Healing A Muslim

I looked at the registration sheet in the transfer packet. His religious preference indicated ISL. He was a Muslim.

My heart sank.

I thought, there’s no way he’ll let me pray for him.

They were still copying records, so it would be a while before we could transport him to another hospital for dialysis and possible surgery. I went to his room to introduce myself.

Crammed into a room slightly larger than a closet I found Maurice, a man in his thirties with some big problems. After passing large amounts of blood in his bowel movements for three days, he reluctantly came to the emergency room. He’d managed to flush most of his blood volume down the toilet.

A normal red blood cell count (RBC) is between 4.5 and 5.5. His was 1.6. His hemoglobin and hematocrit were critical. The ER doc ordered a transfusion of 6 units of whole blood for starters.

Maurice was diagnosed with high blood pressure at 15. At the age of 18 he suffered his first stroke and spent 2 weeks in a coma. At 21, he developed kidney failure and learned about dialysis. My new friend had more medical problems than most men twice his age.

I explained my part in the continuing drama of his life. We chatted as I thought about how we would get him out of the tiny room and keep the lifeline attached to his neck from pulling out. An external jugular vein was the only IV access they could find.

Maurice was curious. The moment we got in the ambulance the questions began.
“Are the lights on?”

I said, “yes, but only on the left side, because people don’t appreciate bright lights in their eyes.”

“Not the inside ones, I mean the ones on the outside. Are the red lights on?”

I smiled and asked if he thought we needed them. He said, “I don’t know, what do you think?”

I explained that we don’t use red lights much between hospitals because most of the patients are stable. We talked about the benefit and risk of running red lights and siren. But I shared the story with him about the woman we transported earlier in the day who was in premature labor. “We don’t like delivering babies in the ambulance.”

“What’s the difference between an EMT and a paramedic?”

I explained.

“What’s the difference between a paramedic and a nurse?”

More explanations.

I looked at the registration sheet in the transfer packet. My patient’s religious preference indicated “ISL”—a follower of Islam. My heart sank. I thought to myself; there’s no way he’ll let me pray for him. The unit secretary was still copying his records, so it would be a while before we could transport him to another hospital for dialysis and possible surgery. I went to his room to introduce myself.
Crammed into a room slightly larger than a closet, I found Maurice, a man in his thirties with some big medical problems. After passing large amounts of blood in his bowel movements for three days, he reluctantly came to the emergency department. He’d managed to flush most of his blood volume down the toilet.

A normal red blood cell count (RBC) is between 4.5 and 5.5. His was 1.6. His hemoglobin and hematocrit were critical. The doctor ordered a transfusion of six units of whole blood and called us to transport him to a larger hospital for surgery. “Hi, Maurice. How are you doing?”

“I’ve been better. Man, my head is killing me.”

“Well, that’s not good. Hey, look, we need to get you out of this room and onto our gurney, and it’s going to be a tight squeeze in this tiny room. If we got the gurney beside the bed, do you think you could move over without help?”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Cool. And you need to be careful moving. We can’t afford to lose that IV in your neck.” An external jugular vein was the only IV access they could find. “Hey Maurice, I need to ask you some questions. How long have you been on dialysis?”

“Since I was twenty-one. I was diagnosed with high blood pressure when I was fifteen. When I was eighteen, I had my first stroke and spent two weeks in a coma. I was diagnosed with kidney failure when I was twenty-one and started dialysis a few months later.”

“Are you serious? Dude, that’s insane. I know guys twice your age who don’t have any of those problems.”

“Yeah, well, my life has been pretty crazy so far.”

Maurice was curious by nature. The moment we got in the ambulance, the questions began. “Are the lights on?” He asked.
“Yes, but only on the left side because people don’t appreciate bright lights in their eyes.”

“Not the inside ones, I mean the ones on the outside. Are the red lights on?”

“Do you think we need them?”

“I don’t know, what do you think?”

“We don’t use red lights very often when we transport between hospitals. Most of our patients are pretty stable. Every time we turn those red lights on, we increase our odds of getting in an accident. Some drivers see the red lights, and they freak out. Some people actually drive off the road trying to get out of our way and end up hurting themselves. Look, you have some problems, but I don’t think we need to use the lights and sirens this time.”

“What’s the difference between an EMT and a paramedic?” He asked.

“An EMT has about 100 hours of training. Usually, they take a class that lasts three or four months. A paramedic has a lot more training. Most paramedic classes are a year in length with some extra classes like anatomy and general chemistry.”

“What’s the difference between a paramedic and a nurse?”

“Well, a nurse has a minimum of two years of education, but some nurses go to college for four years. The training is different. Nurse training is aimed at hospital and nursing home care, while paramedic training specializes in treating people in their homes and in situations outside of a hospital or nursing home.” I really liked Maurice. He was a pleasant man in spite of his medical problems, and he laughed at most of what I said. He didn’t fit the stereotype of Muslims that I’d built in my mind. He was strangely… very much like me. In explaining the differences between paramedics, EMTs, and nurses, I told him that I was a little different from most paramedics because I saw patients healed in my ambulance. With a puzzled look, he delivered his next question.

“What do you mean healed?”

I told him a few stories about some of my patients who had been healed. Now he was even more curious. “Can you do anything about my headache?”

I asked how bad it was. He said it was very painful, about eight out of ten. I placed my hand on his head and commanded the pain to leave in the name of Jesus, then I asked how he felt.

“A little better,” he said.

I put my hand on his head again and commanded the pain to leave, then asked how he felt.

“A lot better.”

I did it one more time, and he said, “It’s gone… completely gone.” He was smiling from ear to ear.

“Jesus just healed you, ”I replied.

“You’re a Christian, aren’t you?” He asked.

“Yes, I am.”

“That’s what I thought. You know, I only have one problem with the way you Christians see Jesus. He was a good man and all, but He wasn’t God. The Bible even says no man has seen God at any time. But Jesus was seen by the multitudes. So how could He possibly be God?”

“Look, Maurice, I don’t want to argue about religion. God healed your headache because He loves you. The healing is proof of that. God can heal the bleeding inside of you, and that’s my main concern right now. Can I pray for that to be healed?”

“Yeah, no problem, man. Go ahead.”

I placed my hands on his abdomen and commanded the bleeding to stop and for his kidneys to be healed. In the middle of praying, it occurred to me to share the story about the experience Bonnie Jones had, where she was taken to a warehouse in heaven that was filled with spare body parts. She was told that the organs could be put inside people on earth who needed new ones.

When I was done declaring healing over him, he turned to me and said, “I want to tell you something. When I was comatose for two weeks, I wasn’t unconscious. I was awake. And a very strange thing happened to me. During the time that I was in a coma, I was in one of those warehouses like the one you mentioned, and someone was with me. I didn’t see them. I don’t know who it was, but I felt comforted when I was with them. The one who was with me kept saying I would be okay. They said everything would work out. They told me my journey was not done. I had an assignment that must be completed.”

We talked about the experience. I suggested that it was a near-death experience like many that I’d read about and that the one who was with him was the Spirit of God. He didn’t argue. Nothing in his knowledge of Islam could explain the experience. I told him a little bit about the Holy Spirit in the short time we had left. We arrived at our destination and moved him to his ICU bed. I gave report to the nurse and left out the fact that his headache was healed.

I learned so much on this transport. My view of Muslims was destroyed. I’m working on a new one. I wrongly assumed I wouldn’t be able to pray with this man, but he allowed me to pray. Actually, most Muslims love prayer, and that was something I had never considered. What Maurice needed was someone to love him the way Jesus loves and heal him the way Jesus heals. It occurred to me that we often think people of other faiths have never had any true spiritual experiences or encounters with God. Maurice had a profound, heavenly experience most of us will never have, this side of heaven. What he needed was someone he trusted to give him an interpretation of it. I was grateful that I’d been able to build a bridge of trust with him that day.

Two days after transporting Maurice, I went to the ICU to check up on him. He gave me permission to tell his story, but we agreed to change his name. We talked for quite a while and laughed a lot. When I asked what the doctors found on examining him for bleeding, he said they ordered all the usual tests—both endoscopy and abdominal scans—and found no signs of bleeding. They were sending him home without surgery. He allowed me to pray for the healing of his kidneys again.

This is an excerpt from the book My Craziest Adventures with God – Volume 1