I was in the elevator at the hospital in Rockford, Ill., taking the commuter from fourth floor to first floor. I had completed my visit, prayed with my patient, and was now on my way to the next visit at the next hospital.
In the elevator was one other person, a woman with a weary and weathered face that indicated that much life had been packed into her forty-something years. I gazed mostly at the floor as you do when it’s just two of you in the elevator. But I also noticed that she seemed agitated, rocking back and forth on her feet, glancing this way and that, mumbling to herself.
My pastor’s radar picked up the signals: I can’t stand it, can’t stand it. I’m going to explode. I glanced up to see tears, not tears of sadness but of joy. “It’s too much, too wonderful. It’s incredible!” By now she was mumbling not only to herself, but to me.
“Sounds like you have been through a lot,” I proclaimed. Not very profound, but I wanted to open a door. And she entered. She told me how her boyfriend — her fiancé — had been in a terrible motorcycle accident a couple days earlier, how he had severe head injuries, how the doctor had made no promises that he would walk again, function fully, or even live. Now after multiple surgeries in two days, the doctor predicted a full recovery.
“I am so overwhelmed, so happy, I don’t know what to do,” she continued as we made our way through the lobby.
“Would you like to pray?” I offered, adding to reassure her, “I’m a pastor. I could pray with you.”
She seemed startled by the invitation, as though she needed some time to get used to the idea. After some hesitation she agreed. There, just outside the front door of the hospital, in the bright, warm midday sun, we paused. I asked her name and the name of her fiancé. I lightly placed my hand on her shoulder and prayed. I do not recall what I said in that prayer. It was not much to speak of, I am sure. For her, however, it seemed to be coming straight from God. She thanked me profusely, hugged me, and brushed away more tears.
Then she marched straight to a cluster of people, maybe six or eight of them just ten feet from us. “He’s gonna make it! He’s gonna be OK!” she exclaimed as she fell into their arms.
It was a group of bikers from all appearances, decorated with bandanas and ponytails, tans and tattoos, chains and cigarettes. It was the same group I had swung wide of as I entered the hospital.
I do not know now what is going on with this woman and her boyfriend. I do not know how he is progressing or how they are doing together. I do not know if she will remember the prayer or tell him about it. There’s so much else that will be on their minds, I’m sure. But I do know this. Some of Jesus’ best ministry moments were on the road, going from one destination to another. Much of it was with those who were rough cut, not the “churchy” types. All of it was in the grand scope and scheme of his loving Father, a grand scheme that included a cross and an empty tomb.
I will trust my momentary ministry to my Lord, as I will trust that fortunate man and the woman with whom I paused and prayed. And I will be ready for the next opportunity on the road.
How about you?
John G. Hamilton is pastor of First Church in Rochelle, Ill.
