Most American Christians seem to follow a pattern. First, we find Jesus and get saved. We’re eager to talk about Him at every chance. Over time, the initial excitement fades, but we grow in other ways, like studying the Bible and serving in church. Then comes the urge to share the gospel itself, not just our personal excitement. But this is where many get stuck. We assume, based on the current societal temperature, that most people don't want to hear the gospel. We assume if they don't have a relationship with Jesus by now, it's because they don't want one. We assume that we will be ridiculed, cut off, ostracized, or labeled as crazy for believing in Jesus, let alone trying to tell other people about Him. It feels like there's no right place or time to talk about Jesus—family discussions can be complex, and work seems off-limits. Or is it?

I've gone through these thoughts myself, struggling with the idea of evangelism. However, there was one time when I could not ignore the conviction to share the gospel at work.. Here is the story how I remember it:

I am a critical care physical therapist at a hospital. To protect privacy, I'll call my patient "John." He was a large man, over 6ft tall and close to 300lbs. He was in his 40s, frequently hospitalized due to severe heart failure, and dependent on a left ventricular assist device (LVAD) since his heart couldn't pump well enough. Despite being strong, he wasn't eligible for a heart transplant because of his many other health issues. Although LVAD therapy is an amazing choice to allow people with heart failure to continue living, it is not a definitive cure. The right side of John's heart was also failing, and LVADs are designed to support the left side of the heart. John was in our hospital for quite some time, bouncing back and forth between the ICU and acute care floors. The right side of his heart struggled to pump, and fluid began to back up into the rest of his body. He was becoming a familiar face to nurses and therapists alike, including myself. He started to gain a reputation for being a "difficult" or "moody" patient, even taking on the term "unmotivated." 

Learning that he was deemed "unmotivated to move'' motivated me to figure out why. I became John's regular physical therapist. I learned a lot about him: he was married with four children. I learned that he loved Arby's  "beef n cheddar" sandwiches, and that his nickname at home was Mr. Optimistic. His nickname was ironic because, according to the majority of people participating in his care, he came across as very pessimistic. I learned that John was frustrated. He partially understood the physiology behind his critically ill state. His lungs and body kept filling up with fluid. He told me, in more words or less, "I don't understand why they can't just turn that machine up and pull the fluid off of me faster?" John and I would talk about this in our physical therapy sessions. The medical team tried to do exactly what he suggested on more than one occasion. Each time they tried to pull more fluid, his blood pressure would drop to critically low levels, requiring vasopressors to resuscitate it.

One day in passing, I stopped to talk with a nurse who had been assigned to him on several occasions. She told me, "They are dragging this out. They need to tell him that he is dying." This struck a chord in me. I knew that John believed he could beat his condition, at least enough to get home and be with his children. I also knew the facts about his failing heart. I believe in miracles, but I also knew that John was dying too.

After several weeks spent in the hospital, John's condition took a turn for the worse and he returned to the ICU. I assigned myself to him so that he would be my patient and maintain some continuity of care. He went from being able to get up at the edge of the bed and transfer to and from the commode to barely having enough energy to perform active range of motion stretches in the bed. I knew John was feeling discouraged. And I was dismayed when he finally let me know that he felt like he was dying. He told me “For the first time I am not feeling very optimistic.” I felt the Holy Spirit prompt me to ask John a question. "Is it okay if I pray for you?" I asked. "Yes, sure," he responded. I didn't want to know what he believed in. I didn't want an uncomfortable debate about religion to ensue. I also knew my boundaries and work policies about discussing religion at work. His answer was enough. I knew what I had to do next. I confidently told John that I would see him the next day and check on him first thing in the morning.

The next morning, I knew from my chart review that things were not looking good for John. He required an increase in several vasopressor medications overnight. I quickly walked up to the ICU where he was to look at him. His blood pressure was low. His skin appeared yellow. He looked very lethargic but was able to tell me that he felt stiff and was in a lot of pain. I went to talk to the advanced practice provider about him. She was shocked that I wanted anything to do with him from a physical therapy stand point. We talked about getting him up to a bariatric chair to improve his body positioning, but ultimately, we decided that just stretching his legs would probably be enough. She told me that she was pretty sure John would expire in a day or two. I followed through with helping John with some active range of motion exercises for his legs to relieve the stiffness and pain. Just doing a few simple exercises caused his blood pressure to drop to dangerously low levels. His clock was ticking, and we both knew it.

The next day, John was the first thing on my mind. Again, I checked on his status using the electronic health record. Things were looking quite grim - the medical team increased his vasopressors to the maximum dose. I went to his room to check on him, and he told me that the only thing he wanted to do was get in the shower. Not long after that, I got a call from my colleague, another critical care physical therapist. He told me that the medical providers wanted the physical therapy team to help John get in the shower because it was his dying wish and he didn't have much time left to live. My coworker offered to stay around to assist but also mentioned that the patient made his request clear: he wanted me to be the one to help him get in the shower.

This would be no easy feat, but the assignment was clear. Because he has an electrical device supporting his heart, we would need a waterproof case to safely get him into the shower. John's wife said she would try her best to bring his case from their home, which was over 2 hours away. My time was limited, so I began making requests to the hospital administrators to let us borrow an LVAD case for this special event. After much resistance and help from the physicians on his medical care team, we were able to secure the water-resistant bag.

The team members involved included myself, my colleague (another critical care DPT), the nurse, the charge nurse, and the physician assistant. We waterproofed his LVAD, lifted him to the bedside chair, and rolled the bedside chair into the bathroom. The room was a tight fit, but we were able to position him perfectly in the shower stall. We got the water nice and warm and gave him a thorough shower. We spent about 15 minutes washing him, checking his vital signs all the while. I was in control of the shower head and shaving his head and beard. I let the water wash over him wherever he wanted and made sure there were no patches of hair left. When we told him it was time to wrap things up, he asked for just 5 more minutes of the shower water running over his head. I did so, and I could see relief, satisfaction, and gratitude on his face. We got him back in the bed and onto dry linen. John was exhausted but he looked comfortable and finally at peace.

The Holy Spirit tapped me on the shoulder again and told me that I needed to share the gospel with him. The idea scared me. I could face consequences at work including termination. But the conviction was so strong that I had to obey. I decided to write John a letter. I started the letter by telling him that I had been praying for him, and I gave full disclosure that the following paragraph would be about Jesus. I welcomed him to skip over it and jump to the last paragraph if he was uninterested in reading about Jesus. However, in that second paragraph, I laid out the gospel, invited him to accept Jesus as Lord and Savior, and embrace the end of all his pain and suffering. The final paragraph was all about John. I made sure he knew what an amazing father, husband, and patient he was and that it was an honor for me to serve him. I sealed it and wrote his name on it. When I gave it to him, his mother was in the room. They were working to write his living will on a piece of notebook paper. I told him to open the letter at his own risk. All three of us chuckled at that. I told him that if he was still here on Sunday, I would come and see him. He gave me a faint smile. I left the room, and I wept.

When I came to work that Sunday, the first thing I did was look for John in the electronic health record. He had passed away in the twilight hours the following morning after his shower.

I will never know if he opened my letter. I will never know if he was already saved or accepted Jesus after reading my letter. I will never know if anyone in his family read the letter and took anything from it. I will never know. But I have peace knowing that I was obedient to the Holy Spirit and that the opportunity to receive salvation was presented to John before his dying day.

I wanted to share this because every generation has been challenged with wondering if we are living in the “last days” according to the Bible. We know one day Jesus will come, and the wheat will be separated from the tares. People will either spend eternity with God or be separated from God. Even though the stakes are high, believers all over the world struggle with the idea of sharing the gospel with people because there is so much at risk. We can lose friendships, jobs, and reputations. But I think I would rather risk being called a quack over risking letting the people I know and love spend eternity in hell. I don't know if we are truly in the last days or not (kinda feels like it), but as my granny says, "Today could be your last day. Today could be my last day." That's a sobering thought. And maybe that’s what was so unique about this experience with John. The likelihood that each day that passed could be John’s last day alive was very high. After spending so much time with him, I realized I truly cared about him. And when you truly care about someone, you tell them the truth, no matter the cost.

I hope this testimony encourages you. If there is someone in your life who you know needs the gospel, ask the Lord to give you the courage, the words, and the circumstances to share His love with them. It’s worth the risk.

If you are reading this and you do not have a relationship with Jesus, but after reading this post you’re curious or interested, please do not hesitate to reach out to me. We can set up a time to talk on the phone or have a video call. My email address is briana@truthistransparent.com.