Dear Blessed Earth friends and family,

 

As a third year medical student, I learned a lesson about what happens when things go missing.  We were starting our clinical rotations, and six of us stood around an illuminated X-ray screen, ready for our first lesson in radiology. While we stared at the front and side views of the chest X-ray, a radiologist asked us if we saw anything amiss.

 

We were quiet.

 

"Well, if you don't see anything wrong, does anyone care to comment on what's right?"

 

Still more quiet.

 

"Okay, let's start with the basics. Who can tell me the gender of the patient?"

 

And so he began teaching us the fundamentals of reading an X-ray. It was a she, twenty to forty years of age. The diaphragms were normal, the heart was not enlarged. No infections could be seen in the lungs. We couldn't see any tumors. After half an hour of tutelage, we were really getting the hang of radiology.

 

Then our professor began with some less obvious questions.

 

"Has she ever had chest trauma?"

 

Vacant stares.

 

"Does she have a partially collapsed lung?"

 

Whoops, forgot to look for that.  We were asked to consider more subtle matters.

 

"Is she right or left handed? What kind of work does she do?"

 

I guess there was a reason this guy was in charge of the department. We went round and round until we'd looked at every single structure multiple times.  Finally, the X-ray held no secrets.

 

"Is there anything else, or did we get it all?" the radiologist asked.

 

An hour's worth of looking had confirmed what our textbooks said was the hardest kind of X-ray to be certain of: a normal one. Then our mentor said, "This film was read by the doctor in charge of the emergency department last night-and the radiology resident on call last night and the one this morning-and they agreed with you. But I called the patient to tell her I think she has cancer."

 

We went back to looking again, but no matter how hard we tried we couldn't spot anything on the film that didn't belong.

 

"I'll give you a hint," he said. "It's not something there but something missing that bothers me."

 

Even with this clue, we came up blank. We pointed to one thing after another, but each time the radiologist would shake his head no. Finally, he asked, "Where is the left clavicle?"  Where was the left clavicle?

 

It had been eaten away by cancer.

 

The take-home point? Something that's missing is hard to see.

What's missing from our lives is a rhythm that has been established for thousands upon thousands of years, a rhythm of stopping all commerce and work one day out of seven. What's missing is a day of rest when we make time to hear the voice of God.

  

September is a season of new beginnings.  I pray that you and your family will talk about how you can start keeping a weekly day of holy rest.  Discuss what you will--and will not--do on your "Stop Day."  Prepare for rest by cleaning the house and getting chores done the day before.  On Sabbath eve, go to bed knowing that God has got your back covered.  Then wake up in the peace that surpasses all understanding.

 

 

Your brother in Christ,