Not long ago, I wrote here about a heart “event” I underwent three years ago. In that piece, I used that experience to show the difference between a shepherd after God’s own heart and a hireling.

You can read that article here.

Little did I know at the time that this heart “event” would not be my last.

I recently experienced my second, and this time, more grave one. Because the issue was more serious, it required more serious surgery and medical treatment. Just so, the soul medicine I needed was more serious as well. I thank God that He dispensed it to me liberally. Let me share how.

THE STORY

In May of this year, my cardiologist scheduled a stress test for me. This is standard operating procedure: three years after a stent placement, a cardiologist wants to assess the patient’s heart health. I thought I was fine, but she knows more about these things than I do, so I showed up for the stress test at the appointed time.

Not long after I completed the test, the review team strongly impressed on me to go home and do nothing until my cardiologist contacted me within a couple days to arrange an in-office visit. I was to have no physical exertion or stress of any kind.

In that meeting, my cardiologist told me that the results of my test were not good. There was an issue with my heart, one that required a heart catheterization to diagnose. The soonest date available was July 14 (This former missionary to France remembered that this is Bastille Day; “not good,” I thought to myself). I was charged again to refrain from all physical exertion and stress. “Just rest,” I was told.

My wife and I envisioned the insertion of a second stent, followed by a second round of heart rehabilitation. No problem.

But this was not to be.

After the heart catheterization, the cardiologist who performed the procedure asked if I had been experiencing any chest pain or difficulty in breathing. My negative response to each question surprised him. He told me I had two severe blockages, including one that was cutting off almost all blood flow to the front of the heart. He told me that I required an immediate double bypass.

The next day, the 15th, was filled with medical tests that confirmed I was a good candidate for this surgery. At 5:00 am on the 16th, I was awakened and prepped for the operating room.

I’ll not describe the procedure here, but I encourage you to read what a bypass surgery entails – it is not as simple as it sounds. It is, at once, a medical miracle and a horror movie. Hearing or reading the description is not for the queasy, but it is an amazing life-saving procedure.

I thank God for this medical knowledge and the skilled hands of those who can perform it.

My surgeon is certainly at the head of that list. I am forever indebted to her for her medical expertise.

And I am also eternally grateful for her personal concern. She didn’t just perform the surgery and walk away to the next patient on her schedule. She visited me multiple times in the hospital over the next nine days, explaining, asking, listening, and encouraging. Once I was home, she called several times to check on me personally. This was especially meaningful to me when my recovery was interrupted by complications and challenges that sent me twice to the ER and back into the hospital. She was there every step of the way as my surgeon.

And yes, as my 21st-century “Barnabas,” a daughter of encouragement.

After my incredible wife (I could not have made this journey without her care and encouragement), my surgeon was the first and most significant of what I call my personal “Red Pillow Brigade.”

THE RED PILLOW BRIGADE

But only the first.

Over a dozen doctors were involved in my case. Each one was more than a medical professional. Each one seemed as determined to treat my soul as well as my body, encouraging me that even though the process was hard, health was ahead. Each one walked with me as a person, not just a patient. Literally.

They were all tacit members of my personal “Red Pillow Brigade.”

Add to this a virtual army of nurses, nurse practitioners, physician assistants, techs, and even a personal pharmacist.

All were members of my personal “Red Pillow Brigade.”

The surgery and challenging recovery required two hospital stays and two trips to the ER. Add to these appointments in medical offices across east and south Orlando.

Each medical professional in these facilities is also a member of my personal “Red Pillow Brigade.”

Family, friends, and ministry colleagues sent cards, called my wife, texted, left messages on my phone – some on a regular basis – to tell me they were praying for me, and asking what they could do to help. My daughters and their families came with gifts. Churches in several states sent word that they were praying – members sent notes confirming that prayer was even taking place in church services.

Each of them is a member of my personal “Red Pillow Brigade.”

WHAT?

“Red Pillow Brigade?” you ask. Let me explain.

Like cardiologists across the country, my doctors ask (ok, demand) that recovering open-heart surgery patients like me carry a heart-shaped red pillow everywhere we go. They insist that we press it to our chests every time we rise, walk, sit, or lie down

At home and in public.

This simple action helps keep a cracked-open, wired-back-together sternum from separating and requiring a reset surgery. I’ve done my very best to comply. Whatever it takes to keep this recovery moving forward and keep me out of surgery.

It’s been interesting and uplifting for my wife and me to share waiting rooms, lobbies, hallways, and elevators with other red pillow carriers. And with “veterans of the red pillow,” complete strangers who tell us they went through open heart surgery recently or many years ago.

They see my pillow, smile, point, wave, give a fist bump or handshake in solidarity. They call out a word of encouragement – “You’re going to make it!” – or even walk over to shake my hand: “God bless yous” fill the air – in English and in Spanish. One man in his late 70s even triumphantly showed us his scar! We became instant brothers in the brigade.

As my recovery has progressed, I’ve been sure to do my part in encouraging others as well.

The red pillow has led to a sense of camaraderie and belonging.

Not to a sad group of struggling survivors, but to a team of vibrant thrivers.

That sense of thriving now with more thriving to come has been sparked, in large part, because someone – a family member, friend, doctor, or even a stranger – cared enough to smile, share a word of encouragement, shake a hand, send a text, or leave a message.