The small shrapnel wound I had received in my wrist had never really healed. At first I thought of it as no more than an annoying scratch, but one morning I awoke to find my wrist all swollen and red. This condition worsened from day to day until eventually the redness extended clear up my arm. The skin started to peel off, leaving a running sore that oozed infected puss. It hurt so much that I couldn’t sleep at night. The wound was constantly weeping, and it smelled so bad that it was making the other men sick.
One morning I took my shirt off and saw large, menacing-looking red streaks going up my arm and over my shoulder towards my chest. Roland said it looked like gangrene to him. He and Bob helped me to cross the compound to the guardhouse where we showed the guards how bad my skin was. One of the guards immediately escorted us to their doctor in the staff barracks outside of the compound. The doctor looked at it with alarm and grabbed my hand to make a closer examination. Just the touch of his hand hurt so terribly that I let out an involuntary shriek. He looked me straight in the eyes and said through a translator that I must have the arm amputated immediately or I would die.
My arm hurt so badly that I couldn’t imagine facing the pain of surgery, so I asked him what kind of anesthetic he would use. Reaching into his door he pulled out a small stick and told me to put it into my mouth and bite down. That was the only thing available. When asked what kind of instruments he would use, he pulled out a pocket knife about four inches long. I looked at my buddies and they just shook their heads and looked back at me. I told the doctor I would have to think about it. He told me that there wasn’t anything to think about since I would either loose my arm or loose my life. He wanted to proceed immediately to save my life. To emphasize his point, he drew my gaze down to my arm to remind me that all my skin was gone from the wrist to the elbow, and the infection was spreading from there up to my shoulder and out into my chest. It was one of the worst cases of gangrene he’d ever seen, and he was concerned that it might be too late already. Still I couldn’t bring myself to trust him so I told him again that I’d have to think about it. He gave me until the next morning and said that after that it would be too late to do anything about it.
When I got back to the barracks, all my roommates tried to talk me into letting him cut my arm off, but I had the dreadful feeling that I wouldn’t make it through the operation alive. Finally I asked them if they would all pray for me. This request took everyone by surprise and most of them stammered something like “Well… sure we’ll pray for you, but, is there some special way to do it?” I think everyone had privately said mental prayers in battle asking for help but few of these men had ever said a formal prayer, and they were embarrassed because they didn’t know how. I was in so much pain though and so frightened of loosing my arm that they were willing to do anything to help so they let me teach them how to say a simple prayer. Some asked who to pray to. I told them briefly about my beliefs in God and Jesus Christ. I also told them that they could pray to their own God if they believed differently. I explained that I believed that their faith could help to save my arm and my life.
Eventually they all said OK, they’d do it, but they wanted me to start out. For the first time in camp I was able to pray out loud and it was wonderful. I felt the Spirit of the Lord come into the room in a powerful and comforting way. These terrific men who could be so coarse and unrefined started speaking to God with sincere hearts and out of love for me their friend. Their prayers were simple, with common phrases like, “Please God, help Joe to know what to do,” or “Joe is a pretty decent guy, won’t you help him live through this?” A frequent sentiment seemed to be “We’ve all been through so much God, please don’t let it end here for Joe. He wants to go back to his wife and son.” I know He heard their prayers and I wept with appreciation. I was still scared but I finally felt the Spirit and was at peace again.
That night the room was quiet when the lights were turned out, and even Folkwolf refrained from telling his off-colored stories. I didn’t sleep very well because the arm continued to hurt intensely. When morning arrived my three buddies took me over to the doctor where I found him getting things ready for the operation. When I took my shirt off, however, he looked at me with a startled expression. When I looked down at my chest I was surprised to see that the ugly red lines of the infection were gone, and the swelling had gone down somewhat. The doctor declared that it was a miracle, and that he would never have believed such a thing was possible. He told me that we could wait another day to see what would happen. When I went back to that barracks and told the guys what had happened they all let out a cheer. I asked them to please remember me each night in their prayers and most of them promised they would. Later, many of them came up to me and told me that they had never prayed before that night, but that they had continued to do so from that day on.
A Distant Prayer: Miracles of the 49th Combat Mission by Joseph Banks, Jerry Borrowman. Covenant Communications. 2001.
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