"Call Batman"

The ramp won’t go down.

We pull into the parking area at the end of our driveway. I cut the engine, disconnect Elizabeth’s seatbelt, and push the button to open the side door and lower the ramp on our accessible van. The door opens, but the ramp doesn’t budge, blocking her way out. On occasion I’ve had to lower it manually, but this time the mechanism connecting the ramp to its electric motor will not release.

“Looks like you’ll be spending the night in the car.” My tongue-in-cheek attempt to put her at ease doesn’t work. It makes our situation worse. I begin checking the connections that keep the ramp in place. I can feel, see, and hear her anxiety bubbling up. She won’t quit talking. She fears the worst.

“There’s a switch under the back seat. Says here it will release the ramp.” She googled it, something I seldom think to do.

I quit trying to figure it out and begin to look for the switch. I look where she says it’s supposed to be. I don’t see it.

“Call the fire department!”

I’ve heard that one before. She has been stuck a couple times, once in a chair I couldn’t lift her out of, mostly because she wouldn’t trust me to hold her. And another on the floor when her legs gave way while she tried standing and turning to sit in her wheelchair. Our son-in-law and grandson came to the rescue.

“Your fantasy again—getting rescued by some ripped, young guy at the fire department.” More unappreciated humor, but this time with feeling. We’ve never had to call the fire department, but her impatience with me makes me feel weak and ineffective as her protector.

“I’m calling Batman!”

Now, that needs explaining. “Batman” is a short, thin, bald guy, about my age, in our neighborhood volunteer fire department. He has a reputation of being able to solve any problem or knowing who can. They call him Batman because his first and middle names are Bruce and Wayne. What’s more, he’s a friend in our church, and the number she’s calling is his wife’s.

I hear her leaving a message on the answering machine. She’s scared. Seeing her tears,I see she’s taking the situation we’re in far more seriously than I am. I’m looking at real fear.

A few minutes pass, and I try again to manually pull the ramp down. This time it releases. I have no idea why, but fear not, Batman is on the way! No, he does not drive a Batmobile.

Free at last after her 20-to-40-minute confinement, Elizabeth is down the ramp and into the house, leaving me to greet Bruce (Batman), who’s wearing his Batman T-shirt and asking if I need him to take her vitals. Such was the desperate plea for help interpreted over Mrs. Batman’s answering machine. Bruce and I search and finally find the ramp override switch, now not needed. It’s good to know where it is if the ramp ever gets stuck again.

As I write about this, the incident happened yesterday, so our discussion about how she felt—helpless—and what she thinks about my response—callous—dominates our conversation. I confess, I never thought the problem with the ramp would go unsolved into the night, and it didn’t. I lowered it manually. I just don’t know how it released when moments before, it wouldn’t. 

Was the ramp that wouldn’t go down the real source of our conflict? It was certainly a major factor, exposing her feelings and my reluctance to call for emergency help at a moment’s notice. Our emotions were in conflict, as were our opinions. She thought she knew the solution to our situation, while I wanted time to solve it. As it turned out neither of us can claim to be right. It just happened. She prayed it would work. I had faith it would work.

  Was Elizabeth’s illness and subsequent paralysis at fault? With no paralysis, there would be no accessible van and no ramp to get stuck. We call her illness the intruder that won’t leave, the squatter holding us prisoner in our own home. We’re tempted to see each other as the enemy, but it’s Elizabeth’s illness that enforces impossible and ever more restrictive rules for us to live by.

We read in Scripture there’s a source of our conflict still deeper than a stuck ramp, or a debilitating illness: “…our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world, and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms” (Ephesians 6:12). Later verses equip us for the struggle. We have truth, righteousness, peace, faith, and salvation, with the Word of God to expose the real source of conflict—the thoughts and attitudes of our heart. “Pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and requests,” the Apostle Paul tells us in verse 18.

Elizabeth and I could have gone for the jugular on this one. The desperate situation could have escalated way beyond a malfunctioning ramp to hurtful attacks on each other. God spared us.

He released the ramp, and he sent Batman. But I ask myself, why didn’t I recognize the spirits of chaos and destruction lurking around us ready to pounce at the first opportunity? Why wasn’t I weak enough to leave my anxiety with God in prayer so that His strength would prevail (2 Corinthians 11:10)?

“Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near” (Philippians 4:5).

Lord, you promise peace, which transcends all understanding, will guard my heart and mind in Christ Jesus. When situations of conflict arise, may my first response be to turn to you in prayer for protection.