A tale of two tales, Part 3: On the edge of the cliff without God
Warning: For my friends with squeamish, delicate, or Puritanical sensibilities, proceed if you wish, but be advised. I will be sharing the events of that summer morning in 1976 as clearly as I can remember after 38 years and will leave very little out.
The night before, Susie, a 16 year-old backslidden Christian who joined our group as a junior counselor, said these words to me: “I’m president of student counsel; I’m popular, and I’m doing just fine on my own. I don’t need God.”
The next morning, at the crack of dawn, a couple of girls bounded up to the sleeping counselors, seeking permission to go on an early morning hike.
“Mmmmphh,” I mumbled. Susie volunteered to go with them, so I told them to be back by breakfast.
Off they went while I drifted back to sleep. That slumber was short-lived, however; what seemed to be mere minutes later, Laura, my co-counselor, and I were awakened to the sound of a cry of terror, a loud crash, and the ensuing shrieks of seventeen teen-aged girls.
We leaped up out of our sleeping bags, expecting to see a huge water or pillow fight and all of the accompanying chaos that fifteen year-old girls can create.
Instead, what we saw sent an icy chill up my spine on that quickly warming July morning.
There, under the cliff near the girls’ strewn sleeping bags, lay Susie on her back, screaming in agony, scratching the air and kicking furiously as if at some unseen demon. Strings of profanities were spewing out of her mouth between cries for help. The girls ran around in horrified pandemonium as Laura and I ran to the site.
“She fell! She fell!” one of the hikers burst out, crying hysterically. “She fell from up there!” I looked to the top of the cliff where she pointed; Susie had fallen the thirty-five foot distance and landed on her back right in the center of an old, abandoned campfire circle, her head just an inch or two from a large stone bordering the old site, her legs and arms also just inches from the other hefty boundary rocks. One thing we didn’t notice right away, however, was that she had landed right on top of a jutting slice of bedrock across the lower part of her back. Susie was out of her mind with panic and pain.
We corralled the girls and gave the more rationally-behaving ones the job of organizing everyone else in breakfast, clean up, and break down of our site; Susie needed medical attention as soon as we could contact camp, and that meant leaving the river as soon as possible. (Remember, this was 1976, before cell phones.) The girls leapt into action and were absolute champs in gaining an atmosphere of proactive peace and self-control.
I stayed with Susie while Laura had the daunting task of sprinting a mile or so away to the nearest farmhouse to find a phone where she could call camp.
Meanwhile, Susie’s crying and profanities mixed with apologies and pleas for mercy from God. I prayed with her, listening to discern what the Lord would have me to do. She was in shock, so I covered her with a light sleeping bag and spoke calmly to her. “Let me get up!” she started screaming. “I want to get up! I can walk!”
I continued listening—probing in my spirit—to hear what God wanted me to do. I had heard of miracles; I knew the Lord was very capable of pulling one off right now for Susie, and I thought that would be extremely cool.
But instead, I sensed caution; He reminded me of my first aid classes and the warning not to move a potential back or neck injury victim, risking further damage to the spinal cord. So there I stayed with Susie—who was still alternating between profanity and repentance—as I brushed away the big fuzzy flies that were gathering.
At some point in our wait for help, she needed to relieve herself. What do I do now? I wondered. If her spine moves, it could be worse, but I can’t let her pee all over herself!
I made the decision to give her dignity while attempting to keep her spine as stationary as possible. I unzipped her jeans shorts, and as carefully as I could, I scooted them and her panties below her hips and gently placed a camp frying pan beneath her. Mission accomplished. She was relieved, and I pulled the panties and shorts back up as far as I could to cover her without moving her. That frying pan, however, was pulled out of commission and headed back to camp in the trash.
Laura had returned by now; an hour had gone by; and no rescue team had shown up. The couple in the farmhouse allowed Laura to use their phone; she called camp and reached the guy in charge of transportation. She told him, “Susie had a little fall; we think she may be hurt, and we need to have you come get us right away.” You see, our first aid training had focused on keeping calm and in control; harsh, panicked words could escalate the victim’s alarm and make things far worse. But, Susie wasn’t at that farmhouse; she was under the cliff, and Laura’s calm words sent a false signal of “no big deal” to the guys who could help us. They had another cup of coffee and cleaned up a bit of business before they left. I learned a valuable lesson from this: Never sugar-coat the threat to your security or safety if you want action. This applies, incidentally, right now in our nation.
Three hours after her fall, the guys strolled down the quarter-mile path to our site leading from the place where Big Red and the van were parked. The minute he saw Susie and understood the situation, Rod, the guy in charge, began weeping. “I am so sorry!” he took me aside and said. “I thought that it was no big deal! She’s always visiting the infirmary with something or other; I thought this was just more of the same!”
One of the other guys sprinted the quarter-mile path to Big Red and removed the wooden gate from the rear of the old truck, trekking back at top speed with it under his arm. We padded it with sleeping bags, and the guys, Laura and I, and a few strong girls circled Susie, and at the count of three, we lifted her as a unit onto the padded gate. Then we carried her as level as we could down the quarter-mile path to the cargo van. We followed the same synchronized procedure to place her on the floor of the van, carefully securing the padded gate beneath her. Laura assured me that she and the girls would take care of the rest, and I rode in the back of the van with Susie while Rod high-tailed it to the farmhouse to call the sheriff for assistance.
The call was made, and we drove to the black top highway where we were met by two vehicles. One led us, top speed with sirens blaring, and the other followed, lights flashing, to the county hospital.
At this point, Susie was growing a pale shade of green. “I’m gonna be sick,” she croaked. I surveyed the floor of the van for anything to help; nothing. And then I remembered—my bandana! I was wearing a bandana—pirate (or ‘70’s hippie) style—around my head. I pulled it off, cupped it in my hands, and instructed Susie to only turn her head to the side and not to move her back; I would catch the vomit.
She did—over and over again—while I caught every bit of it in that beloved bandana. And miraculously, she neither moved her back nor choked on the vomit.
I was never more relieved to see a place than I was to see that emergency room. Attendants were at the back door of the van, moving Susie with professional expertise onto a waiting gurney. Rod left me at the hospital to return to the campsite to help with packing and transporting the group back to camp. I tied up the bandana and its contents into a soggy bundle and dropped it in the trash receptacle by the entrance of the hospital.
As I waited there alone, I couldn’t help but reflect on the conversation the night before. “I don’t need God,” she had boldly asserted. And now, she needed Him. And He was willing to help her. Instinctively, I knew that God didn’t cause my young friend to fall off of that cliff despite her defiance; however, I believed He had met her at the foot of that precipice—and that He would not fail her or forsake her.
Soon I was startled into the present again when a stern doctor addressed me. “Are you the one who gave care to Susan after the fall?” he demanded.
Uh oh, I squirmed. “Yes, sir,” I whispered.
“Well, let me tell you, young lady—her back was broken in a very precarious place; any pressure or movement one way or the other, and it would have cost your friend her mobility; it would have left her paralyzed. But what you did ensured that her fracture didn’t damage her nerves, and she will be fine and walking around in a brace in two weeks. And after that—she’ll be as good as new.”
In my numbness, all I could do was nod and thank him.
I have no idea how I made it back to camp; the rest of that session is a blur. But when I returned home between third and fourth sessions, my mom came into my room and sat on my bed to talk, oblivious to the ordeal I had just been a part of. And for the first time since Susie’s fall, I cried. I broke down and sobbed and poured out my heart to my mom as she rocked me and held me tight.
The doctor was right; after fourth session I visited Susie, and she was up and about in her back brace, all smiles and energy. The sweet humility was back, too; she had time to think and pray and process, and although she was unsure how quickly she would jump back in to church, she knew—beyond a shadow of doubt—she needed God.
Tomorrow: Is it unknown or scary? God can turn it