Praise the Lord, the doctors were right! My sausage toes and red swollen legs began to pulse less. I became more and more conscious and could whisper sentences. I could whisper aloud my thankfulness through The Lord’s Prayer, MY Lord’s Prayer.
As the high doses of steroids continued to course through my veins, my return to this world seemed miraculous. The constant, vast pulsing throughout my body had lessened, thankfully. A beautiful African-American nurse came in singing a hymn. I thanked her for working on Easter Sunday. She said, “Oh honey, I’ve been to church already. If Jesus could rise from the dead, the least I can do is get to Sunrise Service before work!” She helped me sit up and dialed the telephone for me.
“I can’t believe you’re calling!”
”I’m sitting up and feeling o.k.”
“This is an Easter miracle!” she sobbed.
My doctor, Dr. Martin, came to see me after his church service. He was a believer, but I still started preaching to him anyway and thanking him and Jesus for saving my life. He shook my hand and laughed, “It is so great to see you smiling and talking, James. I though we were going to lose you.”
“Apparently, I’ve got more work to do here, even though my heart and head were ready to go to Glory.”
I read Jeremiah 17:14 and Jeremiah 30: 17 over and over while praising the Lord. Even though I had no appetite and every thing tasted like sand, I choked down some Jell-o and was forced to drink Ensure. Blech. Liquid sand. What a wonderful, wonderful Easter that was!