In which I get down to earth.

I moved into the basement of a sister in the church, because my new rotation is at a hospital about half an hour’s drive from home. This year has been full of new and wonderful homes.

Internal medicine is fascinating. Contrary to what my myopic pre-clinical attitude would have me think, the body is much more than a constellation of organ systems. Having a cursory understanding of the physiology of each organ system can only begin to open the door to managing the gestalt that each patient brings. I love having to twist and pull the threads of my knowledge together into new contortions for patients with many medical needs.

Things that I think about when I space out watching my resident’s fingers clicketty-clack away.

One of our patients is middle-aged woman with early-onset Alzheimer’s; over the last six years of her 50's, her dementia slowly took away her ability to talk and understand. Unlike most dementia patients, though, she still has her athletic build. Our team found her in the waiting room, walking around aimlessly, with an impassive mien, sitting down every so often for a few seconds, getting up, moving a few seats over, sitting down, standing up. There was no agitation about the movement; it was just a gentle wandering, like a ghost in Pac-man. “She has very few words,” said her wife. “It’s been years since she’s had words. But when I come, she kisses me. I’m the one she kisses.” The patient came by and reached for her hand. She held it, tenderly. “Some things stay.”

Blood draws are a fickle friend. I felt like Count Dracula, viceroy of vampires, virtuoso of veins for the first week or so. I was Midas with the 23 gauge butterfly needle, hitting veins, filling tubes like I was getting paid for it (spoiler alert: I am not). Then for a straight week, I had patient after patient with bad sticks. Veins rolled, patients were volume-depleted and had teeny flat veins, I hit a vein and then the needle fell out, dripping blood everywhere, you name it, I did it. I was a dunderhead of the first degree. Once, I unsuccessfully stuck a patient twice (very cautiously, with much prayer); the nurse swept in and hit in three seconds without blinking. A patient with whom I thought I had a pretty decent therapeutic bond, after I messed up a stick, told me not to come back and find someone who knew how to do a blood draw. Anyway. It was not my finest hour. Then these last two weeks, I’ve been back to successful draws every day. What’s the secret sauce? Beats me.

I’ve been working pretty long hours in this rotation; I can tell because my nails have been getting to the point where they hit my keyboard first when I type. But when I get home I go straight to work at my desk, or I cook, or I shower, or I sleep. When can I cut my nails? So I cut them once on the walk between the parking lot and the hospital.

One day after call (a 12+-hour shift in which my medical team admits new patients), I drove home. It was nearly 9 PM. When I got there, I didn’t have the energy to get from my car to the front door. So I sat there. I should be productive, I thought. So I pulled out my phone and started answering texts and emails for about an hour. The car got colder; I wanted to be in my bed. But I couldn’t get to my bed without getting out of my car. What a conundrum. So I waited until my desire to be in bed overcame my activation energy, and in I went, like the stubborn sandcastle yielding to the sea.

Today was a call, too. I was mentally prepared. This time, I parked and immediately grabbed my stuff and stepped out into the cool night breeze. Right-side-neighbor’s cat saw me and started stalking over. “You are a cute cat. But I can’t pet you.” I told it. As I walked up the driveway, I thought to myself, Strange. I never noticed that the neighbor on the left’s house looks just like the one of the neighbor on the right. Then I got to the front door. Wow, so dark inside. Maybe D — isn’t home yet. Wait. Where’s the fence? The usual white picket fence, chained shut to keep the dogs in, was gone. Wait. Right-side-neighbor’s house was dark too, and weirdly smaller than I remembered and—that’s not right-side-neighbor’s house! I looked left. Oh. That was right-side-neighbor. I was two houses away from my house. The cat watched me sheepishly maneuver my car an embarrassingly short distance down the road, and walked over to me again as I got out a second time. The parallel-park of shame. I still didn’t pet it.

I did a study of plants typifying Christ in the Bible; the Bible is so rich with meaning. It starts with Genesis 2:9, with God depicted as a tree of life, with fruits to dispense to man. John 15:1, SoS 2:3, Deut 8:8 continue the fruit tree theme by showing God as a vine tree, an apple tree, a tamarisk tree, an almond tree, a fig tree, an olive tree, and pomegranates. He is accessible, sweet, the expression of the flowing God, a testimony of resurrection, a shady refuge/relief to us, rich, and abundant.

Christ is also shown as parts of trees. He is the root of David, a shoot from the stump of Jesse, a new branch, fruit, and a twig (Isa 11:1, 10; 4:2; Luke 1:42; Rev 5:5; Ezk 17:22; Jer 37:15; Zech 3:8; 6:12). He is growing, a continuation and a beginning, a new resurrection and an ageless source.

Plant-based material in the Bible also depicts aspects of Christ, and in this matter I fear I cannot be exhaustive. He’s shown as the smallest of herbs, hyssop, because as one equal with God, He lowered Himself to take the form of a slave; this herb was used to paint the Passover lintels with blood; it was burned in consecration; it was soaked with vinegar and gall to give Jesus his final drink. What a picture! (Can you tell this one is my favorite?) When He, the one who is all in all, sacrificed His all for us and became nothing, He was able to be used by the Father to apply redemptive work to us, to administer to us our most tender and painful experiences by the same brush.

In Isaiah 42:3 and Matthew 12:20 flax and reeds are a picture of us, burnt-out, barely holding on, broken. But in Ezekiel 40:3, the man of bronze (a type of Christ) holds a line of flax and a measuring reed. These two instruments are used to make the measurements for the building of the temple, and increase the depth of the water of the river of life. What does that mean? Christ is made of the same “stuff” as us, but in Him is no sickness, no weakness has He; what a picture of His uplifted humanity in relation to ours! Then a hidden picture of flax — the bride of Christ in Revelation 19:8 wears clothes of fine linen, the righteousnesses of the saints. But what is linen? It’s cloth made from flax. We may have begun as smoking flax, but Jesus did not quench us. He raises us up in resurrection, uplifts us, and our uplifted humanity imbued with Jesus’ humanity clothes us as His bride! (Okay, maybe this point is my favorite. I don’t know anymore.)

Other pictures of Christ as materials for building include cedar wood as the honorable and uplifted humanity of Jesus; acacia as Jesus’ strong character and divine standard; cypress as Christ’s humanity and its impenetrability to death; palm as victory.

Finally, Christ is typified in the Bible as products of plants. Myrrh, cinnamon, calamus, cassia as the anointing oil that makes us priests and kings, stachte, galbanum, and frankincense as incense for contact with God, honey as the sweetest grace, fine flour as Christ’s fine humanity, and aloes as soothing and healing, even in death.

Psa. 19:1–3
The heavens declare the glory of God,
And the expanse proclaims the work of His hands.
Day to day pours forth speech,
And night to night tells out knowledge.
There is no speech and there are no words;
Their voice is not heard.

What a Christ! What a creation! Hallelujah! I feel by this study, I am betrothed a little more to my beloved Lord. Even in just this one small subcategory, His riches are unfathomable. All creation tells forth the knowledge of God — may the Lord give us ears to hear.