A Hospital Visit

Recently I read a book, Conversations with the Voiceless, by John Wessells that chronicles his work of ministering to people with brain injuries or who are in comas. He ministers through prayer and music. It's not a book about miraculous healing, but rather, a book about the real-world interaction of pain and faith, of suffering and sorrow, of being faithful in the face of life's hardest questions.

The book was in the back of my mind as I stood at the bedside of a congregation member last week and prayed for him. I said a short prayer. A prayer that God would touch those places of his life that only God could reach, that he would speak into those areas of his soul that could only comprehend God's voice (Adam McHugh). And then I sang Amazing Grace. Nothing magical. No visible changes. I just felt strongly I was supposed to come and pray and so I did.

I left a short note on the bulletin board to tell the family I had been there.

Later, when they saw the note, they had one question, "How did you get into ICU?"

I can only say it was a God thing.

I went to the hospital knowing I would probably not get into ICU, but figured I could visit the family in the waiting room. When I got there, the volunteer at the information desk offered to take me to the room when I admitted I didn't know the way. On the way we chatted about the twenty years she had been a volunteer and how much the hospital had changed in those years. I can't tell you what she looked like, but I know she wore comfortable black walking shoes.

She took me to where I wanted to go, right through the door that is usually shut at the ICU entrance. In all my visits to the hospital I've never had a volunteer offer to take me right to a room before. They usually give convoluted directions that leave me wandering lost down long hallways, confused by signs that all end in -ology.

All in all, I was there maybe ten minutes. It was not a huge miracle, fire from heaven kinda thing. Just me singing and praying. But with the ease that I was escorted to the room, I couldn't help but wonder what events God was orchestrating, using me and an elderly volunteer in sensible black shoes.