Now, understand before I get started that I’m not trying to ram anything down your throat and I’m not one of those kinda guys who wants to convert you to my way of thinking. The one thing that drives me up the wall is some guy trying to convince me that his way of thinking is the only way.
All the people who read my dippy little column know that a few months ago, after going through a series of pokes and gouges, I was diagnosed with throat cancer. After spending the last half century making my living as a piano player and a singer, this caught me a teensy weensy bit off guard. Up until this little malady came along, cancer was something that happened to other people — not me.
The day of my surgery — or, as I like to refer to it, the first gouging — I was in the prep room awaiting the doctor’s arrival when someone knocked on the door and in walked Bob Briley, or, as we like to call him on the bluff, Brother Bob.
Brother Bob is a preacher at the Shellman Bluff Baptist Church and a real cool guy, if you’re allowed to refer to a minister as a real cool guy. Bob came in, we exchanged greetings and he asked if he might say a little prayer before I went into surgery.
Well, what kind of idiot would say no to that? After all, like a Jewish friend of mine says about chicken soup, it couldn’t hurt.
Brother Bob, my wife Sherry, my son and I joined hands and he said a prayer. It was a short little prayer, mainly asking that God guide the surgeon’s hand through the operation and that afterward, nobody had to notify Edo Miller and Sons Funeral Home.
When I woke up, the first person I saw was Brother Bob standing by the gurney, along with the surgeon and my wife. I was still very groggy from the anesthesia and at first I thought he was checking to see if I made it through so he could marry my wife to the surgeon. It’s all a plot and I’m just a shill in the master plan. I don’t mind telling you I was as crazy as a run-over dog.
When I finally came to my senses, I realized that he was there to say another prayer for me, thanking the Lord for my recovery and the success of the operation.
For a period of time following my surgery, everywhere I went, everybody I talked to told me that I was on their church’s prayer list or that they had me in their prayers. I’m talking about old gansta friends and renegades who hadn’t been to church since Jesus was a choir boy. They told me that they had been praying for me. Well, I’m not trying to get all sanctified on you, but I believe it worked and here’s why I think this.
In the last three-plus months, I have been to some sort of doctor every few days and every single one of them tells me I am progressing faster in my recovery than they would have ever imagined. I’m sure when I leave their office they secretly pat themselves on the backs and suck up a lot of credit, but I appreciate every single one of them doing what they have done to ensure that I stay around long enough to get on a few more nerves.
Deep down, though, I know the reason I’m doing so well is that so many of my friends and people who I don’t even know prayed for my recovery. I can’t even begin to tell you all how much I appreciate it. I found out that no matter who you believe in, whether you’re a Christian, a Jew, a Buddhist or whatever, God has a lot of aliases. Some people pray to Jesus and some people pray to Mohammed. It’s still a prayer and I can’t thank you enough.
As the old bluegrass song goes, it’s a real good feeling to be “all prayed up.”
All the people who read my dippy little column know that a few months ago, after going through a series of pokes and gouges, I was diagnosed with throat cancer. After spending the last half century making my living as a piano player and a singer, this caught me a teensy weensy bit off guard. Up until this little malady came along, cancer was something that happened to other people — not me.
The day of my surgery — or, as I like to refer to it, the first gouging — I was in the prep room awaiting the doctor’s arrival when someone knocked on the door and in walked Bob Briley, or, as we like to call him on the bluff, Brother Bob.
Brother Bob is a preacher at the Shellman Bluff Baptist Church and a real cool guy, if you’re allowed to refer to a minister as a real cool guy. Bob came in, we exchanged greetings and he asked if he might say a little prayer before I went into surgery.
Well, what kind of idiot would say no to that? After all, like a Jewish friend of mine says about chicken soup, it couldn’t hurt.
Brother Bob, my wife Sherry, my son and I joined hands and he said a prayer. It was a short little prayer, mainly asking that God guide the surgeon’s hand through the operation and that afterward, nobody had to notify Edo Miller and Sons Funeral Home.
When I woke up, the first person I saw was Brother Bob standing by the gurney, along with the surgeon and my wife. I was still very groggy from the anesthesia and at first I thought he was checking to see if I made it through so he could marry my wife to the surgeon. It’s all a plot and I’m just a shill in the master plan. I don’t mind telling you I was as crazy as a run-over dog.
When I finally came to my senses, I realized that he was there to say another prayer for me, thanking the Lord for my recovery and the success of the operation.
For a period of time following my surgery, everywhere I went, everybody I talked to told me that I was on their church’s prayer list or that they had me in their prayers. I’m talking about old gansta friends and renegades who hadn’t been to church since Jesus was a choir boy. They told me that they had been praying for me. Well, I’m not trying to get all sanctified on you, but I believe it worked and here’s why I think this.
In the last three-plus months, I have been to some sort of doctor every few days and every single one of them tells me I am progressing faster in my recovery than they would have ever imagined. I’m sure when I leave their office they secretly pat themselves on the backs and suck up a lot of credit, but I appreciate every single one of them doing what they have done to ensure that I stay around long enough to get on a few more nerves.
Deep down, though, I know the reason I’m doing so well is that so many of my friends and people who I don’t even know prayed for my recovery. I can’t even begin to tell you all how much I appreciate it. I found out that no matter who you believe in, whether you’re a Christian, a Jew, a Buddhist or whatever, God has a lot of aliases. Some people pray to Jesus and some people pray to Mohammed. It’s still a prayer and I can’t thank you enough.
As the old bluegrass song goes, it’s a real good feeling to be “all prayed up.”