The one day that I’ve been trying to avoid for years is almost here.  I’m not talking about Christmas with the in-laws.  They came a month ago at Thanksgiving.  No, I’m referring to the kidney transplant that I am hoping to have sometime after the first of the year.  So what is it like knowing that some doctor is going to cut me open and put someone else’s kidney in my abdomen?  Just a wee bit disconcerting.  After years of waiting, I’ll be glad when the whole thing is over with.  I’m just hoping they get it right the first time.  The last thing I need is for them to put the new kidney and hook the plumbing up backward.  I could start to cough and pee would be running out of my nose.  That’s right, I am making jokes.  What else am I suppose to do?  Cry?  Oh, believe me; I did plenty of that after I was diagnosed with bad kidneys several years ago.  Now it seems different, a nuisance more than anything else.  It’s not something that I’m afraid of; just something I want to get behind me so I can get on with my life.  I’m all too aware that this life is temporary.  I’m 51, and chances are pretty good that I’m not going to live to 102.  But regardless of what happens to me in the next few weeks, months, or years, there’s one thing I know.  I want my life to count for something.  Philippians 1:12 says, “I want you to know, dear brothers, that what has happened to me has served to advance the gospel.”  If I can someday, hopefully years and years in the future, lay on my death bed and know that I can apply that verse to my life, I’ll be able to die a happy may.