We Didn’t Come for the Party . . .

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I think I know why the phrase “pain in the neck” has come into common use in the English language. I’ve been living with a real pain in the neck for several months now. Pains in the neck are no fun!

My chiropractor didn’t want to x-ray my neck and start intense treatments until I got home from homeschool conventions, because he was afraid I would do something on the road that would change my condition. Now that I am mostly at home, I’m going twice a week. Somehow the neck area of my spine (can you tell that anatomy is not my forte?) has shifted about a quarter of an inch to the left since my last x-ray seven years ago.

I’m guessing it happened when I slammed my face into the edge of a door when I was climbing the stairs in the middle of the night about a year ago. My doctor thinks that is plausible. A bump like that can shift things that don’t start hurting until several weeks later. What I know is that if that accident was the culprit, it was a big ouch back then; for the last several months, it’s been a real pain in the neck.

I had a chiropractor visit literally on our way out of town for our trip last weekend. Our Thursday agenda was: 1) trip to the toy store for a birthday present; 2) chiropractor appointment; 3) supper with my mother, my niece, and my brother, who took care of Mother while Ray and I were away; 4) the FASA concert.

I told the doctor that I was going out of town for our grandson’s birthday (Opportunity #3). The doctor told me that he could make no guarantees about my neck because of the trip; and, with a chuckle, said something to the effect of “An eight-hour drive for a two-hour birthday party.”

Ray and I didn’t really travel eight hours to go to a birthday party. We traveled eight hours to be with our grandson and his daddy and mama on his special weekend. Yes, we went to his birthday party while we were there, but the party wasn’t our destination; Henry was.

I certainly wasn’t going to let a pain in the neck keep me from pushing Henry in a swing and going down the twirly slide with him at the playground and singing “Happy Birthday” and watching his proud parents. I wasn’t going to let a pain in the neck keep me from hearing our son preach on Sunday morning either.

I remember a verse from “The End of the Way,” by Charlie D. Tilman, a hymn we sang at church when I was growing up:

The sands have been washed in the footprints
Of the stranger on Galilee’s shore,
And the voice that subdued the rough billows,
Is heard in Judea no more.
But the path of that lone Galilean,
I will joyfully follow today;
And the toils of the road will seem nothing,
When I get to the end of the way;
And the toils of the road will seem nothing,
When I get to the end of the way.

Eight hours for a two-hour party? No, the toils of the road seemed nothing, because Henry was at the end of the way.

. . . let us run with endurance
the race that is set before us,
fixing our eyes on Jesus,
the author and perfecter of faith,
who for the joy set before Him
endured the cross, despising the shame,
and has sat down at the right hand
of the throne of God.
Hebrews 12:1-2

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