“You’ve got blood clots in your lungs—a lot of them,” the doctor said as Lori sat beside me in the Emergency Room.

Fortunately, Lori didn’t understand exactly what that meant at the time. Unfortunately, I did. As a detective, I’d investigated numerous deaths where people never even made it to the ER to get that diagnosis. Pulmonary Embolisms (blood clots in the lungs) are often fast killers. I was in trouble and knew it.

The medical team began a precession of needles, tubes, and monitors (which always seemed to be taped to the hairiest parts of my chest, but I digress), and they whisked me off to ICU. Swell. After twenty-four-years in law enforcement, I expected I might get bullets in the lungs someday, but blood clots were never on the radar. That’s when Morty showed up.

My own mortality—better known to me now as “Morty”—forced his way into my hospital room and my head that night. Between the Marines, police work, and my own reckless youth, I’ve had an overabundance of opportunities to be dispatched into the netherworld and find it rather miraculous that I hadn’t been before this. I’d survived each incident and laughed off as no big deal. I’d treated Morty in the past like the crazy relative you only see every couple of years at family reunions. You can be cordial, say “hello”, then move on to the finger foods. No deep chats or understanding of who he is or what he wants. No reconciling or acknowledging his place in your life. But Morty will only be ignored for so long.

Lying on the gurney wondering if or when one of the blood clots might break loose, I couldn’t just blow off Morty any longer. I couldn’t remain in blissful denial of the reality of all mankind—we each have a timestamp on our lives with a firm expiration date.

Hebrews 9:27 says, “Just as man is destined to die once, and after that to face judgment, so Christ was sacrificed once to take away the sins of many people.” We can’t dodge destiny or cheat death.

Morty’s visitation that night forced me to examine if I really believe what I say I believe. Are the promises of God true, or just a comforting myth? (If they be myth, there’s no real comfort in them.) Jesus says, “I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one can snatch them out of my hand” and “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” A flood of other scriptures poured into my mind. I recounted God’s miracles in the Bible and in my own life, how He’s shown himself good and faithful in so many ways to me and my family—well beyond anything I deserved. After some wrestling with Morty and my own weaknesses and fears, I concluded that regardless of what would happen that night—if Morty and I held hands and skipped into Eternity together or if I recovered and got well—I was going to rest in God’s hands and take His promises at face value. The peace that followed was nothing short of amazing and sustained me through the rest of the hospital stay and into my recovery.

To be fair, in the time since the hospital stay, I’ve really come to appreciate Morty and what he can teach us. His ever-looming presence and occasional visits can help reorient our lives. Knowing that our days on Earth are numbered and short keeps us focused on what’s important—God, family, and relationships. The work I’ve done, cases I’ve investigated, books I’ve written will all soon be forgotten and account for little in the end. Not that we don’t live our lives and strive to do our best at our job and in life. We should honor God with everything we do and do it with excellence (Colossians 3:23). It’s simply about perspective. What is lasting and what isn’t. What will matter ten thousand years from now and what won’t, and prioritizing life accordingly. Morty has helped provide some clarity for me on that.

James 4:14 says, “Yet you do not know what your life will be like tomorrow. You are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away.”

My hope and prayer is that the vapor trail of my life amounts to much more than just a noxious mix of gases, but might rather serve as a finger pointing to the One who holds all life in His hands. Thank you, Morty.

In September of 2010, with twenty-three years of police work tucked under my gun belt, I retired from my department and headed into a new chapter of my life, or so I thought. I’d spent thirteen years in the Homicide and Violent Crimes Unit and was mentally, physically, and spiritually exhausted. Like all serious decisions, I did not enter into it lightly. Lori and I put much prayer and consideration into it. I’d carefully plotted out the myriad of job opportunities available. Topping the list was writing full-time, both books and articles. I hoped to focus on my fiction line and develop my craft. I had several potential book contracts on the table, some freelance writing possibilities, and various teaching and speaking engagements lined up. I was also scheduled to work part-time, maybe fifteen hours a week, in a newly developed Cold Case Unit, reviewing Cold Case Homicides at my leisure. I had some teaching prospects out of the country with the State Department. It all seemed so right. I truly felt I was ready to walk away from fulltime law enforcement and transition into a new phase of my life.

A few months into my new gig, though, I got the sense that MY plan for where I was going and God’s might not be the same thing. One by one every item on my list was systematically wiped away, and I was left wondering what in the world God was doing. Both Lori and I felt the clear call for me to retire and head in this direction, but my plan was crumbling. Proverbs 19:21 became a reality to me. “Many are the plans in a man’s heart, but it is the LORD’s purpose that prevails.”

As the emotional and financial realities were setting in, I also realized another small glitch in my master blueprint—I was still a cop at heart and not inclined to sit at home all day writing. The warrior nature instilled in the Marines and nurtured on the streets wasn’t quite ready to take a holiday. One night I found myself doing an extra lap around a pharmacy parking lot when I saw a suspicious person. I’d always slow down and rubberneck as I passed traffic stops to make sure the officer was safe, ready to pounce if he wasn’t. I was constantly scanning crowds for any potential threats. My cop alarms wouldn’t and couldn’t shut off. I’ve concluded that I’m a ruined soul, a Sheepdog as author Dave Grossman so accurately labeled it. His essay Sheep, Wolves, and Sheepdogs explains in an interesting way the mindset and attitudes of police officers and soldiers, people who feel it’s their duty and calling to protect others. I had to accept the fact that being a cop (Sheepdog) is exactly how God made me and is His primary calling for my life.

So, several months ago I started a full-time position with a smaller agency in our county. Now, with the crystal clarity of hindsight, I can see that God placed me exactly where He wanted me, even though I went there kicking and screaming. I love my job, and a whole new world of law enforcement has opened up to me. I’ve met many new brothers and sisters, and God has blessed me with countless opportunities to serve Him in my new role.

Writing and speaking are still important to me, and I seek to be faithful in that area as well. I’m working on several books and articles now, and I just started this blog, so we’ll see where all this goes. But first and foremost, I’m an old Sheepdog, and that’s not likely to change anytime soon. I hope you enjoy my new blog.

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