He was lying on a raised bed so that, when I went up to it, it came up
to my neck almost, and when I talked with the lad I could look straight
into his eyes. Those eyes I shall never forget, they were so fearless,
so brave, and yet so full of weariness and suffering.
I took his hand and said: "Boy, I am a preacher." For once I didn't
say anything about being a secretary. I just told him I was a preacher.
He said: "I am so glad you have come. I just wanted to see a real,
honest-to-goodness preacher." He forced a smile to accompany this
sentence.
"Well, I'm all of that, and proud of it," I replied, smiling back into
his brave eyes.
"I'm so tired. I try to be brave, but I've been lying here for three
months now, and my leg doesn't seem to get any better. It pains all
the time until I think I'll die with the agony of it. I never sleep
only when they give me something. But I try hard to be brave."
"You are brave!" I said to him. "They all tell me that, the doctors
and nurses."
"They are so good to me." he said in low tones so that I had to bend to
hear them. "But my leg; they don't seem to be able to help me."
Then I told him as gently as I could that it was not his leg, that it
was his back, and that he would likely not get well. Then I tried to
tell him of the room in his Father's house that was ready for him when
he was ready to accept it, and of what a glorious welcome there was
there.
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