Standing in the Gap by Eden Duncan Gilbreath
There is a phrase in Scripture that has always stayed with me: “stand in the gap.” It describes someone willing to step into danger, so another does not have to. When I look back on one defining night of my childhood, that is exactly what I see.
“And I sought for a man among them, that should make up the hedge, and stand in the gap before me for the land…”
— Ezekiel 22:30 (KJV)
I believe we all have a series of stories that define our lives. Stories that you can hear and get an idea about the person, how they grew up, etc. This is one of those stories for me. Let’s set the stage.
Sunday evening. Every Sunday evening my brother and I were parked in front of the television to watch the Wonderful World of Disney. My brother and I were children of the seventies, this meant we had just one chance to see the program, it wasn’t “streamed” and it was not available on DVD, or VHS. None of those things were available yet. So, catching the program as it aired was your only chance.
Thinking back there was a certain value in that. Before everyone had their phones, their laptops and their tablets - when a program or movie was on the television, typically the only one in the house, it was an event shared by all the members of the family. Laughing together, crying together and pointing out something spotted in an episode or movie created shared experiences.
My family loved the A-team, Buck Rogers, Night Rider, B.J. and the Bear, Battlestar Galactica, The Waltons, Little House on the Prairie and The Wonderful World of Disney. The Wonderful World of Disney according to internet sources ran for decades beginning in the 1950’s.
Mother said it was my favorite show, whether the episode featured an animated film, a series of cartoons, a live action flick or a documentary I was enthralled. One particular Sunday, eight-year-old me, had very heavy eyelids.
I was restless when I was awake, I went from the bathroom to the fridge to get a drink of water, back to the couch to struggle to stay awake and so on. The cycle continued. At some point in the night, I had developed a fever and was quite uncomfortable with pain in my stomach.
My parents drove me to Denver Children’s Hospital. I remember my Daddy driving while my Mama held me and placed her hand on the cold glass window of the truck and placed it on my forehead. Her hand to the window, to my forehead and back. Her discomfort to alleviate mine.
I remember laying on a cold exam table in the E.R. I remember a doctor pressing hard all around my stomach and fighting the urge to cry out. At one point the doctor said he didn’t realize that I was still in pain; to be fair I have a high pain tolerance. The doctor declared I had the flu and to take me home and put me in a bath to lower my fever.
My parents insisted that I did not have the flu. My mother said, “I have seen her with the flu before, this is not how she behaves with the flu,” as the discussion ensued my mother’s surgeon Dr. Peshaw came past the door.
He spotted my mother and said, “Mrs. Duncan, what are you doing here?” My mother explained my condition and strange behavior. Her surgeon gently touched my stomach in a couple of places and said to the nurse, “She has an enlarged appendix that needs to be removed. Wake the orderlies.”
The nurse informed the doctor that the orderlies would be awake soon. This is when the surgeon shouted that this was an emergency and she needed to wake them immediately. There must have been a test that confirmed the diagnosis.
My father had his appendix removed at age 31, he was also a corpsman and the one my brother and I preferred to dress our skinned knees as he would make a band aid with surgical tape and gauze—like a “real wound.” I think it was Daddy who explained more about what was going on.
And then the strangest thing happened. My parents asked me if I would like to proceed with surgery. I asked what the alternative was and they explained that likely my appendix would burst and then I would have surgery and even more antibiotics. I let them know that I was quite anxious to proceed.
Next, I was being wheeled to surgery after being given a sedative, the nurses around the gurney discussed how surprising it was I was not yet asleep. They placed a mask on me and asked me to count backwards from 100. 100, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 62, 37, 81, 12….
I awoke in a room alone. Later I found how this displeased my mother, how she wanted to be there when I awoke.
Once home my mother would set me in the front yard in my flannel night gown on a lawn chair so that I would get sunshine. And I was fed homemade soup. Before I knew it, I was back at school with a story to tell. Later my pediatrician Dr. Rich thanked my mother for holding her ground and told her that she “probably saved my life.”
They say I was not fearful when facing surgery. They tell how I walked twice as much as the nurses asked me to and never complained. They speak of grit and cheerfulness in the face of adversity.
But when I think about that night, I do not see bravery. I see my Daddy calmly driving his family to the hospital — steady and reliable. I see my mother’s hand on the cold glass and then on my forehead. I see two parents insisting we would not be leaving because I was not acting normally.
What I see now are parents who stood in the gap for me. And because they always did, I felt safe, loved, and respected.
Eden has always loved to draw and to write. With degrees in fine arts and English, she explored both passions as a graphic designer, painter, teacher, and writer. She once owned her own design studio, enjoyed a solo art exhibit, and later began writing for her local paper—something she first did decades earlier to promote the arts. She also helped to create a drawing group that has thrived for more than twenty years and recently chaired a national art show. Yet Eden counts her greatest joy as being a child of God, blessed with family, friends, and the call to love people well.