God accepts us not for who we are,
  but for who He is.
He loves us not for what we may become,
  but for what He has always been.

Boom-doom

Hiding,
Roaming,
Stalking,
Salivating.
a growing taste for blood,
a spear poised to lance,
a sword in quivering hand,
a coward with false hopes
  for eternal debauchery
  in a heaven-veiled hell.
a misguided animal,
   a once innocent child
   trained in venom-soaked
   malevolence.
a boom-then doom
   boom-doom
   boom-doom
   boom-doom.
                                GW Yeatman

Who am I?

GW Yeatman 

  
Who am I that God would love me, 
And grasp my flailing hand,
Securing me to solid rock,
From desert's quickened sand?

Among a million squirming souls, 
In darkened hives of swarm,
That God would safely pluck me,  
Nestled in His arms?
   
Not centuries past or those to come,  
But this day, this hour, this time, 
Why would he rescue me as this?
To show His love-and gather mine. 
  

       

Solitary Bloom

Solitary Bloom
GW Yeatman


Every year an azalea behind my house blooms in glorious profusion.  Flowers shroud it like snow. A common green bush becomes a white resplendent wonder. Then one day petals wilt and fade. Flowers shrink into ugly tufts of brown detritus soon to return to earth's replenishing humus.

Yet one remains.  For weeks I gaze at it.  Day after day I look to see if the bloom still clings to its source of extended sustenance.  Yes, it is there.  Why, I wonder?  Why does this piece of lingering life still exist surrounded by last month’s dead ephemera?

Each year I wonder if this solitary azalea is trying to speak to me.  “Be like me,” it says.  “Stay strong, hang on.  Do not for a minute loosen your grip on the source of sustaining vitality.  Remain when all else has faded beyond hope. Simply, simply remain!”

Am I to bloom when I would rather fade?  Am I to remain when others wilt away? Should I strive to provide a touch of hope in a world of shrunken plans and dying dreams?  Am I to cling when others fall?

But only a fool would listen to a flower, I remember.  Then let that fool be me! Though my spirit has often wilted, let it bloom.  Though my mind has often faded, let it flower. Though my countenance lingers in browning lackluster, may I whiten and bask in brilliant sunlight.  May others see in me some sign of beauty, some petal of enduring value.

Then, someday I too must shrink and let go. And, having imparted a small petal of living hope, may I fall to enrich the soil for others to blossom en masse or simply in solitary bloom.

Give Up?

GW Yeatman


We have heard the advice a thousand times. If you have fallen get up. I you have failed start over. If you persist you will win. If you try harder you will succeed. Just "buck up" dude, hold on to that bull, ride him until he throws you. Then climb back on even if you are a gored, bleeding mess.

And, oh yes. The famous Winston Churchill speech, “Never Give Up.”

But may I suggest there are times to give up. A fatal disease treated with reasonable aggressiveness but now in the final phase of painful demise. A relationship having exhausted all reasonable means of peaceful restoration. A job well executed yet producing more strife than productivity. A peer group persistently drawing us away from the best that we can be. A venue that inflames our lust for things we cannot safely or morally obtain. A substance that addicts. An incessantly-performed yet worthy activity constantly stealing us from our spouse and family. A personality mask that can't even hide zits. A macho manliness like broken armor inadequately protecting a wounded inner child.

And finally the most important of all, giving up ourselves-our souls. This is the hard one. I am, after all me. I hurt and no one else feels my pain. I want what I want. I go where I want to go. I do what I wish to do. I am in control. I've done it “my way” and I am not about to change.

Might I suggest there is someone who loves you more than you love yourself, who accepts you when you have fallen, who loves you when success has failed to satisfy, when the bull of life has stomped you into the dust despite the antics of a full circus of rodeo clowns.

Let go. Fall where you are.  Succumb to your weakness. Admit that your repertoire of solutions has expired. You are exhausted in body, mind and spirit.

For He is a lifter, a sustainer, an encourager, a physician, a counselor, an advocate, a lover. He is your Father, but he is not a pathological enabler. He lifts only those who have lightened their heavy yokes. He sustains those who feed upon his sustenance. He encourages those who listen. He counsels those who share their burden. He heals those who no longer deny their disease.

There are no conditions on Christ's love or his advocacy. He forces himself on no one. God is no rapist. Your eyes must meet his and he will stare you into a romance beyond all romances. And he will never “leave you or forsake you.” *

Will your dreams be fulfilled? Maybe. Will all your hurts be cured? No. Will you ever again fall? Yes. Then why bother. Because you will find peace for you soul, rest for your body, stillness for your mind.

Bother! Bother because he bothers. His ultimate sacrifice was for you, do not turn him away. He will stand as your final advocate in the ultimate court of appeals and he has never lost a case.

* Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the Lord will personally go ahead of you. He will be with you; he will neither fail you nor abandon you. Deu.31:8

The Player Piano

                                                          

The Steinway leaned against a dusty, eggshell-colored wall.  Once its sounds pierced paper scrolls with pinpricks punched as if by angels’ harps.  But the old instrument must now endure earthly hands.  For long ago the heavenly realm had been sealed behind thin veneer doors glued irreparably shut.  Just a week before, a crisp twenty had snatched the scarred relic from retirement to bless a few more heart ties with bonds of Christian love.

Mom opened the bench lid just wide enough to extract a dog-eared hymnbook.  Opening it eye-level she began to rehearse her repertoire of twelve hymns.

Soon felt-tipped hammers would pound out chords of praise to tone-deaf ears, and raspy voices would respond in kind.  All this would meld into a dissonant soup of joyful noise.

My job was less musical-opening five drab folding chairs to secure the mechanical support of a handful of congregants.  Support of the financial type would be secured only by the hands of adults-a few crumpled bills and a handful of change.

A rap jostled the door.  Mom snatched her hands mid-note from the ivory to welcome the last attendee, the itinerate pastor.  Brother Frank, a towering mystical figure, had arrived.

 Several of his home groups would soon combine to form a local church built with funds from a strange investment called bonds.  Here an eight-year-old would listen in amazement as Brother Frank explained in great detail such big words as sanctification and tackle strange concepts like propitiation and substitutional grace.

But for now our home would be church.  Mom’s hands would play sweet melodies to my untrained ears.  Great hosts of angels would listen, I suppose with a giggle, to amateur praise of simple town folk who loved to lean on everlasting arms and spread the blessed assurance of his saving grace.

The old piano eventually retired but not before reverberating sheetrock walls with resounding praise.  And stanzas of peace were stamped into the songbook of a young boy’s heart.                                                                                                  

                                                                                                  GW Yeatman

                                                                                                        

The Tent Revival

                                                                     GW Yeatman

An army-green canvass loomed royally over umpteen rows of Samsonite, folding chairs.  Outward-leaning tent poles, giant ropes and steel rods secured her majesty in precarious reign.  Tons of fresh sawmill chips smothered an acre of Johnsongrass.  Enthroned upon a hastily erected stage sat a knotty, clear-lacquered pulpit. 

An evening breeze was yet to cool the Southern sun, and the air hung thick as London fog.  For every soul attending, a dozen mosquito-disciples turned out.  Bedecked in cotton print dresses, fan-waving ladies sat beside sweaty, tight-necked men.  The fabric temple bustled with attentive saints inhaling the sweet resin of loblolly pine.  Even the county fair could not top this grand venue.

Brother Pete Steelman had come to town for tent revival, and church folk from all over Oktibbeha County had marked this fateful night on their 1954 Security State Bank calendars.  I watched the entire spectacle through amazed, if not fully accurate, eyes of a nine-year-old boy.  The crowd rose to their feet and drawled a hymnbook load of  four-stanza classics.  Then a rotund man in full-suited preacher armor mounted the stage and began yelling some things from the Bible. 

It was time for my friend and me to try to redeem our long-suffering night.  Stevie and I perched atop a crude, splintery bench at the end of a long empty isle and chattered away the hours.  Before we knew it Amazing Grace was in full chorus and a burly man marched down the isle toward us. 

Oh my, we were in trouble.  What would he do?  We were sure to be reported to our parents to receive the full wrath of the Lord.  He stopped in front of us.  He did not shout like the preacher.  And he wasn't even mad!  We were receiving a scare commodity called mercy and even more of it was about to change our lives forever. 

“You boys need to go down and accept Jesus into your hearts,” the tender Goliath instructed. 

"Yes sir,” we agreed.  

We had believed his report.  Taking us by the hand he led us to a prayer tent just left of the stage.  Inside another gentle soul told us how we could save our own.

“Jesus Christ died for your sins,” an altar worker carefully explained, “If you accept him into your hearts, you can receive eternal life.” 

Though our young ears had shut out the din of the service, another sense now took full control.  The good news was so logical it must true, and only a fool could refuse so gentle a reprieve. And even grown church sinners were getting “saved” for all eternity.  Some of them I knew well.  One of them walked over to give me her good news.   I could see she was filled with joy.  This moment was to sear a lasting memory deeply within my heart.

Bending over, the lady made certain I could hear, “I accepted Jesus as my Savior son.”

"Me too Mama," I said, " I did too, so did I."

Trapped Firmly by the Foot of God

Trapped firmly by the foot of God,

Held painfully against a well-seated stone.

Squirming to free myself from His relentless grip,

Or nudge slightly to escape the jagged edges of torment.

At last giving up my fight expecting to be crushed,

To find, instead, the stone slowly beginning to slip.

Held firmly now by the hand of God,

Bruised and bleeding from my fight.

Exhausted I lie gently within His palm,

No struggle remains nor crushing pain,

But merely the gentle warmth of His embrace,

A healing touch, a soothing balm.

Held firmly by the plan of God.

With no power left within my frame.

Just battered, sickly and lean.

Wishing only His will for what remains.

Placed squarely within a Godly scheme.

As He rolls stony paths clean.

                                  

                                                GW Yeatman

Oscars Revenge

GW Yeatman


A young Bible college graduate eager to impress his parishioners enlisted the help of his younger brother Oscar to gather materials for a brilliant object lesson. This was his big mistake. 

The inaugural day came and the church overflowed with townspeople. The editor of the local rag peered pen-in-hand 
from the front pew to record hometown boy "done good." Permission was obtained from the elders for his cameraman 
to discretely "join" the choir as a duly robed member. 


Two bottles of water perched precariously on the lectern, registering with perfect cadence the Ricter of every organ note.  One bottle was transparent, sparkling with acoustically induced carbonated bubbles.  The other was translucent but stirred now to turbid opacity as if by God himself.  The congregation sat in awe as the dirty bottle grew darker. The sermon began with a solemn prayer followed by professorial elocution of a written text on purity. 

"We of Go-Forth Church have kept ourselves free from the pollution of sin. We are shining examples of clarity and offer potable solutions for a lost and thirsty world.  Most churches, however, are stained with the toxins of sin, stirred to full darkness by the powers of Satan."  

He summoned the congregants to come forward to taste from the "untainted" bottle, a symbol of their oath of purity.  One by one they came, sipped the holy substance and remained at the altar until every isle was clogged with the faithful.  

At this moment the first partaker's face turned pale.  Sweat beaded on his brow.  His mouth filled with a sour, burning liquid.  Suddenly a bright (photographer's) light flashed.  


Sister Quatran shouted, "I've seen the Lord."  


More faces blanched, mouths exploded with brown ejecta as dizzy heads found their way to the carpet. Half the audience climbed over falling bodies, running from the church in sheer terror.

The next day a photo was plastered over the front page of the local newspaper.  It showed the back of a clergyman standing with hands outstretched toward an assortment of disoriented congregants. 


The headlines read "Church Pukes the Devil out of Members." The entire town was in shock, the parishioners embarrassed, the pastor humiliated.  

Oscar and his chemistry class buddies, however, spent the day at the old swimming hole guffawing and snorting in hysterical delight.*


*This story is not intended to represent the behavior of any specific church or denomination, especially any such as may bear the name "Go-Forth."
........................................................................................................

My own fall from lofty "pulpiteering" was neither comical nor publicly humiliating.  But self realization of my condition did come as suddenly as a blinding light.  

All things in which I took pride had been taken, my nuclear family, my profession, my reputation, my health.  There remained only one direction to look, toward God.  


Upon reading the biblical story of two men praying in the temple, I experienced an epiphany.  One man lifted his eyes toward heaven and praised God for being more holy than the other.  The sinner had no such claim, but merely hung his head in shame acknowledging his sin and begging for mercy.


Suddenly I realized that for many years I had not been the person 
I claimed.  I was the braggart in the temple!  I crawled to the other side of the temple and begged God to forgive me of my greatest sin-pride.  And a great load was lifted.


"God Be Merciful to me a sinner."
                                   Luke 8: 13 KJV

The Aggregate

I am a composite, a conglomerate, a recipe of diverse consumption.  I am a loaf sliced by the sharp edge of family tradition, peer pressure, secular education, and church doctrine.  Media noise and oratorical argument cloud my mind.  I view Scripture through a lifetime lens of preconceived ideas.  Claiming verses for my own solace, I codify them into law, spew forth "great spiritual truths," and assemble dusty dogma.  In so doing I "prove" my doctrine correct, my creed certain, and my actions justified.  

Working in feeble power and programed intelligence 
I have attempted to quench my thirst from a polluted well. In the presence of an overflowing cornucopia, 
I pass up morsels that convict of sin or challenge to action.  Engorging savory delicacies of easy digestion, I slink into the pathetic couch of slothful inertia.  Such is the life of a spiritual couch potato-me.

How may I correct so severe a malady, to allow the Holy Spirit to impress upon on my mental clay the wondrous mysteries of a great and glorious God?  
How do I stand barefoot on firm, holy ground, lest 
I mire in quicksand of my own design? He alone holds the bowl of satiating sustenance, devoid of fat, mixed of divine ingredients in proper blend


Have I totally surrendered my motives to the will of God?  Or do I set out to prove a premise, delving 
into scripture just far enough to guarantee that I am correct.  Do I "tempt" the Lord by using Him for my convenience?  Have I convinced myself of great knowledge only to find that I remain a scrawny suckling of truth?  Or do I learn from the example of Christ and the apostles, avoiding any personal gain from its use.  I must examine myself very carefully. This is an insidious tendency, one that others may recognize while I remain blinded. 

GW Yeatman

Glory Descending

Glory Descending

G.Yeatman

Glory of God descending

Heralding Truth come nigh

Showering grace and mercy

Straight from His throne on high.

Beckoning forth His calling

Gathering those who would come

Loosening chains of bondage

Powers of Satan undone.

Redemption at last extended,

Pardon from sin's last grasp.

Going forth to victory,

Perils of darkness now past.

Why would He show such kindness?

Who could refuse His entreat?

Oh the sweet smell of victory

Quelling the stench of defeat.

The infinite joy of redemption.

How soon we forget its delight,

Taking back burdens once lifted,

Dwelling in fear and fright.

Rekindling the fire once within us.

Reclaiming the promises won

Accepting his blood-bought mercy.

Basking in Light of His Son.

May we never forget his goodness.

Falling prostrate before his feet,

Lifting praises of Hallelujah.

To banish the call of retreat.

That the standard go forth into battle.

His victory proclaimed through the land.

The conflict quelled by his Presence,

Crushed by the pow'r of his hand.

Forever his promise extended.

Eternity proffered to all

Who beckon his tender blessings,

Who heed his heralding call.

Oh, the perilous path of destruction.

Overcome by price of the Lamb.

His death on the cross of Calvary.

Resurrected, The Way of "I AM."

Remaining Memories

Wisps of soft air bathed me melting any hint of moistness from my skin.  A cool delight overcame my senses in spite of sweltering heat that hovered in midair.  I lay on grandmother’s quilted masterpiece, a pallet of pleasure spread upon a grey, covered porch.  Awakening, I lifted my head from its prone snooze to gaze upon the source of this peace, the whirring delight of an oscillating fan. All was well within my toddler soul.

This is my earliest memory.  I long for others to awaken old neurons, renewing the uncomplicated pleasures of early childhood.  But they remain silent overwhelmed by reams of data and thrown away like unlabeled floppy disks.

I had basked in cool fantasies of childhood amidst the heat of a warring world. Free of its gaping wounds, I would remain cradled in a cocoon of silk.  A chrysalis shielded my innocence with massive walls and rock-strong ramparts. Now mere wisps of an aromatic childhood seep out only to quickly disappear in the polluted air of reality.  Yet I drool from the ephemeral savor of those that remain.


Why are the early years of our bountiful nurture rarely remembered?  The joy we brought with a moon shaped smile, the gaga sounds we screeched to everyone’s delight, the unabashed trust in our own lush Eden.  What galactic dark hole has sucked these light rays from our view and sound waves beyond our hearing?  Whose data bank crashed erasing our photos of joy, our sound clips of cheer?

Why are dark moments displayed in permanent view like footprints in the drying goop of cement?  Many of us have been there. The swing of an errant baseball bat to the harsh disapproval of a high-decibel coach, the laser-glares piercing a girl under-dressed for the prom, the disappointing look of a parent when a C appears on a tear drenched report card.  

Why do deep scars rarely heal?  How could schoolyard bullies give us names adopted for life?  Why may short stature leave us shy of the mark or obesity weigh down slim hopes?  What mountains remain unclimbed with insecure crampons, talents hidden beneath massive boulders, New Worlds undiscovered by incorrect maps, and seas uncharted by broken sails? Shattered hopes and spoiled dreams like a dance card unpunched, a motion tabled, molded bread in a nailed-shut cupboard.

Adulthood does not protect us from such travail.  Shattered dreams are giant threads in the tapestry of our loom.  Broken promises are not mere wisps of dark cloud made radiant by a rising sun. They often coalesce, overcasting our skies and hiding any radiant orb from warming our maturing soul. 

Yet there is hope even now-eternal hope.  Hang on.  For within you lies an ever-golden dream awaiting release from the chains that bind.  Break them and stand tall!       
GW Yeatman                                      

                                                                 
                                                 

This Mortal Soul

This Mortal Soul

Reflections on James 1:4-5  

What soul doth stir within this mortal frame,

 a weathered shell in which a child remains,

 who with abandon sprang to conquer every foe,

 with but a righteous cloak of self, to show

 with pomp and pride the gain which he did view  
 as that of toil and merit now come due?

Scant prayer for wisdom ere he began  
 to march the wide, worn trails of greedy man. 

Then laden ships of spoils succumbed

 to raging squalls that had become

 a tempest in the turmoiled tide,

 crushed by gales of stormy pride,  

 afloat except for saving grace 

 in tumult of a turmoiled place. 

Now calmed are once tormented seas.

Solemn stills once urgent pleas.

From placid shores flotillas embark

 on pacific routes from the Master's chart

I pray that God may always be,

 my compass on vast and troubled seas.

                                         GW Yeatman

Zack and the Mystery Light

Bathed in moist, soothing darkness, Zack slowly returned to the peaceful state from which he was so abruptly jostled. A cadence of comfort once again gently bounced him from side to side in his crowded quarters. Taking a deep, sighing breath he drifted into an unimaginably dreamy world. Bathed in light, strange dreams began to fill his narrow view. For the first time he glimpsed the vast unknown that lay beyond his cramped confinement. Magical shapes moved in the light, fuzzy at first but clearing into mystical beings.

Pursing his lips, Zack uttered a bubbly, “ooh.”

Just ahead a mysterious shadow waded into a sparkling, flowing stream. It was as if Zack were suddenly there, beyond the warmth he had known, shivering and afraid. The glowing form of a man joined the shadow. A peaceful aura surrounded them. They approached, paused and then dipped together into the wetness below.

“Uh, oh,” Zack sputtered.

Suddenly the shapes returned, dripping, dripping. Zack was blinded by powerful light. A majestic voice shattered the eerie silence. Heavenly sounds and flying shapes burst into panoramic view.

An unbearable urge grew within him. He must find the glowing presence and disappear with it into this wondrous pool. He must see once more the soaring, singing, angelic visions. Striking the sides of his chamber Zack’s cadence quickly sharpened. He lurched forward, and a new world violently burst into view. The shivering cold returned. Blinding light reappeared, moving shapes bent over him grabbing all his parts. He punched and kicked, but there was no chamber to receive their blows.

“What is he called?” a gruff voice shouted in the distance.

Zack heard the soft reply of a gentle lady, but could not understand. It was obvious, however, the man did not approve.

“That is not his name,” his voice returned, “None of your fathers has used that name.”

“Put me back in my cell,” Zack tried to scream, but no one seemed to hear. Zack lay confused knowing neither his place nor his identity. Nor would he understand what happened next for, like Zack, the next visitor could not speak.

Stooping down, an old man scratched a slate for the others to see, “It is as Elizabeth has said,” he wrote, “His name is John.”

John snuggled into his new swaddled chamber, warm and dry. His pulse returned from its quickened beat. He was where he should be. He would never again hear his old name. And someday, someday, he would kick again and bathe in splendor with the Wondrous Light.

His Royal View

High on a hill, such vantage.
A commanding view
  were it to be seen.
        
A cooling breeze.
   were it to be felt,
    were it to be breathed
     were it not for gravity-yanks
      and voltage-surged nerves.

Yet through eye-filled blood cakes.
  he saw your tears.
Through the roar of the crowd
  he heard your adoration.
Amidst the weight of the world
  he bore your burden.
And against all odds.
  He lifted your sins.

A soldier from his knees proclaimed,
  “Surely this was the Son of God.”
                               G. Yeatman

 

They Called it Christmas

Gentry Yeatman

There was a place of quiet peace, a time of unfettered joy, a season of simple pleasure. A clapboard sanctuary surrounded me, yet I was free. Free to savor the season of God’s loving incarnate grace. They called it Christmas.

Memories are fuzzy now. They remain as mere wisps of scenes long past. They are in part solid reality indelibly inscribed in the granite of time. Yet, in part they are but the youthful fantasy of a small southern lad.

A half-century old story fades with the ink of time.

Green boughs sparkled with hanging slivers of silver. Plastic snow covered the hardwood ground below. A soft glow rippled from a rusty gas heater. A pint-sized boy lifted a heavy-laden limb and peered below with mystical anticipation. The day had finally arrived; the red clad package would soon render its contents into eager hands.

Like a wild animal tearing into its prey I soon disemboweled the cardboard treasure chest dumping its contents with a bouncing thud. My eyes enlarged. A six-inch Deere tractor lay below. Many hours passed while rubber plows tilled wooden gardens accompanied by the holiday tune of “vrooom.” And no batteries were required.

Many children once crawled and toddled in this magical land. I do not know who rewrote the scene; I do not know to what distant shores it has retreated. I only know that scant memories of precious times remain and the images seared deeply in my soul are not complex. They called it Christmas.

A young doctor's plan to streamline US federal medical care
by Gentry Yeatman

Part 1. Of Coughing Kids and Axle Grease

It was the mid 1970's. I was in charge of the Pediatrics Department at a hospital providing care for a large Georgia military base. It was during the Vietnam War and the draft was still in effect. My department staff was made up doctors whose MD training took place in civilian facilities. The Uniformed Services Medical School had not been established, so there was no such thing as a military medical degree. Several of my doctors had voluntarily come into the military service to serve for two years. This way they could plan their career rather than risk being drafted just as they were beginning to set up practice or to continue schooling to become highly trained child specialists in various areas.

I had just come from a large military teaching hospital at Denver with strong ties with the University of Colorado Medical Center. It is there that I had received my pediatric training and would later return to specialize in adolescent medicine. It had an aging facility but was staffed with pediatricians all of specialties, heart, kidney, cancer and blood diseases, lung, neonatal, teen and so on. Our newborn doctor would soon become the preeminent author of an important textbook still in use. Our teen doctor was to become the executive director of the American Academy of Pediatrics. If our teaching center couldn't produce a certain expertise we could always “borrow” from the U. of Colorado. For instance the team who had discovered “The Battered Baby Syndrome.” (No one 'prior to their publication in the 1960's believed that a parent could possibly hurt a child). Fitzsimons Army Medical Center, in my estimation, ran like a finely tuned machine caring for the ill and training young doctors to head up clinical departments in community hospitals such as Martin Army Hospital, Ft. Benning, GA.

So there I was, a young whippersnapper determined to whip a community hospital's childcare into a well oiled machine. Luckily they threw me into a rusty pit of coughing kids that needed thick axle grease! Just my kind of challenge in those days, and I was arrogant enough to set out to do just that. By golly I was there to impose my military values on civilian doctors. Together we set out to wipe noses! But we would first need to retrain an entire military post population from the lowest E-1 to the commanding general. All we needed was a plan.

Hundred of kids poured into our clinic on a daily basis. It seems that all children became ill at night and at times every night. Most parents were young and inexperienced. Let's put it this way, many of the mothers were just out of their own childhood. Their husbands were trained to stick bayonets into Viet Cong, but they would faint at the sign of baby poop. They did, however, know their way to the pediatric clinic. They thought by being there at the crack of dawn they may make it home before dark.

Such was my inheritance. And to think I actually asked to be sent to this place!

One “special”morning we arrived at our usual wall-to-wall flu factory. Six pediatricians, a nurse, an LPN and a two receptionists manned their battle stations. The RN made her usual rounds through the waiting room to attempt to triage the thirty-five sick children away from the thirty-five well ones. This potentially disastrous day revealed a child who should have been in an emergency room. The one of a hundred who was dying before our eyes. She grabbed his flaccid little body and headed straight to the treatment room! He lived. By the skin of his teeth or the seat of his pants or the grace of God or something. But in spite of having been far too long in the wrong place two of our best doctors stabilized him and admitted him to the hospital.

Let's see now, if my math serves me correctly we now have four doctors for a 99 patients and our nurse is tied up for a while.

A few months later our typical clinic scenario looked something like this. Two receptionists opened the clinic, all ten patients were checked in. Five pediatricians went to their office and began to see five patients. Two of the five doctors confirmed or corrected tentatively assigned diagnoses,treated their patients and called two more patients from the waiting area. A third doctor quickly diagnosed a classic rash. The fourth doctor began a thirty-minute examination of a child with a complex medical problem. The fifth doctor examined a child's ears, wrote a prescription, and sent the child on his way home. A sixth doctor answered the phone.

“Hello this is Dr. Alford, may I help you.”

There was short pause on the other end of the line.

“Am I really talking to a doctor?”

They talked for a short while and he asked, “How soon can you be here?”

I walked into the waiting room. There were now about seven patients and four of them knew exactly which doctor they would see and why they needed to see her.

And on this “special” day I have time to invite a gentleman into my office. He is with the local newspaper. He wants to know how we turned a infamous factory into a children's medical clinic?

And I hope by now that you would like to know as well.

Stay tuned to Part 2- The Plan

Rather than attempt to write our methods and results in story form, I decided to post a reference for the article we published.  http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/6784020