emotional distress made it worse. At the same time, my agony was intertwined with this intense desire to recover Jackins' words came into my mind and my reach. I’m not say I agree exactly. I find myself in a paradox. The trauma left me with a heightened sense of alarm. I dread the thought of having to go through more like that. I also see how fear enslaves. I notice that when I run for cover, I abandon the power of the yearning for something greater than my comfort or safety. Fortunately, I also notice the way that passion and faith return. When I speak of faith, I mean something far greater than a specific belief system. It's what beckons me on. I have often used the word g-o-d to refer to the source of this beckoning (and everything). I’ve noticed how the word provides such a stumbling block for people dear to me. Since I don’t worship a word, and I want to be understood, I try to find other ways to express my experience. Thanks for sticking with me to this point. It’s a place for which I can offer few if any coordinates. It’s an experience that goes beyond my ability to explain. I sometimes refer to it as Great Mystery.  That may sound abstract. And yet I often experience as intimate my sense of connection to what I imagine as the Source of everything.  When connected to this Mystery or Source, I trust that no map is needed for this journey. Faith enables me to continue the journey with some confidence. (Or maybe it’s courage.)  I have long turned to this Source for guidance. Often guidance comes from “a still small voice within.” Occasionally I have experienced as divine guidance in a louder or more clear “voice.” Sometimes I don’t hear a clear voice or don’t seem to receive an answer at all. Sometimes I experience blessed assurance without receiving answers. Peace comes with a sense of being connected far beyond myself. When you call me Phillip, I may remember faith and have peace with the little that I know. When you call me Phillip, it may remind me how far I've come. PS. A while back I pretty much stopped writing and talking about the changes that came after getting hit by a truck. Jim, a dear friend who has been living with Parkinson's disease for years, drew this out of me. And when I got to the part about reconsidering Harvey Jackins' message, Jim became teary. I had never seen him cry before. Thanks for reading it!