Divine Mercy.

Waking up slowly, the first words I heard as I recovered from the general anesthesia were, "I like his hat."

Now, with eyes open, I began to make out the blurred images. 

"Am I dead?" I asked myself.
"Am I in Heaven?" I wondered aloud.

As my eyes began to regain the ability to focus, I realized the white surrounding me was not the white of celestial clouds, but that of curtains, partially screening me from other patients in the UC Davis Medical Center.

"You are in the recovery ward," The nurse at the foot of my bed informed me in a caring tone. "Try not to move or exert yourself. You are still connected to an I.V. for fluids. Your blood pressure is low."

I looked down at my body. The index finger of my right hand was connected to some kind of wire. There were wires on the right side of my body, and wires on my chest.

The nurse pulled the curtain open. With focused vision, I searched for the voice that had initially called out regarding the hat on my head. I remembered that the nurses had asked the doctors for special permission allowing me to wear the hand-crocheted hat throughout the procedure. It was a hat made especially for me by one of the prayerful elder women from a church in an adjacent town in the foothills. 

When I had first entered the Prep-Ward, and was instructed to disrobe, I informed the medical staff that this was my magic Orange Hat. I pleaded with the nurses to allow me to keep it on. If I died during the exploratory medical procedure, I wanted to be able to meet God while wearing my hugely over-sized bright Orange Hat. I felt sure that God would like the hat, and that He would give me a hug.

Lying on the hospital gurney, naked, cold, alone, and afraid, I began to cry hysterically like a baby abandoned on an inner-city stoop. The nurses, in an effort to console and comfort, assured me that I would be allowed to wear the Orange Hat.

Though hand-made with the love that is generous and eternal, it is a funny-looking hat. Most people laugh, or call out cruel names when they see it on my head. 

But, the first voice I heard as I had regained consciousness in the recovery ward said, "I like his hat."

I had not far to look for he that had spoken. In the bed directly opposite me, on the other side of the cavernous ward, lay a man peering at me with such compassion in his eyes. He was missing part of his foot. He was a soldier. He looked to be in a state of terrible discomfort. Severely wounded under both arms, he was unable to use his crutches. His wife sat next to him, her face hidden on the lower half of his legs. She wept silently. 

The wounded veteran called out loudly to the attending nurse, inquiring on the status and location of his fellow soldiers. Apparently, there had been a horrific accident, and the soldiers from his base had been sent to nearby local area hospitals.

This man lying across from me had every reason to think only of himself, and his pain, his wounds. But, his thoughts were only of others. Seeing that I was all alone in the world, he complimented my hat in an effort to soothe my soul. He yelled out at the nurses not of his terrible wounds, but of those of his fellow soldiers. With his left hand, he stroked his wife's hair, doing his best to heal her heartache.

This man had every reason to act out in a selfish and self-serving manner, but thought only of others.

He put me to shame, I who profess to serve God and God's people.

This wounded soldier across from me in the ward was a great spiritual Teacher, at least that is how I saw him.

My medical condition changed suddenly. the nurses rushed to my side and started to wheel me away to another room. I began to lose consciousness, but I called out, as my gurney passed his bed, "What is your first name!"

The man answered, "James."

In my last moments of wakefulness, I gasped, "You have a Good Heart."

Then, all became black. I awoke in a different ward. I never saw the wounded soldier again. 

Dear reader, I think James was actually an Angel in the guise of an extra-ordinary man. 

Don't you?