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I believe in the resurrection of Jesus. Here is an Easter poem I wrote and a true story about the power of Christ.

"Friday's suffering came and went.

Part One of a Angela’s Story: She lived!

The cross, the blood, a lamb was spent.

Dark the tomb was sealed alone.

Then Sunday morning, up rose the Son!

Never more to bear such pain,

Of cruel lash or heavy shame.

Eternal light and joy we gain.

We owe to one, the Man we name.

Jesus! The Son of Father's love,

Ascends to reign from heaven above.

Returns a King with crown adorned,

Bows the nations, calling Him, Lord."

Angela was a nursing student at the university. She was pretty, athletic and smart. She was on a presidential scholarship. She and her boyfriend were involved in Campus Crusade for Christ and excited about the future.

In September of her senior year, Angela began to feel discomfort in her abdomen. She went to the student clinic. "Tell us about your sex life," they asked.

"I don't have any. I'm a virgin."

"No, really, you can tell us. This looks like Pelvic Inflammatory Disease (PID)."

Angela protested that she could not have any STD because as a Christian she practiced chastity. Not believing her, the university hospital called in a counselor to pressure Angela to tell the truth.

"You have PID. By the way, don't tell anyone you have fever," they joked. "Someone might think you have a ruptured appendix."

Angela's discomfort grew worse. Ashen and weak, she was taken to a gynecologist, a friend of ours and a Christian. Taking one look at Angela, he suspected toxic shock. "Call an ambulance," he told his nurse.

She was rushed from his office into surgery. They found a ruptured appendix with severe toxemia.

The staff worked heroically 24 hours a day to save her. She remained in critical condition in intensive care. They couldn't get the infection cleaned up. Her abdomen was kept open, flushing toxins out. Experimental drugs were flown in. She was sedated and paralyzed, respirator-dependent, feverish.

Her anxious parents drove into town. Students held prayer vigils in the chapel. Churches rallied intercessors. The long watch began. The news was never good.

Days, weeks passed. A critical care specialist said her chances of recovery were one in three. A tracheotomy was done. The oxygen level of her blood was monitored. They worried her kidneys might fail. Her bloated body was barely recognizable. Tubes trailed out everywhere. Then one lung collapsed. Her O2 blood-gas level declined. Her lungs began to lose capacity to transfer gasses. The respirator was inadequate. The nurses began hand-bagging her.

Death seemed imminent. They called larger hospitals, urgently seeking a better equipped institution to take her. The statistics said she had one chance in a hundred to live.

A regional trauma center agreed to take her. An air ambulance touched down at three in the morning. The flight crew was authorized to decline transport if they thought she wouldn't survive. I watched them whisk her away through the night, just as thick fog was closing in.

Later, we learned the new hospital took her by mistake. They thought she was a pediatric case. Fortunately, they stabilized her in intensive care.

Time dragged on. Then pneumonia set in and all hope was gone. Thirteen weeks and a million dollars later, the doctors gave no hope for Angela to live. But she did!

Next week: Part 2 of Angela's story.

RON WOOD IS A WRITER AND MINISTER. CONTACT HIM AT WOOD.STONE.RON@GMAIL.COM OR VISIT WWW.TOUCHEDBYGRACE.ORG. THE OPINIONS EXPRESSED ARE THOSE OF THE AUTHOR.

Religion on 04/04/2018

Print Headline: Then Sunday, Up Rose The Son, Never More To Bear Such Pain

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