Peace in the valley

Peace in the valley

Mark Brown

Dr. David Dyson, basking in the glow of retirement, sat less than comfortably in his easy chair. He’d not been feeling well for days. His daughter, Laurel Baird — named for the wreaths the ancients used to crown their athletes, because her parents, “wanted to speak God’s victory into my life,” — could tell the symptoms were lining up. David told his wife to call 911. He was driven to St. Francis and admitted to the COVID-19 ward, where the doctor told him he was going on life support. What most worried him now was his wife Linda. He went under sedation on March 22—a Sunday—and remained on a ventilator for a week. In June, he’d turn 69.

“The Lord has chastened me severely, but he has not given me over to death.”
– Psalm 118

Faith

A large team gathered in the hall outside his room, about to prep him for treatment. A few things went through his mind, but not panic. “I had a conversation with God,” he said. “It was not the first time we’d talked.”

“Sure, I wanted to see my wife again,” he said. “See my children and grandchildren, but the other side is not something I feared.” God said to me, “I have a plan.”

David Dyson, a member of First United Methodist, taught in the College of Business at Oral Roberts University. Laurel took his courses on ethics and nonprofit business.

That Sunday, Laurel and her husband Eric streamed the Tulsa International Fellowship service. “The sermon text came from John 11,” Laurel said, “... and I held onto this quote from Pastor Wambugu all week: ‘We are often too early to believe Jesus is late.’ My Dad went on a ventilator that night and did not come off until the next Sunday. Many times that week it felt like, ‘What are you waiting for, Jesus?’” Mary and Martha thought that about Lazarus.

“I kept holding onto the fact that Jesus would be glorified best in the way He chose to act in this situation,” Laurel thought, “even if it differed from my timeline.”

Hope

The second thing David remembers upon waking up were the restraints, strapping him to the bed so he wouldn’t thrash and tear his tubes loose. The first was the light. “I could see but everything was hazy. Like the blind man in Mark’s Gospel. I see people, but they look like trees.”

The doctor stressed to him that there was no guarantee. We’re not out of the woods, he put it. Remembering the restraints, David offered prayers.

“Hebrews 13, 'Remember those who are in chains, as if imprisoned with them, and those who are ill treated, since you are also in the body.'”

He felt cold at times and offered prayers for those also cold. When he felt short of breath, he prayed for the breathless, like he’s done with the Bartlesville organization, The Voice of the Martyrs, praying for Christians suffering worldwide. For those on the frontline.

Love

He’s home now. Linda, who went home without him and into quarantine for two weeks, still occupied a separate area of the house. “We touched with our eyes,” David said.

One thing he misses is worship and singing. Singing, like the army of Jehoshaphat, armed only with their voices. And Martin Luther’s Mighty Fortress: “Our helper He, amid the flood of mortal ills prevailing.”

He learned, without God, are we ever out of the woods?

“Psalm 118,” he said, quoting. “I will not die but live, and will proclaim what the Lord has done.”