10 EMERGENCY CALL

10 EMERGENCY CALL

He dropped Suzanne at the house and drove toward the couple's address. Colton had never met them, but he had promised to stop by their apartment and counsel them about their marriage problems.

"Turn around," the Lord said to him, in a strong inner impression as he drove. "Go back to the hospital."

"But why, Father?" Colton inquired. "I just came from there."

"Nita will need you."

Colton drove on. "Nita has electrotherapy every day at this hour. She won't even be there if I go back," he reasoned with himself.

The Lord kept prodding. Colton tried to ignore it. Maybe he was just imagining things. After all he had just come through a tremendous emotional experience in seeing the eighth face.

He arrived at the couple's apartment and knocked on the door.

"Go see Nita," the Lord insisted.

"Father, that's impossible," Colton protested as he waited for the door to open. "This young couple - I've just knocked on their door!"

"Go now."

"Father, I've promised to see them. They'll have tea and cakes lined up. It's Sri Lankan custom!"

"Go."

"Please come in," the woman said.

In the next split second Colton considered his options. He could ignore the silly notion of driving clear across the city to the hospital, and that would solve his problem. But no, he had dealt with the Lord too long; he knew better. If he said, "God spoke to me outside your door," these two people would probably think he was crazy and he would never get to counsel with them.

"I've just had an emergency call," he stammered. "I have to go to the hospital."

"Have some tea before you go," the young man offered as the preacher backed away.

"No time, even for tea," Colton blurted, picking up speed. "I'll see you another time," he called over his shoulder. "Make another appointment!"

He ran to the Volkswagen and sped away. Clear across Colombo he gripped the wheel. Something within him had begun to pulsate. But he couldn't tell what was going to happen. The traffic was terrible. Why couldn't all these people get out of the way? "Hurry, hurry," the inner voice said.

Colton screeched into the parking lot and bounded toward Nita's room. Suddenly he slowed to a walk. Nurses and aides were buzzing all around.

He relaxed, "Well, they must be taking good care of her."

But something about the scene, the faces, suddenly triggered panic in the little preacher. He pushed aside an attendant and peeked into the room. He was shocked. Nita lay crumpled at one edge of the bed, almost past struggling for breath. She had fallen from the bedrest as the nurses transferred her from the rolling cart. Now they were trying to pull her back up, but her gasping convulsions kept them from getting a solid grip on her.

Colton ran toward them. "Get the oxygen!" he shouted as he leaned over her taking charge over the surgical staff. "Call the doctor. Now!" he yelled.

"It's too late," the head nurse answered evenly, with the Buddhist reverence for death. "She is dying." For her, the only proper thing to do was to stand by and let the spirit depart from the body in peace.

Colton didn't answer her. Inside he began screaming. "No! Lord! You told me just last night this woman's witness will bring revival to Asia! I will not let her die!"

Colton pushed the nurses away and lifted up her convulsing body. He dumped her back on the bedrest and then held onto her, praying loudly, rebuking Satan, and crying out to God to spare her life.

The Buddhist attendants watched fearfully from the edges of the room. This strange man with the strange words must be a witchdoctor, for surely he was chanting over the sick one. They were afraid.

For over two hours Colton prayed. Nita's convulsions abated and she lay like a corpse, unconscious and unresponsive. But slowly, smoothly, she began the journey back. Deep in the recess of her spirit, she heard the distant prayers of a man who loved God. The words floated in and soothed her, like a healing balm, and she knew she was not alone.

She blinked slowly and tried to focus. Colton's hairy arms were extended down to her. He was rubbing her neck. His tie was loose and his blue short-sleeved shirt was drenched with sweat. His face and neck were shiny wet. And he was praying in a language she could not understand but somehow she knew it was very special to God.

She coughed weakly, and Colton opened his eyes, still massaging her neck muscles.

"Nita, this is Pastor Colton," he began gently. "We're with you. Jesus is here. Nita, God loves you. Jesus is here. You're coming through. Jesus is here ..."

A doctor came in and took Nita's pulse.

"She's all right," he said, trying to re-establish the official authority he and the staff had lost during the crisis.

"I know that," Colton said, and kept praying.

When the crisis had passed and Nita's mind was clear again, the miracle of Colton's return slowly dawned on her. From that moment she could not deny that God had His hand on her life, that He had sent this man to her as a friend and guide. Maybe, just maybe, there was an alternative to death.

But what did God want from her? She couldn't imagine.

Colton bounded like a hungry tiger into action. He began coming to the hospital at least twice a day, early in the morning and again in the afternoon, to visit with Nita; to pray with her; to talk through a Bible study with her and encourage her. Sometimes Suzanne accompanied him, and almost every day their young sons came along as well. Nita enjoyed the boys immensely as they climbed all over her, pinched her and tugged on her deformed toes and giggled and sang songs and told jokes and make funny faces, all trying to entertain her. Colton would drop by in the evenings too, as he visited other patients, and then sometimes later yet, when Nita's family had gone. On many evenings Colton was the last one to leave.

The cumulative hours of exposure to this strange little loving man and his sweet wife drew them into Nita's heart, and Nita into theirs. Week by week, she gradually opened up, chatting with Colton, talking about spiritual things, sometimes teasing him about his blind faith - but never again in the old combative way. Suzanne often brought homemade broth and fed it to her, easing some of the burden that Nita's mother had been carrying for so long. Nita grew deeply attached to the Wickramaratnes, and the attachment was mutual.

But Nita's body continued its undeniable breakdown. Her left hand had shrunk to half the size of her right, and her right hand lost its sensitivity now as well. She could hardly stand to look at her grotesque, hooked fingers. She was slowly curling up as her wasted muscles retracted inch by inch as the result of muscular atrophy. Her legs were strapped to metal calipers to keep them as straight as possible, but it was obvious the splints wouldn't work forever. She had to clear her throat constantly as the paralysis seeped into her neck. Headaches became more frequent, increasing in intensity until Nita thought her jaws would sink into each other. Colton spent hours standing next to her, rubbing her head to ease the pain which he could literally feel throbbing through her skull.

Colton and Suzanne often sat with Mrs. Edwards, praying in unity for their dear one, but nothing seemed to help. Nita refused to cry; refused to beg for help; refused to allow saccharin sympathy as her physical form steadily degenerated. Eventually her neck muscles gave way, and her head lurched helplessly to one side. Gasping respiratory attacks struck with frightful regularity. With each new crisis, nurses opened the oxygen cylinder and slapped the mask over Nita's face. One day the cylinder jammed and refused to open, as Nita choked. Colton prayed feverishly. Suzanne watched the nurses struggle with the cylinder as long as she could. Then she threw herself on the convulsing body and pressed her mouth against Nita's. She blew into the constricted throat again and again, until finally the seizure ended.

The end seemed to be coming every day, and the endless waiting took its toll on Nita's mother. Every day, for months, she had taken Nita's hand, looked heavenward, and prayed in simple, hopeful language for her daughter's healing. Over the months, that hand had warped and shrunk and twisted up, and still Mrs. Edwards' prayer was the same. Nita had rarely seen her cry. She had always been a source of strength and courage. But Mrs. Edwards went home every night and wept bitterly, agonizing over her child's condition. Every night, finally exhausted, she fell into a fitful sleep. Her appetite had vanished.

She had grown thin and, to those who had known her for long, gaunt. But Nita never knew the sorrow her mother was battling with.

The day came, however, when her mother's prayer of hope changed. In spite of the spurt of faith the little Pentecostal preacher had briefly generated in her, Mrs. Edwards could no longer hope for her daughter's health.

One night, thinking Nita was asleep and would not hear, she took the deformed little hand in her own and looked upward. She whispered, "Lord, I just can't take her suffering any longer. My girl hurts so much. Please take her home. Let her die!" The hot tears fell on Nita's crippled hand and she had heard it all.

But the Lord refused.