Dear Lizzie Mae,

I thought I was dying. No wait, I really believed that! My pain and suffering had exploded to a level I never dreamed possible. My body had puffed up like the Pillsbury Doughboy because I was bleeding internally and no one knew. A young nurse came into my room and saw what was going on and ran immediately to notify the doctors that I was in serious trouble. The doctor on duty that night dismissed it without investigating, saying, "His surgeon will be in in the morning." But the nurse was not deterred. She called the surgeon whose associate happened to be in the hospital.

I do not recall, but the nurse told me later that when she brought the surgeon to see me he said, "Help me get this man into the OR immediately."

They opened me up and removed 3 liters of blood from my abdominal cavity. 3 liters! That's over 6 pints. My abdomen was bloated beyond belief, as were my feet and toes, hands and fingers.

Post-op, I was still in pain; the worst pain I had ever known, but I was conscious. As I lay there in the dark room a man appeared, out of the shadows, dressed in scrubs. I recognized him as someone who had been assigned to my case earlier. One of the other nurses told me about him. "He was once a Navy Seal," said she. "Now he is dying of inoperable cancer." It was the same man. About 6' maybe. Short cropped black hair, medium to thin build, black horn-rimmed glasses. Somehow I got the impression he wasn't always this . . . this diminutive.

"Hi," he said. "How you doin'?" His tone serious; concerned.

"Not so great," I replied.

"I know the feeling," said he.

There was a moment's pause while he just stood there looking at me, my breathing labored.

"I think you are the bravest man I ever saw." he said in a flat, unemotional tone. "I'm not on duty now, but I had to come in here and tell you that." He stayed only a couple of minutes and said a few other things. Don't remember much; words, maybe phrases like, "you're strong," "God is with you." "you're going to make it." Stuff like that.

"My name is Fred."

"I know," responding. "The other nurses told me about you." I didn't want to mention his cancer. Apparently, he didn't either.

"My problems are small compared to what you have been through." I wondered how a man dying of inoperable cancer could say such a thing.

"I'm not so brave," I mumbled, embarrassed at the flattery.

"I've got to go now," he said. "I'm praying for you. God bless you." And he was gone into the night.

Let me tell you plainly, I am no hero. He is, or -- he was. I can think of dozens of times in my lifetime that I have not been proud of the way I conducted myself. And while lying in that ICU hospital bed, flirting with the shadows of death, this man, to me, became an angel of light. God sent him. I swear, God sent him. God sent him because he wanted me to be reminded that my health, my welfare, my very life was in His omnipotent hands. And it still is. It will always be.

I have no way of knowing the circumstances or pain of those reading this. But for whatever they are, know this: God is aware of your circumstances and your pain. He has not left you alone, any more than he left Jesus alone on the cross. Your health, your welfare, your life is in His omnipotent hands, and it makes no difference at all whether or not you think you are brave. It makes all the difference that you believe you are loved -- because you are! You will always be! And when, or if, the time comes, you can be certain as certainty can be, that He will send you your very own -- visitor in the night.

-- PDM