What Floor?
Today on my way to a meeting down town I had the unexpected and unique experience of getting stuck in an elevator. This event was nothing like what you might expect from seeing similar scenes on TV. There were no pregnant women. There were no flamboyant characters. There were no interesting characters with chips and hot sauce. There were no attractive females. It was just me in an empty elevator trying to make it to the 9th floor when a sudden loud clang brought things to a screeching halt between 5 and 6. I waited a few minutes to see if things might correct themselves, but when they did not I actually used the little telephone to call for assistance. The young man who answered asked me to try a few things to get the elevator going, but when they failed he agreed to call building maintenance and let them try before they called emergency personnel. After another 10 minutes or so I heard a voice above me announcing help had arrived.
"You comfortable in there?" the voice shouted down.
"Sure," I answered, at first thinking that maybe true comfort was a stretch. But at that point, I was actually okay. I was two under after 11 holes in the golf game on my phone and other than the nagging wish that I had gone to the bathroom before I got on this elevator, I was doing fine.
"Well, I don't think I can get you out right now. I'll try to go up to the tower and operate the car manually. If the door opens, don't get out unless it is at floor level. If it opens between floors and you try to get out it could cut you in half, okay?"
"Got it," I hollered back.
"You're not nervous or anything are you?"
"Not unless you are," I answered believing it. Still, on the 12th hole I shot a triple bogey as I was distracted by thoughts related to jumping at the exact right moment in the event of an elevator free-fall. I think, however, that I remember seeing somewhere that such an idea is a myth.
Finally, after another 15 or 20 minutes the elevator beeped and began moving downward and then stopped on the 5th floor. Then it beeped and went up again and down again a few more times before it finally stopped on the 6th floor. I got out and went to another elevator and attended my late meeting and then took an elevator to the lobby to leave. I shared this ride with a few guys from building maintenance who were discussing the whole matter. I laughed and thanked them for getting me out.
"That was you?" they asked, quite surprised.
"Yeah."
"Well, you picked a great time to get stuck. We were downstairs talking to the elevator repairman while he was doing some banking business in the lobby when the call came."
"Well, I was careful," I said.
"Well, thanks for not getting mad."
"No sweat," I said and left.
The whole experience was a little surreal. I have actually helped people out of elevators before when I was an officer at a bank and they were usually pretty upset. Often they were ready to unload on the first person they saw even if that person was the one who saved them rather than the one that invented the elevator.
Perhaps I felt fine because I am not claustrophobic. Perhaps I was just tired. Perhaps I had plenty of other things on my mind. I don't know. But I thought about something for which the guys in my accountability group consistently chide me. They insist they cannot get a rise out of me and that I am just too laid-back. I really don't think of myself that way. I do get excited about things, but I have stopped reacting as strongly as I used to to things, both positively and negatively. Some argue that in the course of my life I have experienced some very low times and some great times and the extremes have left me somewhat emotionally detatched (although just this morning a friend said I was un-detatched). There is probably some truth in that, but I hope there is another element at work here also.
I would like to think that my hope is built on nothing less than Jesus blood and righteousness. I would like to think that youthful angst is getting replaced with peaceful assurance. I would like to think that I am coming to realize that God is in control of this world. I would like to think that I am able to decide how to react to what this world sends my way and that blame or credit for my attitude lies in me rather than events or personalities around me. While these are the responses that I hope become more and more commonplace, I know that truthfully I have a long way to go to get to this high road; even longer now that I intend to take the stairs.
"You comfortable in there?" the voice shouted down.
"Sure," I answered, at first thinking that maybe true comfort was a stretch. But at that point, I was actually okay. I was two under after 11 holes in the golf game on my phone and other than the nagging wish that I had gone to the bathroom before I got on this elevator, I was doing fine.
"Well, I don't think I can get you out right now. I'll try to go up to the tower and operate the car manually. If the door opens, don't get out unless it is at floor level. If it opens between floors and you try to get out it could cut you in half, okay?"
"Got it," I hollered back.
"You're not nervous or anything are you?"
"Not unless you are," I answered believing it. Still, on the 12th hole I shot a triple bogey as I was distracted by thoughts related to jumping at the exact right moment in the event of an elevator free-fall. I think, however, that I remember seeing somewhere that such an idea is a myth.
Finally, after another 15 or 20 minutes the elevator beeped and began moving downward and then stopped on the 5th floor. Then it beeped and went up again and down again a few more times before it finally stopped on the 6th floor. I got out and went to another elevator and attended my late meeting and then took an elevator to the lobby to leave. I shared this ride with a few guys from building maintenance who were discussing the whole matter. I laughed and thanked them for getting me out.
"That was you?" they asked, quite surprised.
"Yeah."
"Well, you picked a great time to get stuck. We were downstairs talking to the elevator repairman while he was doing some banking business in the lobby when the call came."
"Well, I was careful," I said.
"Well, thanks for not getting mad."
"No sweat," I said and left.
The whole experience was a little surreal. I have actually helped people out of elevators before when I was an officer at a bank and they were usually pretty upset. Often they were ready to unload on the first person they saw even if that person was the one who saved them rather than the one that invented the elevator.
Perhaps I felt fine because I am not claustrophobic. Perhaps I was just tired. Perhaps I had plenty of other things on my mind. I don't know. But I thought about something for which the guys in my accountability group consistently chide me. They insist they cannot get a rise out of me and that I am just too laid-back. I really don't think of myself that way. I do get excited about things, but I have stopped reacting as strongly as I used to to things, both positively and negatively. Some argue that in the course of my life I have experienced some very low times and some great times and the extremes have left me somewhat emotionally detatched (although just this morning a friend said I was un-detatched). There is probably some truth in that, but I hope there is another element at work here also.
I would like to think that my hope is built on nothing less than Jesus blood and righteousness. I would like to think that youthful angst is getting replaced with peaceful assurance. I would like to think that I am coming to realize that God is in control of this world. I would like to think that I am able to decide how to react to what this world sends my way and that blame or credit for my attitude lies in me rather than events or personalities around me. While these are the responses that I hope become more and more commonplace, I know that truthfully I have a long way to go to get to this high road; even longer now that I intend to take the stairs.
4 Comments:
Val,
Great story! I am glad you had such a peaceful experience in an elevator stuck between floors. Did I ever tell you about the time my sisters and I got stuck in the elevator? I was seven years old and my oldest sister, Carla, led her gang of siblings into an elevator for a little experimenting. It was a Sunday afternoon at my Dad’s office. I remember the last thing he told us as we set out in search of an adventure, “Don’t play in the elevators!” the wise old man trumpeted. I know we didn’t head straight for the moving box but we found it soon enough.
As we approached the no play zone, reminding words from the smartest of the gang (me) were uttered. “I thought Daddy said not to play in the elevators.” Pamela, the middle one of us all, explained that our dad had told us not to “play” in the elevators and that we were not going in to play; we were only going in to conduct a little experiment. How come the middle child is always the manipulator? Our experiment consisted of pushing all of the buttons and watching them light up, stopping the door from opening all the way by pushing the “close door” button and conducting several experimental emergency stops by pulling the red button. But the coolest thing of all was watching the door open between floors after we pulled the red button and lit up the “door open” one. Man we were having a blast!
After several minutes of fun…wait, not fun but experimenting, that old elevator finally came to a resting spot. And just like your experience today, it stopped between two floors. I can’t recall the exact numbering but I do remember it was many floors lower than where my parents were working and way to far away to hear us. After we realized that indeed we were going nowhere, the manipulator began to crumble. She cried like a hungry baby with out a mommy in the house. On and on, Pamela cried. To this day, I am still surprised we weren’t saved by someone on the streets coming to investigate the sounds of a stuck cat. While Pamela shrieked with fear of being left there to rot, Carla dropped beads of sweat from her brow like guilty man in a court does. She feared the wise old man’s right hand. The saga of the two went on for a good twenty minutes before I stepped in to take control.
Reading your closing remarks Val, reminded me that to this day I still follow the same examples my sisters set before me. When life’s troubles stick me between two floors, first my brow drops beads of sweat till my clothes become heavy by the weight of the water, and then I whale like a baby waiting for the comforting hand of the father before I fall to my knees and take control.
Taking control that day was easy for a seven year old to do. The only thing I knew to do in a predicament such as that was to fall to my knees and pray. That’s the only way to really take control. Take the problem you face and offer it up to Heaven in a prayer.
I don’t remember my exact words of the day but I do remember that God heard them and He answered. Carla decided to hold down the “emergency bell” button until someone came to save us and I know there is no way she thought of that one on her own. She held her shaking finger against that button for another fifteen minutes before we heard the calming voice of a savior outside. Pamela and I thought the voice we heard was God because nobody else was suppose to be in the building that day besides the family of five. As I think of it now, I’m sure it was a saving voice of His.
I think He must have Elevator Angels on His staff because just like your timing today Val, the building maintenance man just happened to be checking on his building and oddly enough, on Sunday. Prayer saved us. Remembering this story now, I hope will help me remember what actions to take the next time I am stuck between floors. Taking control and falling to my knees from the start can sure speed up the process of getting saved. Prayer should be my first step. Sweating and crying can come later. It can come from the rejoicing I shall feel.
I don’t want to end the story without telling you about the funniest part so let me just say how funny it was to watch my sister Carla try to sit still on a black and blue butt. I guess twelve years old is not the spanking cut off year after all.
Val thanks for sharing your story. You have taught me a great deal about calling you “un-detached”, “emotionally detached” or whatever. I have become a better Christian by watching your detached response’s to the positive and negative situations that fall on your shoulders. Thank you for being a teacher of His ways.
Val - Wow, such composure in the midst of what for me would be sheer terror. I gotta get a golf game on my phone!! I would have been a nutcase because I am claustrophobic. However, your story of keeping peace in moments of great need was a very good thing. Gladly I don't have any elevator stories to tell. God is good.
I've been thinking recently about much of what you said at the end. I decided I have an ugly case of the "I have been wronged" syndrome, where it takes very little to tick me off and ruin my day. Your words have contributed to the great deal of refining my heart needs in this matter. Thanks.
I love both yours and Annonymous's elevator stories. The analogies are unending. But it truly is amazing how are reactions to things change with age. I think the thing that has changed me the most is dealing with people who "go-off" on me. I "know" it doesn't do them any good in my eyes, so why should I be any different. I am sure you would be someone I would like, I know I enjoy your blog (well maybe not the elephant picture...)
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