A Wake-up Call I Could Not Ignore

What does God have to do to get your attention?

Do you recognize a wake-up call? Do you react, or do you ignore those calls? They might be whispered. They might be as loud and clear as a morning Reveille.

Staying Awake

I had fallen asleep as I played the piano, the dissonant sound of multiple notes being struck simultaneously reverberated through my head as my nose struck Middle C. My forehead followed to complete the wake-up call. I jerked upright, but the overtones continued ringing, and believe me, there is no way one can ignore the overtones on a Yamaha C3 grand piano, lid half-open. Especially when said overtones are dissonant.

Now wide awake, I gingerly wiggled my nose from side to side. It did not hurt much—just a little. I carefully dabbed it with a Kleenex. No blood. The keyboard was unscathed.

Beware of Opioids for Pain

I recalled practicing a challenging part in a Debussy Arabesque. Vaguely I remembered going slower and slower and then, nothing. I had fallen asleep. In the middle of the day. With bright sunlight streaming through the window.

No more pain medication, I decided. I had had a total knee replacement a couple of weeks beforehand and was prescribed the usual cocktail of Oxycontin and Tylenol. The drugs barely took the edge of the considerable pain, but I would fall asleep at the oddest hours. As witnessed by two little dogs that did not care much for the sound of my interrupted practice session!

How Many Wake-up Calls Have I Had?

From nowhere, the thought came. How many wake-up calls have there been in my life that I ignored? And what were the consequences?

I was a boarding school brat and had never tasted alcohol when at the tender age of seventeen, I went off to university. A car accident where I survived an eighteen-foot fall over a cliff in a small mini-minor taught me nothing. I still would get into a car whether the driver had been drinking or not. This stupidity stayed with me well into adulthood.

All Grown Up and Smart

Or so I thought as I went to work. Saturday nights were for dancing and partying and staying out late. I am convinced that every denomination in existence had a church within a mile radius of where I lived. I would be woken by the sonorous sound of the bells from the Dutch Reformed Church. A massive white structure, one of the most famous landmarks in Cape Town, South Africa.

It is known as the “Groote Kerk.” (Afrikaans and Dutch for “Great Church”) and is South Africa’s oldest place of Christian Worship. I was raised in the DR tradition but still, the bells didn’t mean a thing as I pulled the pillow over my head.

Not to be outdone, the Catholic, Anglican, and Lutheran Churches would join in the merriment. Not appreciated by someone still suffering from the previous night’s excesses. A wake-up call I did not appreciate!

I would roll out of bed, head for the bathroom, aspirin, and water pull on my bikini and cover-up grab the sunscreen and my purse, and head for the beach.

Young, Headstrong, Invincible

Yet, I cannot explain what made me decide that I must go to a church service on New Year’s Eve. As a child, we would be on holiday at the seaside over New Year, and there would always be a service in the holiday hall that my parents would attend, me in tow. And afterward, the fun would continue.

I like the idea of starting the New Year by going to church. But in this exciting new life, far removed from those childhood days, it did not take long to realize it effectively ruined the party for the others. My comment, “guys, carry on, I’ll be back soon,” always met with questions of where I was going.

My reply to “church” was the proverbial bucket of cold water. On my return, the party would have fizzled out while I was ready to party.

The Shepherd’s Call

A different call. I’m sure there were many times when I was that one lone sheep that didn’t heed the call to follow, to come home to “get back on track.” He would come and find me. I would stay with the flock for a spell, but other pastures would beckon, and I’d be off. I was that wayward fluffy sheep portrayed in cartoon dreams as the one that could not clear the fence. The one that would ignominiously trip and do a faceplant. Oh yes, that was me. (Luke 15: 3-7 NIV)

I conveniently and easily ignored many small wake-up calls through the years. The “not to be ignored” wake-up call was way in the future. A marriage in tatters saw me crying and begging God to please do something, but He kept silent.

Joy and a Long-awaited Daughter

It is incredible how the birth of a child can change one’s outlook on life. An increased sense of responsibility. An awareness of the world and what I would be leaving behind for my child. I went back to church, volunteered to teach Sunday school, tried to be a model in what I did, and spoke. That little girl became my life, my reason for living. I wanted to give her the world.

I converted to Catholicism and threw myself into my new faith. It was like coming home. Mother Church put her arms around me, both my daughter and I were baptized, and I knew I’d arrived.

I thought I had survived the fiery furnace of divorce, deception, and heartbreak. I’d awakened to this new life of love, understanding, companionship, completed with a child.

I had it all but God decreed otherwise.

A Wake-up Call I Could Not Ignore

A knock on the door, one Thursday morning at 2.00 am on March 13, 2003. Two serious-faced plainclothes police detectives with the question –

“Are you Stephanie Adams’ mother?”

“Yes,” I said, peering over their shoulders. “Where’s my daughter?”

“She’s dead. May we come in.”

A wake-up call no parent wants.

I went back to work after three weeks. And over and over in my mind, as I negotiated the morning traffic, I would recite to myself –

My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9).

I had no recourse, no strength, no wise words. All I had was His grace.

It had been a wake-up call I could not ignore.