LEVI

Failure to thrive.

That term is not often used with young adults, but I had unintentionally lost thirty pounds over a few months, and it was time to find some answers. 

I was hospitalized for a series of tests. My husband, Bill, was left to juggle work and family life in my absence. Ethan, the youngest of our six children, was barely weaned.

A week later, an abnormal HIDA scan indicated the need for surgery. On the day of the procedure, I encouraged Bill to remain at work. He had already missed so much time, and gallbladder removal was fairly routine.

As often happens with non-emergent cases, mine was delayed. The hours dragged on as I prayed alone in my room and waited to be taken downstairs. 

I was relieved when a transporter finally arrived in the late afternoon. What a pleasant face, I thought. He cheerfully introduced himself as Levi, transferred me to a gurney, and made me comfortable. Then he rolled me through the crowded hall to the elevator. The doors slid shut, and it was just the two of us.

"How are you doing?" he asked kindly.

Tears unexpectedly sprang to my eyes. 

"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked, concern on his face.

"I wish I could pray with someone before my surgery, but I don't know who to ask," I replied.

"I will pray with you," he said. Then he pressed the STOP button on the elevator and gently took my hand in his. 

As Levi began to pray, peace flooded over me. His words were unhurried, confident, calm, and certain. When our season of prayer ended, he set the elevator in motion again. Then Levi wheeled me to the surgical holding area.

"You are going to be just fine," he said with a warm smile as he gently clasped my shoulder.

"Thank you for praying," I whispered.

Then he was gone.

The next morning, my gastroenterologist confessed that the surgeon had apparently removed a healthy gallbladder. "It's possible the machine that measured your ejection fraction was mis-calibrated," he offered apologetically.

How unusual, I thought.

I remained in the hospital a few more days. One morning, a customer service representative entered my room to discuss my stay. Was there anything she could do for me? 

I asked if there was a way to recognize the kind man who had transported me. 

"Do you remember his name?" she asked.

"It was Levi," I replied, sitting up slowly. "He wasn't wearing a badge so I don't know his last name, but he was about my age. He had brown eyes, dark skin, and a huge smile..."  I trailed off as she made notes. He radiated joy, I wanted to say.  

"I will see what I can do," she promised.

The next day, the representative returned with a perplexed expression on her face. "Mrs. O'Hara," she said apologetically, "There is no one by that name who works in that department or anywhere else in the hospital. I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help."

How unusual, I thought again. 

After I was discharged, I recounted the story to my husband.

"Didn't the elevator alarm make it difficult to hear?" Bill asked. He worked for an electrical company and was familiar with such things.

I thought back to that day. "There was no alarm," I answered with certainty.

"Kay, when you press the STOP button, it always sets off an alarm." Bill patiently explained.

"Not this time," I insisted.

"How unusual," Bill said, looking intently at me.

I have experienced a number of unexplainable encounters since Levi--always in times of danger or distress. To this day, I marvel that the LORD mercifully allows angels to appear to His children in time of need. 

Kay O'Hara

September 25, 2023