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Several years ago while working as a young court stenographer I encountered a lawsuit that was most strange. A young man around thirty had had his right leg amputated due to some injury or illness that now escapes me. He filed suit against the research hospital for destroying his amputated appendage. After the pathological studies had been completed, the severed limb was incinerated with the other medical waste, as you would expect.
His suit alleged that the doctors and the hospital had willfully and wantonly disregarded his instructions and had destroyed the severed leg over his objection. He wanted to keep it! And although I was trained to show no emotion during the taking of testimony, I’m positive my mouth was agape in disbelief. My mind was racing ahead trying to conjecture some plausible reason why a man would want to keep something so diseased and purulent. What did he plan to do with it….make an umbrella stand?
Upon cross examination he contended that the leg was HIS, amputated or not. It was his personal, private property and he believed his rights had been violated. The questioning went on for two or three hours, with various objections raised as to relevance. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, defense counsel asked his final question, got his final answer, and we all packed our brief cases and parted ways.
After retching at the curb, I made my way back to the office where I conveyed the high points of the story to my boss, a more senior court reporter. He howled in laughter, not only about the situation, but my reaction to it. Then he pointed out something that had not occurred to me. This “sicko” had actually convinced some wide-eyed young attorney to take the case! After the initial shock wore off and my stomach settled, it became an office joke and a story that was told time and again whenever a novice court reporter was hired.
Ten years later, having sat through hundreds of off-the-wall cases, I grew tired of the whole “justice” system. A court reporter friend who realized I was suffering occupational burn-out put me in contact with a lawyer who had recently lost his paralegal. I said goodbye to the stress of pounding a stenographic machine at 250 wpm and said hello to a quieter, fringe-benefited life…or so I thought.
It wasn’t long until the 9:00 to 5:00 monotonal droning of the receptionist was on my nerves. The office manager, who I’m certain received her training at Stalag 19, delighted in such silly commands as “walk down the hall on the right, return on the left”,…and other nonsensical arbitrary rules of her own making. Two years was enough, and when I got a chance to jump ship I did…. unfortunately, onto another wacky vessel.
This time I got into a situation where a part-timer believed she was about to be promoted to a full-time position, and I’m sure she felt the rug had been jerked out from under her when they hired me. I had worked for this particular attorney before I went to court reporting school, so it was really just a re-pairing of an old partnership. She didn’t see it that way.
She was hateful, vindictive and barely spoke. She reluctantly handed over the files, the Rolodex, and the burgundy tape dispenser and matching stapler assigned to that station. There was also a little orange plastic box that was sealed. I didn’t know what it was, but I was QUITE certain it was mine, so I tucked it as far back into my desk as I could. I found myself hoarding pens, staples, note pads, White-Out®…whatever she seemed to keep hidden from me. I felt persecuted and my nerves were raw. She looked over my shoulder, listened to my phone conversations, went through my trash and otherwise made my life miserable. About that time the guy with the amputated leg was looking pretty good.
Eventually my “thorn in the flesh” moved on to another job and a lady was hired who is to this day my best friend. One day seven years later while preparing to take a vacation, I decided to clean out my desk to make sure the office staff would have no trouble making sense of the files in my absence. I was amazed to see that the desk was bursting with ink pens (long dried up), notepads yellowed with age, and enough tape and staples to bind several full-length novels. No wonder there was no room in my desk! Then I reached way back in the back of the desk and pulled out that little orange box. I had forgotten about it. I still didn’t know what it was, so I carefully broke the seal and opened it. I felt ridiculous when I looked inside and found break-off tabs from printer cartridges, spent typewriter correction tape, and twenty or so ink pen caps. JUNK! Just junk. I had to chuckle. And all that time I had squirreled it away as MINE. I tossed out the trash and felt strangely content and free.
With the 4th of July around the corner, it’s easy to think of “independence” strictly in the political sense of gaining freedom from tyranny. But I think independence is also freedom from the junk of this life …the stuff we hold on to and don’t even know why.
Although our amputee friend was an extreme example, we all want to hold onto things. It could be something as simple as the remnants of things once useful or it could be heartaches from the past, old grudges, and old wounds. We can be free of the stuff that crowds our minds and hearts and make room for the blessings of God. Jesus has offered a great deal…our filthy, putrid, worthless junk for a robe of righteousness. Good trade…and free at last.
Happy Independence Day!!
Janice Crow
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Written: 07/01/2007 
Author: SGN
Category:
Janice Crow
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