The Mystery Walking Stick
One of my favourite ways of spending an afternoon was driving down to the Duck and Doolittle Teagarden. A thirty-minute drive from our house along the scenic country road with the winding river and craggy mountain backdrop. The Duck and Doolittle served a wonderful Devonshire tea. That alone was worth the drive. They displayed a collection of homemade jams and other gourmet edibles on shelves. To the left of the fireplace were big comfortable reading chairs and a long wall that was dedicated to books. Various other treasures laced the interior of the wooden cabin. Outside in open pens and roaming freely, were various kinds of farm animals. There were ducks and chickens, which my children could hand feed, and a few rabbits to cuddle. Also, a pony to ride which delighted the children no end and kept them happily entertained.
It was on one of these afternoons browsing in the bric-a-brac section, an impressive brass duck headed walking stick caught my attention. I looked at the price tag and weighed it up against my budget and my impulse to buy.
I mulled over my decision with the aid of the Duck and Doolittle’s signature Devonshire tea. You see I was trying to decide if it was appropriate for me to give this walking stick as a gift to Clive, a patient of mine.
I had been working in an upmarket Drug and Alcohol Rehabilitation Centre. Clive was one of my patients. A man whose battle with alcohol had started, as is often the case, with a glass of wine to relax after a long day. His high-powered position at the forefront of intense political and legal debates was extremely stressful. With not enough hours in the day, he would have to take work home with him. The nights grew longer and so did the line-up of wine bottles. He mentioned he remembered the significant switch, when he started to drink whiskey to reduce the number of bottles lined up as he moved into that tipping point of alcoholism. We have a saying in Drug and Alcohol Treatment Centres. “At first the man takes a drink, and then the drink takes a drink, and then finally the drink takes the man.”
He had, as many a driven man does, given himself to his work to fill an emptiness, that neither work nor booze can permanently fill. He had wrestled with himself enough and seeking help was, a major step forward and the one that caused our paths to cross. During general conversation he made mention of how he collected interesting walking sticks. We chatted easily and Clive opened up about his depression, his hopelessness and how he had a void in him. He told me about other sad life events that plagued him. I asked if he was a man of faith. He was an atheist. We talked more and I shared my faith journey. His story touched me. I knew how the hard the road to recovery would be. A tough one. I thought the walking stick, as a gift, could serve as a reminder to stay sober.
Now this is where my real struggle on that day lay. Nurses do not usually give gifts to their patients and the appropriateness of the action needed to be seriously considered. Finally, I resolved my conflict with this line of reasoning. It was a long way to get to the Tea Garden and there was only one walking stick available. As I liked it so much, I decided I would buy it and then make it a matter of prayer. With this open-ended prayer management plan, I bought the walking stick, rounded up the kids, packed all goods and kids into the car and headed home.
What a shock when we arrived home and the walking stick was nowhere to be found. We all confirmed the walking stick had been loaded into the car and somehow it had vanished into thin air. I was really upset, and I could not figure out how it could have disappeared. Later I settled myself with the thought that my prayer was answered, and that Clive would not be getting the gift after all. This brought me to another conclusion. To remember to pray for him would be much better than any gift I could physically give him. The hospital discharged Clive within the week, and he was none the wiser about the walking stick. I did however pray for him.
About three weeks later, as I was mulling over how the walking stick had disappeared, I prayed again. “Lord, where is the brass duck headed walking stick that went missing. If it wasn’t meant for Clive, what about me? I would really love it back. You know where it is Lord.” That was in the morning. An hour or so later, I stopped in at the small general store on the main street to get some milk. I was standing at the counter and saw in the corner, as plain as day, the walking stick shining brightly. I said, “Hey Andy, tell me about that walking stick in the corner because it’s mine!”
“Oh,” he said and handed it to me. “About three weeks ago a woman came into the store and asked if anyone had lost this walking stick. I told her no one had, so she went off and took it with her. However, she came back in this morning and said she thought it would be best if she left it here in case someone came looking for it.” That was the exact morning I had prayed for its return.
Gods’ direction was clear and His timing perfect. Both of those where a comfort to me especially when I arrived at work that evening. I learnt Clive had been found dead on his knees next to his bed. The family said it looked as if he had been praying. My belief is, on his knees he encountered the love of God. He found that place at the foot of the cross, where we lay our burdens down. I have an expectation he is now singing “Amazing Grace” for all eternity.
Ann’s Story