Unless You Become…
This is his story.
He was brought up in a
Christian home. His father and mother were simple people, socially as well as
financially, but through many sacrifices—and with the help of a
scholarship—they managed to pay for his education. His years at secondary
school and the first years at university presented no difficulties. Thanks to
his keen intellect, he was an excellent catechism student, and in his third
year at university, when he was twenty, he made public profession of his faith.
But after a while he began to absent himself from church, and within a few
years he had become a thoroughly respectable prodigal son. After his marriage
he moved to another town, and I lost track of him.
To my surprise, however, I
saw him again in church about six months ago. I made enquiries and learned that
he had been appointed surgeon at the nearby hospital.
That one visit to church
was not his last. From time to time I noticed him among the congregation on
Sundays. Then one day I happened to meet him in the street, and I told him how
glad I was that he had found his way back to church.
He did not say much about
it, only, "Yes, I have changed. I'm glad of it myself."
That, then, is his story.
But there is another
story, and I did not hear it until one evening when he came to see me.
We spoke about his work at
the hospital, and I enjoyed the precision with which he told his stories,
together with the touch of humour that made his seriousness so engaging.
The evening wore on into
the night, and at length he became confidential. "The most remarkable case
I ever encountered," he said, "was a child. Though that's not really
the right way to put it—a remarkable case. It was an ordinary
appendicitis."
He fell silent for a
moment and gazed thoughtfully ahead.
"I've been meaning to
tell you about it, sooner or later."
Then I heard the story of
little Wim.
Everything had been made
ready in the operating theatre. The doctors, dressed in white, and the nurses
stood alert at their posts, all with sterile gauze masks over their mouths. The
lamp overhead cast its fierce, pitiless light.
No wonder little Wim was
rather frightened when they wheeled him in. He looked around with anxious eyes
at all the light and all those white-clad figures. After all, he was only seven
years old and completely alone. He had already understood that Father and
Mother would not be allowed to come with him.
Still, he was a courageous
little fellow, and he asked Andersen, "What are you going to do to
me?"
"We're just going to
take that pain out of your tummy," Andersen replied kindly.
"But I don't have any
pain now."
"No, but if we don't
do anything about it, the pain will come back tomorrow, and then you'll become
very ill."
This seemed to give him
pause. His thin little face grew serious, and his eyes looked intently at the
tall man standing over him.
"How are you going to
take the pain away, Doctor?"
"You're simply going
to go to sleep, Wim. And when you wake up, everything will be over, and you'll
soon be well again."
Wim was not entirely
reassured.
"But I'm not sleepy
at all."
"You will be. I'm
going to make you sleep. You won't feel a thing."
Meanwhile an unusual
stillness had settled over the operating theatre. Everything was ready, and
everyone stood waiting.
"Am I really going to
sleep, Doctor?"
"Yes, Wim.
Really."
"But then I have to
pray first," said Wim.
Before anyone realised
what he was about to do, he had slipped off the trolley. He knelt on the floor
and folded his little hands on the edge of it.
The theatre fell
completely silent.
Andersen, the two
assistants, the nurses—not one of them moved.
All eyes were fixed on
that small figure in the middle of the room.
Then a child's voice rang out, clear and pure:
Now I lay me down to
sleep,
Pray thee Lord my soul to
keep.
Father, I do trust in thee
Wilt thou now abide with
me.
Make me free from guilt and spot.
And my sins remember not
Should I die before I
wake,
Pray thee Lord my soul to
take.
Amen
"You may think it
strange," he said, "or sentimental. But for me it was a turning
point. I could not get it out of my mind, because I knew that child was
right—and I was wrong.
"There came an
evening when I too knelt beside my bed. I was deeply troubled and confused, and
there was much in my life that was not as it should have been. But that is
another story. That evening I knelt before God and asked exactly the same thing:
And my sins remember not.
Suddenly Andersen rose to his feet, like a man afraid he had allowed someone to look too deeply into his soul. He gave me a slightly guarded glance as he buttoned his jacket.
But at the door he turned
and said, "There's a verse somewhere about becoming like a little child,
isn't there?"
