This setting is in a hospital waiting room in the emergency department. The hospital is in the Lower East Side of the city. The people are ppor and most have no insurance to cover the cost of medical care. Such is the case with the group of young people milling around in the corner of the waiting room.

It's a small group of young teens and an oldern woman. The youth are dressed in black jackets with chains hanging from their waists and earrings in places where most people wouldn't wear them. They are part of a gang whoose reputation is well known throughout the Lower East Side. Many fear the gang and with good reason. The initiation into the gang requires young people to engage in drive by shootings. Many have died at the hands of these young people and most are too frightened to point their fingers for fear of repercussion. The leader is the son of the woman who sits quietly waiting.

Her youngest son is waiting for a heart. He has been ill for a long tiem and is now first on the list for a transplant. The hospital bill is astronomical but will be paid by Medicare. It's a long surgery and the Doctor's fee is even more than the hospital fee. The family has no insurance adn the woman has no idea what she is going to do. All she knows is that her baby needs a heart desperately or he will die.

On the other side of the waiting room sists an older couple. The man is a heart specialist and has been called in to do the transplant. They are a Christian couple and have served in the church for many years. He is a deacon and well respected both in the church and by his peers. The Dr. and his wife are here because their son has been brought in to the emergency. He was walking home from the church library and was gunned down in a drive by shooting. They sit quietly weeping at their loss and praying for guidance. They have a decision to make and they need so much strength to make that decision.

After a period of time the Dr. gets up and motions to the woman across the waiting room. He takes her aside and tells her that he will do the surgery. He will give her son's hear and he will do it for free. He turns away with tears welling up in his eyes and retreats to the corner of the room and quietly sobs over the death of his son.

A cheer erupts from the waiting room. Jimmy will have a new heart. A new hear and it's free is all that can be heard throughout the room as the small group cheer and laugh with joy. A new heart and it's free.

A young police officer, who had been watching the exchange between the Dr. and the yonger woman, looks over at the Dr. sobbing quietly in the corner. He turns to the group and says to them, Jimmy may have a new heart and it may be free to you, but he says, as he points to the sobbing man in the corner. It's not free for him. It cost him his son.

We, like Jimmy have been given a new heart and it was free, to us. It was not free for God. It cost Him His Son.

Author Unkown.

My Prayer
I asked God for strength that I might achieve;
I was made weak that I might learn humbly to obey.
I asked for help that I might do greater things;
I was given infirmity that I might do better things.
I asked for riches that I might be happy;
I was given poverty that I might be wise.
I asked for power that I might have the praise of men;
I was given weakness that I might feel the need for God.
I asked for all things that I might enjoy life;
I was given life that I might enjoy all things.
I got nothing that I asked for, but everything I hoped for.
Despite myself, my prayers were answered.
I, among all men, am most richly blessed

From a cross-stitch design by Linda Culp Calhoun  Published in Leisure Arts’ Let Us Pray, 1996

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endlessly in either direction, had very different headings.

As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read "Guys I have liked". I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one. And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalogue system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content.

Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I have betrayed". The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I Have Read", "Lies I Have Told", "Comfort I have Given", "Jokes I Have Laughed at". Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've yelled at my brothers". Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My Anger", "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents". I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped.

The sheer volume of the life I had lived overwhelmed me. Could it be possible that I had the time in my life to write each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature. When I pulled out the file marked "Songs I have listened to", I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of music, but more by the vast amount of time I knew that file represented.

When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: "No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!"

In insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't mattered now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it. Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh.

And then I saw it. The title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With." The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand. And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that the hurt started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must never, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key. But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus.

I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one? Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card. "No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was, "No, no," as I pulled the card from Him. His name wouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark and so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood. He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards.

I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side.

He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished." I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.

"Life is an echo, whatever you put in it is what you will get back." Author unkown

"You must be the change you wish to see in the world." Mahatma Ghani