Not my will, but yours

I was a visitor at a famous church. My wife and I crept into the crowded sanctuary, stepping gingerly along an already full row near the front to find a couple of spare seats. I was conscious that some people might be staring at the plastic tube in my nose, secured by a plaster to my cheek, or at my NHS wristband.

I had left the ward of a nearby London teaching hospital, where I was a patient, to accompany Diane to church that Sunday evening. I did so with a heavy heart. The next day I was facing major abdominal surgery and had been warned that I might not survive. The risk of death occurring during or because of the operation, we were told, was one in three.

I felt vulnerable, in pain, and – if I am honest – to a certain extent, God-forsaken.

Before you judge me for that last phrase, consider the circumstances.

This Elim pastor, who had known great blessing in God’s service on three continents and had seen the Lord heal the sick in remarkable ways, was now reduced to regular, large doses of morphine for pain relief.

I had endured over a hundred hospital admissions – sometimes in Intensive Care Units, often for weeks on end – while battling one of the most painful conditions known to humanity.

I really did not want to be preached at that evening, but I desperately needed the Lord to speak to me.

So, he sent an 80-year-old man into the pulpit to help me. Rev John Stott needed assistance to climb the rostrum. Though his voice was faint, his words carried authority, and everyone listened.

story continues …