Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Ex-cop now saves lives as a minister - Seattle P-I
... "These were guys who put their hands on a problem, and they did something about it," Grazier said. He wanted some of that. Wanted to slap on the badge and the gun and get something done. "There was nothing bad going to happen when I was on the street," he said, imitating his early cop swagger.
Except it did, and mostly what it did was make him angry with God.
"I used to drive God around in the back of my patrol car," he said. "And I'd drag Him out at the scene and say, 'Look what You've created.' "
His years as a cop accrued him his share of traumatic stress. He responded the day a student fell 11 stories from a dorm room balcony. He was there when another student plunged down an elevator shaft, there when a student shot and killed a pathology professor in the medical school. More than once he looked down the barrel of a gun and feared he would die.
...
"I find God in the darkness, in the paradox, in irony," he said.
He recalls another early, difficult case.
The man was horribly burned, and the smell of death hung over the room. The patient's wife crouched over her grief in the corner, as though afraid to approach her husband.
Another family member had requested a baptism for the man, but the wife didn't want it, didn't think her husband would have wanted it. She snapped at Grazier for offering.
Grazier was confused about his role. He wondered what to do. He cursed God for stranding him in this situation.
Gently, he asked her permission to say a blessing instead. She nodded. She reached when Grazier extended his hand.
As he spoke to the dying man, the wife came to her husband's side. She laid her hand on his stomach, the only exposed part of his bandage-swaddled body. She began to cry and her tears fell against his skin.
At that moment, it was as though her tears were the baptismal water, Grazier said.
"Son of a bitch," he said to God. "You snuck up on me."
... "These were guys who put their hands on a problem, and they did something about it," Grazier said. He wanted some of that. Wanted to slap on the badge and the gun and get something done. "There was nothing bad going to happen when I was on the street," he said, imitating his early cop swagger.
Except it did, and mostly what it did was make him angry with God.
"I used to drive God around in the back of my patrol car," he said. "And I'd drag Him out at the scene and say, 'Look what You've created.' "
His years as a cop accrued him his share of traumatic stress. He responded the day a student fell 11 stories from a dorm room balcony. He was there when another student plunged down an elevator shaft, there when a student shot and killed a pathology professor in the medical school. More than once he looked down the barrel of a gun and feared he would die.
...
"I find God in the darkness, in the paradox, in irony," he said.
He recalls another early, difficult case.
The man was horribly burned, and the smell of death hung over the room. The patient's wife crouched over her grief in the corner, as though afraid to approach her husband.
Another family member had requested a baptism for the man, but the wife didn't want it, didn't think her husband would have wanted it. She snapped at Grazier for offering.
Grazier was confused about his role. He wondered what to do. He cursed God for stranding him in this situation.
Gently, he asked her permission to say a blessing instead. She nodded. She reached when Grazier extended his hand.
As he spoke to the dying man, the wife came to her husband's side. She laid her hand on his stomach, the only exposed part of his bandage-swaddled body. She began to cry and her tears fell against his skin.
At that moment, it was as though her tears were the baptismal water, Grazier said.
"Son of a bitch," he said to God. "You snuck up on me."
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