Holding my first-ever evangelistic series, in contrast to any previous public speaking I had done, was drastically more daunting. Intimidated by the prospect, after committing to the series, I made a string of excuses and put it off for a full six months beyond the date I’d originally set. There were bona fide challenges, though—deciding what material to use that would match my personal style, determining the advertising strategy, figuring out how to fit everything into my busy work schedule, and all sorts of other logistical details.
Eventually I realized that unless I committed fully, it would never happen. Accordingly, I set a firm date, took some time off work, and asked a local printing company to mail 10,000 flyers. Backing out became impossible.
Being a head-and-neck surgeon at a 594-bed academic medical center, I worried what my patients and colleagues would think about receiving a religious flyer with my smiling photo on it. Jesus warned us the gospel would bring division, and I didn’t know what response I would receive.
I also worried about being prepared, since I’d opted to write my own series. As the date of the evangelistic series approached, I poured myself into the effort. For more than a month I saw patients and operated during the day, then came home and wrote sermons late into the night. My ever-supportive wife worked equally hard. We made every preparation we could think of—a nightly drawing and giveaway; gift Bibles for attendees; free child care with crafts and activities; advertising on social media; and special music arrangements. On closing night, to go along with the sermon topic of health, we even provided a healthy vegan meal.
I also started personally inviting people. A Jewish neurotologist in my department told me he would come, as did several of my patients. The Sabbath afternoon before opening night, my family and I walked through the community, praying for the Holy Spirit to move on hearts.
We had done our best.
Meeting Maggie
One notable patient I invited was a cancer patient named Maggie. She was in her 50s, homeless, and looked as if she’d led a hard life. The first time we met, she had just been life-flighted for a critical airway. Every breath was a struggle. A CT scan showed her larynx had been replaced by a massive tumor. This was not only making it hard for her to breathe but also making it impossible for her to be intubated or placed under general anesthesia. Unless I quickly performed an awake tracheotomy, she would die.
Maggie had terrible anxiety, so as we rolled straight into the operating room, I held her hand while trying to reassure her. After injecting her neck with lidocaine, I quickly began cutting. Lying on her back made her airway worse. She panicked and, in desperation, grabbed my arms and tried to climb off the operating table. There was no choice but to immediately complete the surgery.
Hold her down! I shouted.
I still have a vivid picture of the relief on her face as I cut into her airway, and she was finally able to fill her lungs with oxygen.
Every time I saw Maggie on rounds, she was effusive about my being her favorite doctor. I later performed a laryngectomy with bilateral neck dissections to remove her cancer. She recovered from surgery and was discharged from the hospital with the expectation that she would be back for radiation, which was an important part of her cancer treatment. Unfortunately, she attended only a couple of sessions with the radiation oncologist before disappearing.
Then she began sporadically showing up at my clinic. To be more accessible, I have the habit of giving patients my personal cell phone number. Giving Maggie my number, however, began to feel like a mistake when she started texting almost daily, multiple times a day. I remember that for a period of about two weeks, I even received a picture of her phlegm each morning.
At one point I determined to tell her to stop texting unnecessarily, but then she showed up again at my clinic with a coloring book she’d colored for me, a small plastic container full of candy, and a card declaring, once again, that I was her favorite doctor. My heart softened, and I relented. Eventually her text messages simply became part of my life.
She wanted to attend my evangelistic series, but lived too far away and couldn’t get a ride. “But save me a Bible,” she texted.
Counting Fruit
On opening night my nerves were on edge as I waited to see if anyone would show up. My church family was supportive, but only a small number of non-Adventists attended. Nonetheless, I put my heart into it.
True to his word, my Jewish colleague attended faithfully and afterward would speak animatedly with me about whatever topic I’d preached on. I was particularly interested in what he would think about the night entitled “Jesus the Messiah.” To my great disappointment, he didn’t show.
Another patient, the wife of a local Baptist pastor, attended. My wife her asked what she thought about the Sabbath. She acknowledged the truth of the Sabbath, but continued going to church on Sunday.
It seemed, in some way or another, the story was the same for everyone.
There were a few highlights. A nurse told me she had decided to follow the Bible’s dietary instructions, and her 5-year-old daughter, who also attended, was now checking all food packaging to make sure there were no pictures of pigs.
I knew what mattered was that I had done my best to honor God, but it was hard not to be at least a little discouraged.
But on closing night, when I made an altar call, there were no baptisms. I knew what mattered was that I had done my best to honor God, but it was hard not to be at least a little discouraged. There had been months of exhausting effort and significant expense. I’d had faith, my family and I had prayed and prepared, but when it was said and done, our efforts seemed fruitless.
Maggie, of course, was still sending her daily text messages. I sent her a link to the evangelistic series on YouTube, and she was delighted. She informed me that she had watched every video repeatedly, and the number of views suggested it was true.
Counting Again
Six months passed. The evangelistic series and my disappointment over how it had turned out faded into a memory. It had also now been more than two years since I’d operated on Maggie, and despite her failing to complete her cancer treatment, she seemed to be doing well. She hadn’t shown up at my clinic in a long time, but I still received her regular text messages. Then one day Maggie informed me she felt sick and was going to the Emergency Department. A short time later a text popped up on my phone: “My cancer is back.” Maggie had gone to a nearby hospital, but I was able to access her records, and sure enough, her body was riddled with cancer. A few days later she was discharged to home hospice care.
I knew Maggie had only a short time to live, so I decided to visit. She had been my patient for more than two years and had become a part of my life. One Friday afternoon my family and I drove an hour and a half down winding backroads, far into the countryside. Maggie was staying in a trailer park with a sister. When we pulled up, her sister, cigarette in hand, opened the door and led us to Maggie’s room.
Maggie was too weak to get up, but her eyes lit up when she saw me. I told her I was sorry her cancer had recurred. Because of her laryngectomy she couldn’t speak, but mouthed, “It wasn’t your fault.” I gave her the promised Bible from the evangelistic series, and asked if she was at peace and if she believed in God. Maggie nodded yes. We took a picture together, just as she had asked me to do at many of her office visits. Then, before leaving, I said a prayer with her.
Three nights later I received a text from Maggie’s sister at 2:03 a.m. It simply said, “She’s gone.” Even though I knew it was coming, it hit me hard. Truthfully, despite Maggie having become such a part of my life, I knew little about the details of her life. I knew only that life had been hard for her, that she was simple, and that she’d departed the world with little fanfare.
“I hope God has a special place in His heart for people like her,” I told my wife. “If only I’d done more,” I went on. “I wish I’d told Maggie all about Jesus before she died.”
“But you did,” my wife whispered. Suddenly I realized what she meant, and unexpected tears sprang from my eyes. The truth was that I’d preached my heart out to Maggie. In fact, I’d poured months of effort, my own finances, and all my energy into sharing Jesus with her. She had watched every single video from my evangelistic series dozens of times. Maggie knew about the validity of Scripture, about Bible prophecy, about sin and God’s law, and about salvation and what Jesus did for us. She knew about what happens when you die, about the Second Coming and the resurrection, and all the other topics I’d covered. And when I asked her if she believed—only a few nights before her last breath, she had nodded yes.
In that moment, any lingering disappointment over my evangelistic series was transformed into the sort of joy that breaks your heart. Unbeknownst to me, my labors had produced fruit. I saw that God did have a special love for Maggie, and He had sent me.