Even my wife (especially my wife) knew I was going too fast. Like a speeding train, I whistled through grade crossings and roared over trestles only moments before they collapsed (thanking God I had made it just in time—never thinking it might have been my excess speed that caused the fall) and sped by passenger stations, too busy even to wave at the friendly folk gathered near the track, much less have time to stop and pick them up.
It’s a syndrome that attacks many. Too many of God’s servants who are always busy, busy, busy working in the Lord’s vineyard. But after all, we’ve got to get all those grapes picked before Jesus comes.
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Then suddenly I was down. Flat on my back, my right leg elevated to prevent the blood clots in my shin from surging through my veins and doing the unspeakable to my heart and lungs.
My trip to South Africa with other American “spiritual giants” for the key conference was off. The doctors said I couldn’t even go downstairs to eat with my family, much less circle the globe.
I was down for almost three weeks, a strange and mysterious time. Everything in my body was working fine except for that blood clot. I had lots of time to consider the ways of the Lord and sort through His priorities in my life.
You just can’t do that, I now understand, when you’re always on the move.
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