DELBERT

I leaned over the side rail of the hospital bed to whisper 'Hey there'. My friend Del was in the intensive care unit at Wade Park Veterans Hospital. I knew this could be the last time I'd see him ... his cancer had spread.

I met him at a veterans' group home in Ohio where I sang hymns and shared God's Word every Sunday evening for nearly twelve years. Del bore a weathered scowl that seemed permanently fixed on his deeply furrowed face. He didn't suffer from the mental disorders common to the other residents. He was just an elderly man set in his ways. 

Though most of the residents looked forward to our time together, Delbert initially resented my visits. He didn't believe in God and let me know it every time he saw me. He would bluntly tell me that I wasn't welcome, using language that certainly left an impact. Del was a Navy vet who had mastered the art of cursing. I thought I knew all the foul language that could be uttered. I was wrong.

But one Sunday things changed. I showed up at the home in a sour mood for some selfish reason. Del met me at my pickup truck with a profanity-laced diatribe that didn't slide off so easily this time. To his surprise, instead of politely ignoring him I responded angrily through clenched teeth. "Delbert, I don't want to hear your nonsense today. I don't care what you think about me coming here. I don't care that you don't believe in God ... leave me alone." 

His reaction stunned me. All the long-standing vitriol seemed to melt away. That wrinkled face softened. He was genuinely disturbed by the thought that I no longer cared about him. The truth was ... I did care and felt terrible that I'd made those hateful remarks. I put my arm around his shoulder and suggested that it was time to set things right.

We found a private setting and talked. I introduced him to the salvation that comes from acknowledging Christ's atoning sacrifice. He agreed to pray with me and receive God's gift. It's one of my fondest memories as I reflect on those times with the men.

He grew in grace ... and week after week I learned what it was like to know God through Delbert's eyes. He communicated with God without the trappings of religious terminology. When he prayed, it was as if he was respectfully talking with an old navy buddy of higher rank. Delbert and God were friends.

On one occasion he pulled me aside to let me know what our Lord was 'really' like. I was happy to hear Del's observations. "God is as powerful as 20 atom bombs and as gentle as a baby," he said. I smiled and agreed that he was exactly right as always. I treasured his insights and wrote them in the margins of my bible.

I loved Delbert.

Now I was patiently sitting in the hospital with him. He was extremely weak and obviously under the effects of strong pain medication. "Del, it's me ...". His eyes opened slightly as I held his hand. "How are you doing?" I asked. 

Delbert whispered to me with halting effort ... "Every day's a holiday, and every meal's .. a banquet".

He took his last breath and peacefully passed into the presence of the Lord. 

I doubt he knew his impact on my life. I loved seeing God through Del's prism.