“Man, that was a close one!”. Who hasn't said that a few times in their life when you realize you may have escaped almost certain death in a situation? That only by the grace of God, and likely the prayers of others (with your Mom probably at the top of that list) did you survive to live another day.
Not to be morbid, but in reality from the moment we take our first breath until we breathe our last, we are all in the process of dying. No one gets out of this life alive. Of course those of us who put our faith in our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ believe that this is only a dress rehearsal for the eternal big show that awaits us. But have you ever stopped and really thought about the times your life was spared from death? Do you view those moments with gratitude for having survived? Do you view it as being lucky or or being blessed with a miracle, and then giving thanks for it afterwards.
I believe miracles happen everyday and are more common than you make think. We often just don't recognize it. Want to see a miracle? Go look at your kids, your grandchildren, your spouse, your parents, grandparents, family and friends. Better yet, go look in the mirror. Whether you've had a brush with death yet or not, each and every last one of us is a walking miracle. To have even been born is a miracle, even in and of itself, especially those of us who were blessed to start and live our lives in the United States of America. I've come to realize that if you learn to believe that, you will likely embrace gratitude and thanking God for just being alive, and that, in turn, can change your life positively in so many ways.
Ask anyone who has survived an accident, or battled cancer as I am now, or some other life threatening calamity, most will tell you they look at life differently after surviving. And if they don't, I feel sorry for them, because they have yet to understand the gift of gratitude and the peace it can bring. The little things that may have frustrated us or made us angry aren't important anymore. You find some good in everyday, and look more for the good in people and the common ground most of us share instead of the differences that divide us.
I'll admit, especially when I was younger, that with some of my “I could have been dead” experiences, I may not have lived out what I am somewhat preaching to you now. But I think most of us as we get older, like me approaching the shadow of 70, start to feel the reality of waning days, and with that a genuine appreciation of simple things we took for granted in our youth. I don't view my cancer journey, though very difficult, as burden I can't handle with God's help, but rather as another opportunity the Lord has given me to share a message and do some good with my life.
So, are you ready to hear about the the crazy incidents that almost had me pushing up daisies prematurely? Of course as comedian George Carlin once said “If no one knows when a person is going to die, how can we say he died prematurely?”. Good point, George.
How Sick Are You?
I almost didn't make it into this world from the get-go. My Mom was a smaller young lady carrying a pretty big baby, and came close to miss-carrying a couple of times. When I was less than a week old, I was taken to the relatively new but now world renowned Texas Children's Hospital in Houston a pretty sick little guy. I had contracted umbilical sepsis, also known as omphalitis, a serious infection of the umbilical cord stump and surrounding tissues, primarily affecting newborns. It is a medical emergency because the infection can quickly spread to the bloodstream, leading to sepsis, a potentially life-threatening condition. It's believed that, because I was larger baby, instead of tying off my umbilical cord they instead used a metal clamp that may not have been properly sterilized. My folks had been married five years when I was born on my Dad's birthday. She told me that was the first time she had ever seen him cry when he walked in my room and saw that they were intravenously feeding me through needles inserted in veins in my head.
Well, I obviously survived that very early brush with death, but it set a pattern for the first twelve years of my life of being a sickly kid. My Mom deserves a Purple Heart if only for the sheer volume of times she cleaned up vomit. That probably explains why to this day I'd rather take a hammer to the head than throw up! If something was going around I caught it, even though my Mom always kept our house cleaner and more sanitary than most hospitals. I had pneumonia when I was six years old and to be taken the emergency room. It was one doctor visit after another.
Then when I was six, my pediatrician recommended I be taken to an allergist. At least in those days allergists tested you by taking a little screw-like object, break your skin in multiple spots on your arms and back, and then apply a drop of possible allergens on each of those skin indentations. If this had been a dice game I rolled craps. They determined I was allergic to chocolate, peanuts, corn, oats, yeast, fresh-cut grass, and a number of other things. So besides the obvious good stuff like chocolate and peanut butter, these allergies meant cutting out most of the kid cereals. Candy was restricted to Bit-O-Honey and Sweet Tarts, which was relatively new at the time. And trust me, you haven't lived until you've had a jelly sandwich (no peanut butter) on dark rye bread! Plus if I rolled in the grass for very long like kids do, I would break out itching. All of this meant weekly allergy shots for almost four years. Fortunately I outgrew virtually all those allergies by the time I was about 13. But to this day I virtually never eat or have a desire for candy, other than the occasional M&M's or peppermints. But as my folks would affirm, I've always been sort of a trooper, even as a little guy, who virtually never whined or complained. You just deal with what you have to deal with and move on.
While none of that was likely life-threatening, during that time period I experienced one of the freak injuries to end all freak injuries. It all happened during a family gathering at my Great Aunt Maude's house near Lake Buchanan in the Texas Hill Country. She was having some construction work done on her house and the workers had left scrap material around the property. I was about six when my cousin David Kelley, who was a year or so older than me, and I starting rustling through those scraps and happened to find couple of sharp two-by-four shards about a foot-long that seemed like perfect swords for two young want-to-be swashbucklers.
Somehow, some way, and I still 60 years later can't figure out or remember how it happened, David took his pretend sword and jammed it into my mouth, grazed my uvula and pierced my left tonsil! All I remember was beating on the living room sliding glass door and screaming. My Mom and Dad immediately brought me in the house and took me to the bathroom, where I opened my mouth looking into the medicine cabinet mirror and all I saw was blood. My folks then threw me into the car and my Dad must have driven a hundred miles per hour to traverse the winding country road nine miles into the small town of Burnet and the hospital emergency room.
Once we got to the hospital the doctor on-duty examined me, determined I didn't have wood chips stuck in my throat, and sent us on our way. For the next few weeks it was like a had a bad sore throat,. But on the bright side, like most kids after a tonsillectomy, I got to eat lots of ice cream, (strawberry or vanilla of course) for a few weeks. And, strangely enough after this incident, I was able to whistle, which I had never been able to do before! At the very least I could have been more seriously injured or lost an eye.
A Shot in the Dark
Some brushes with death or so quick that you don't even have to time process what nearly happened until the event is over. Then there are others that you not only have to time process, but have long enough to contemplate that you may be staring down the barrel of life's end. In the case of the story I'm about to tell, that was literally the case.
It was early 1982 and was an ordinary night in in my far southeast Houston suburban neighborhood, which was really on the outskirts of H-Town at that time. My friend Chris Hensley and I were in his truck cruising the streets as many in our age bracket would often do. We were driving up Fuqua, which is an exit off I-45 heading towards Galveston, and a two-lane road going each way with an esplanade in-between,
We had arrived at the intersection of Fuqua and Beamer, another two-lane going both ways with an esplanade in-between. At that intersection a small left turn lane opens up with the other two lanes only allowed to go straight. Chris and I moved into the left turn lane when I noticed there was a car with its left turn signal on apparently wanting to go left but in the wrong lane to do so. I said to Chris “Hey, this guy wants o get over”. Trying to be polite Chris honked his horn and I tried to wave the car over through my open window. The driver never moved and we proceeded to pass him. As we did I turned and looked at the driver and he gave me the finger. Indignant after his response to us trying to be courteous, and being a 22 year-old guy, I returned his salute.
As we turned onto Beamer I looked at the outside mirror on my side of the truck I see this guy has made the left turn anyway and said to Chris “Hey, I think this guy is following us” to which Chris responds “I think I know him”. Chris then turns into a church parking lot directly across the street from J. Frank Dobie High School where Chris and I had both attended classes and graduated. This church had just wrapped up Wednesday night Bible study and folks were heading out of the building into the parking lot. Chris drove to the far end of the parking lot about 100 yards from the street. He was in the process of making a u-turn to head back towards the parking lot entrance when we heard someone yell, followed by the unmistakable sound of a weapon being discharged and saw the flash of the gun aimed in our direction.
Though all of this happened in seconds it felt like slow-motion as I know he got off at least three or four rounds at us. As soon as I was aware of what was happening I yelled at Chris “Shit, man. He has a gun. Go, man, go!” as I dropped to the floorboard. Poor Chris then attempted to drive through a large, bumpy field that lay between the church and a Stop-N-Go convenience store, trying to keep his head down while trying to see where we were headed.
When we got back to Beamer and hit the road surface we discovered he had shot out a tire. Now I'm thinking ”This guy is going to catch us and kill us.”. As fate would have it we saw a Texas DPS officer driving in our direction and we hung out the window yelling “Some guy is shooting at us” and pointed in the direction of the shooter. Apparently the shooter saw the officer and took off heading in the opposite direction on Beamer from us with the officer in hot pursuit. At this point Chris and I walked into Stop-N-Go, got a soda and told several friends, who were in the parking lot, what had just transpired. I remember my hand trembling as I held the soda and and my legs were shaking. After a few minutes the officer returned and told us the shooter had put the car in a ditch and escaped scaling over a fence.
A few weeks later a police officer showed up at my workplace with mugshots based upon the description I had given the DPS officer. I was the only one who had seen the gunman as Chris had his eyes on the road when we passed him. I had described the individual as about my age, sandy longer blonde hair, maybe a moustache, and either he was short or slumped down behind the wheel. Well, damned if all the faces in those mugshots all sort of fit that description. Wanting justice but not wanting to finger the wrong guy, I disappointingly told the officer I couldn't make a positive ID. But then I looked again at the last photo and said “You know this last guy looks sort of familiar”, to which the officer replied “That's the guy we think was the perpetrator”, as the vehicle used by the gunman was stolen from the suspect's neighbor. I then asked the officer “What's his name? And he responded “Keith M.” I'm not revealing the guy's name as he is a multi-time violent offender who I don't want to get wind of me telling this as he might be out there walking around. But when the officer told me his name I said “Holy crap! I went to junior high school with this guy!” I remembered him from sixth grade being a little short guy with a chip on his shoulder who acted like a little punk. Apparently that attitude only got worse as he got older. Extremely disappointed, I thought this guy probably now would not be brought to justice. So I went to back to living my life.
But the story doesn't end here. Several months later I was getting my hair cut by my long-time stylist and dear friend Lisa Barras (Bourque) who tragically passed away from Covid in 2020. Previously Lisa had told me about her sister and her relationship with an abusive boyfriend. In the course of conversation during my haircut I asked my friend “Is your sister still dating that jerk?” to which she replied “No, he's in prison now”. I never knew the boyfriend's name so I finally asked her his identity and she said “Keith M.”. I thought “Hell yes” justice served!”. I then told Lisa what had happened and she said Keith M. (who already had a criminal record) was busted for a home break-in. During a later haircut appointment she informed me that Keith M was facing attempted murder charges for stabbing a fellow inmate. Obviously a very bad dude.
We all know the old adage “dodged a bullet'”. I can I honestly say I did and lived to tell you this story., to which I'll add “Thank you, Jesus” for saving my life.
Southern Fried
In 1983 I had begun working at small daytime Country station KTEK, located in the then small-town of Alvin Texas, located south of Houston. Our studios were a ramshackled building smack dab in the middle of a cow pasture. The station had a god-awful, puke yellow, piece of crap van that our skinflint old General Manager John Moore must have rescued from a junkyard somewhere. We used this beauty for remote broadcasts and special events in the area. One Saturday I was headed to a remote at a local business just outside of town. On my way to the remote the loud speakers situated on the top of the vehicle came unbolted and flew out on the highway behind me. I had to pull off the road, run back, retrieve the speakers, throw them in the van and proceed to my destination. I should have know then that this was not going to be a good day, but at the same time turned out be memorable.
I arrived at my remote location and was met by our station engineer Larry Sandlin. We then proceed to set up our broadcast equipment, such as it was, to start our remote. As Larry was running some cable from the van, I was trying to assist by putting up our metal antenna. This antenna came in sections with a base and a couple of sections to connect with the antenna at the top. I put the sections all together and began to lift those assembled pieces up to place in the base on the ground.
We had parked the van very near the highway for a high visibility. When I started lifting the assembled antenna I had failed to notice the high voltage power lines directly above me. Just as I had begun to lift the antenna high enough to fit in the base, I looked up and saw a wide-eyed stricken Larry Sandlin screaming at me to stop what I was doing and put the antenna down. He then looked at me and pointed up. It was then I saw the power lines and realized I was about five feet away from being bar-b-qued. Thank you Larry Sandlin and especially Jesus for once again saving this knucklehead's life.
The Flying Semi
In 1987 I was on my way to work at KILT taking my usual route of I-45 North into the edge of downtown Houston, before taking US-59 where I would exit by the Sears store located at Main and Richmond. That Sears store (now closed) was the first of the retail giant's stores in Houston, opening in 1939. From there I would traverse my way through some residential areas to the KILT studios on Lovett Boulevard in the Montrose area of town.
It was a typical hot Summer day so I had my air conditioner on full blast, tunes cranked loud on my stereo in my 1985 Olds Cutlass. Traffic was light going north into town, but I noticed bumper-to-bumper traffic going southbound, which was far from unusual in Houston even back in those days. I was just approaching the Pierce Elevated, which winds its way through downtown, when I heard a horrible screeching sound over my radio and AC. I was traveling on the inside lane next to the guardrail. No sooner than I heard that noise I looked over at the southbound lanes and saw an 18-wheeler starting to jackknife and heading in my direction. In what seemed like slow-motion but was actually milliseconds, I watched as the cab of this semi hit the guardrail and went airborne aimed directly at me. The cab must have been 10 feet off the ground and about to drop in my lane and on me when I swerved hard to my right to avoid being crushed. I had no time to look and see if there was anyone in the two lanes to my right, just time enough to instinctively react to the extreme danger almost hovering over me. Thankfully there were no other vehicles close to me when I made that life-saving maneuver.
As soon as I avoided this near disaster for me, I looked in my rear view mirror I saw that the truck's cab was on its side in the lane I had been driving in, the trailer was on its side in the southbound lane, and the cab was on fire with black smoke billowing up into the sky. This being before the age of cellphones, I got off at the nearest exit, found a pay phone and called 911 to report the accident, feeling certain that there were likely serious injuries involved if not fatalities.
The next morning I woke up and there on the front page of the Houston Chronicle was a color photo of the smoldering wreckage from this accident. For years I kept a copy of that newspaper as a a reminder of what neatly cost me my life. But after many moves over the decades I lost that paper, otherwise I would share it with this story. As it turns out, miraculously no one was seriously injured in this accident, so God spread multiple miracles around that day, sparing not only me but many others. The one somewhat serious injury from this accident was a gentleman driving a Nissan, that was damn near crushed, that the semi had rolled over on. He was pulled out of the wreckage by some Good Samaritan motorists who were on the scene. Ironically I found out that the guy lived on my parent's street a few block up from them, though they didn't know him. But what a small world occurrence, that that in a city of several million people that this individual was darn near by parent's neighbor!
Oh, there were other situations over my lifespan that weren't life threatening, but just part of growing up. A mini bike wreck that resulted in me having my left knee ripped open and having to be on crutches for my 8th grade graduation. Being briefly knocked out playing basketball after getting an elbow square between the eyes. Having my nose broken at least a couple of times. I never went to the doctor for those, but if you were to look at photos from before 8th grade and in the years to follow, my cute little nose developed a hump on it and leans distinctly to one side. I went to an ENT one time for some nasal congestion issues as an adult and he asked “So when did you break your nose because you have a severely deviated septum?”. I responded “I don't know, though I have a pretty good idea of at least three times that it probably happened”. And then were the numerous times, though not a serial speeder in my youth, that I drove home from the beach in Galveston (sometimes somewhat impaired) topping out my 1978 Camaro at 115 mph. I guess God had further plans for me down the road and I am very thankful for his mercy.
So after reading this I think you may better understand that while my cancer diagnosis and treatment is certainly not something that's particularly easy to deal with, I've already been faced with possible death several times in my life, either from my own youthful stupidity or just being at the wrong place at the wrong time. I'm blessed to even still be alive and with that brings extreme gratitude.
Which leads me to the moral of these stories: Never take life for granted. Consider each day a blessing and a miracle to be thankful for. Learn to genuinely feel and be able to express gratitude for just being alive, not to mention all the blessings in your life that we are all guilty of sometimes taking for granted. We all worry sometimes about frivolous stuff or things we can't control or even situations that may never even happen. The Bible tells us in Matthew 6:34 “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Sufficient for today is it's own trouble”. And then in Luke 12:25, “And which of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?” One thing that has usually kept me grounded is stopping to think that no matter what bad things that may be happening in my life, there are countless millions who have it way worse than me. That in the totality of human existence, I am one of the most blessed guys to ever live.
So tomorrow when you wake up and start your day , think about giving thanks to the Almighty and live your life like there is no tomorrow. Try and find the good in each day. That trial or tough time you are going through may now may be the training ground for your next success or blessing. It may take work to begin with, but I promise you that if you strive to achieve that mindset, you will find peace and contentment you didn't think possible. Take it from someone who knows. Life is a precious gift. Never take that for granted.
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