Your Faithful Brain: Designed for So Much More!

From Chapter 1: Your Brain Is Designed for Redemption and Rehabilitation

Peter was big for a fifteen-year-old. He cursed and shouted profanities as Mrs. G. and I pushed him, wearing a safety helmet and strapped to his wheelchair, out of Ward 904 to the music room for our first counseling session.
Peter was one of my patients at Rancho Los Amigos National Rehabilitation Center in Downey, California. His abusive language upset most of the nurses and doctors, but I had grown up on the streets and playgrounds of South Central Los Angeles, and Mrs. G. was from another planet.
A few weeks before, Peter had been stabbed in his head during a gang fight. The knife had pierced the right side of his skull and seriously damaged his brain. Peter had lost many of his normal inhibitions as well as the ability to use much of the left side of his body.
In the community hospital before coming to Rancho, Peter’s arms and legs had been tied to his bed with “soft restraints” after he had regained consciousness. He was combative and threatened the staff. However, in the Pediatrics Pavilion at Rancho, restraints were not acceptable to Mrs. G. and to Dr. Elizabeth Eberle, the head nurse and pediatrician for teenagers with brain injuries. Children, even those who were violent, were encouraged rather than restrained. But Peter challenged those values.
Peter had come to Rancho the afternoon before, accompanied by his mother and grandmother, who obviously loved him in spite of his unceasing verbal abuse. Anticipating the fear that Peter’s behavior would create, they had pleaded with us to give their boy a chance. But after praying at his bedside as he fell asleep that night, they had gone home sad and discouraged.
Fast-forward twenty-seven years. I am testifying before the United States Congress about rehabilitation. “Peter went on to live the American dream,” I tell the assembled representatives. “He got a job, married, and became a father. He lives with his family in Southern California.”
But that morning, when I was left alone with Peter in the music room, I didn’t know our brain had been designed to prepare us for redemption. That first day with Peter, I accidentally tapped into Peter’s God-designed brain, and though my efforts were very clumsy, I started on a journey that continues today.
After Mrs. G. left us, I had only a vague idea of what to do. Basically, my goal was to get Peter to stop his cursing so he wouldn’t disrupt the staff and the five other boys with brain injuries who shared his room. We had only a few days to change his abusive behavior; the other patients had the right to not be frightened by what appeared to be a dangerous hoodlum.
The music room was soundproofed, but Peter’s angry cursing was reverberating down Rancho’s halls as I sat down and turned his wheelchair to face me. As I always do when I may be struck, I took off my eyeglasses. I spoke quietly to Peter, who continued shouting angry curses. I tried to soothe and calm him, but my words had absolutely no effect.
Fortunately, the music room was well lighted, and I noticed the telltale nicotine stain on the index finger of Peter’s still-useful right hand. I said quietly, “Would you like a smoke?”
Whoa! Peter looked at me and stopped shouting. “Whattt?” he slurred. “Whuddd you say?”
I had his attention. “You can earn a smoke if you do what I say.” I laid out nuts, bolts, and washers for a simple assembly task on the table. I put a washer on a bolt and twisted on a nut. There were enough parts for thirty assemblies. “Peter, each one of these you assemble earns you a penny, and you can buy a smoke for thirty cents.”
Bam! Peter slammed his right arm on the table, scattering parts all over and started shouting again, even louder than before, with violent shaking and tears of desperate anger. He reached up, yanked his helmet off, and threw it at me.
I ducked, collected my wits, and picked Peter’s helmet up. I held it in my lap as I continued to talk quietly to him. “Peter, you know cigarettes aren’t allowed in the hospital.” More violent and belligerent cursing. “Well Peter, I can get a cigarette in here this evening if you want, but they cost thirty cents. You can earn thirty cents by putting these together.”
Quiet. Wheels obviously turning. One loud exclamatory curse! Quiet once again. “O-o-o-o-k,” he stuttered and settled back into his wheelchair.
“Good, Peter. Now help me pick up these parts. We have enough only for thirty, and you need thirty cents to buy a cigarette.”
We spent the next three hours while Peter assembled the three simple parts, earning one penny for each assembly. Peter struggled with his one good hand, receiving less help from me as we went along. Peter was painfully clumsy and easily frustrated, and he stopped several times, but he always came back to the task, and he improved as he went along.
Peter completed the thirty sets just before we broke for lunch. I told Peter, “I have something that’s more difficult. It has five parts, but it pays three cents for each set. Would you like to try that tomorrow? If you can handle it, you might be able to buy more smokes.”
I can still remember his first smile and grunted chuckle more than forty-four years later. That was the beginning of Peter’s rehabilitation that led him to a new life, transformed into a responsible young man his mother, grandmother, and friends barely recognized.

Redemption and rehabilitation are intertwined opportunities because “God so loved the world that he gave his one and only son.” The same brain-restorative capacities that we helped Peter harness are available to us all, and I look forward to sharing them with you.