September 1974 — March 1975
"Through The Valley Of The Shadow"
Psalm 23:4
We were back home in Pasadena. From the crowded halls at Lausanne, Switzerland, we had gone by train and ferry to England, visiting a couple of European missionary headquarters on the way. I had talked until I was hoarse selling books on missions that second week in Lausanne. Then, on the train through Europe, I had picked up a terrible cold while sitting at an open window to escape the cigarette smoke strangling our rail car. All this time, by doctor's orders, I had been taking large amounts of thyroid medication in an effort to reduce two nodules on my thyroid gland which he had discovered just before we left. Now he recommended surgery.
I looked forward to the "rest" that surgery would involve, yet somehow I felt reluctant and ill at ease with the whole idea. "You, a nurse, afraid, and it isn't even major surgery!" I chided myself. Still, uneasiness lingered, and I recommitted my life and future to the Lord.
At first the surgery seemed uneventful, The nodules were
Page 8
benign, for which I praised the Lord. The surgeon didn't even seem alarmed that I could only whisper. "That is probably due to the large metal tube the anesthetist put in your throat," he told me. But he seemed increasingly concerned when my voicelessness persisted three days, a week, two weeks, three weeks. And I was getting desperate.
It was the beginning of the seminary school year and, as usual, faculty and students were invited to an opening banquet. I went with Ralph and quite by accident (or Providence) sat beside a seminary friend who had recently had problems with his voice. He advised me to see his specialist, whom I called the next day.
I was well — perfectly capable of driving the 45 miles to the doctor's office in Santa Monica. And though I couldn't speak, I could whisper. So I went. Alone.
I didn't know whether to be impressed or dismayed by the showy display of autographed photos of movie stars which covered Dr. Hans von Leden's walls. "Are they a status symbol for him, or is he really a capable laryngologist?" I wondered.
But when he examined me, I was impressed by his thoroughness — and totally unprepared for the diagnosis.
"You either have a bruised or pinched nerve, in which case your voice will soon return. Or the surgeon accidentally cut your laryngeal nerve. Your right vocal chord is paralyzed."
I leaned toward him, whispering as loud as I could: "If it is cut, will it grow back together?" I should have known better, but my mind refused to accept the alternative.
"If it is cut, there are two options," he matter of factly explained. "If we can get it before three weeks are out, we can sometimes splice it together. It is too late for that. Sometimes, very rarely, in three out of one hundred cases, the left vocal chord alone will compensate for the right. If this happens to you, your voice will return suddenly after about six months. But don't expect that. It happens very rarely. There
Page 9
is nothing we can do. Nothing but wait."
I was stunned as the truth dawned on me. I might never be able to speak again! I might always have to clap my hands to attract attention, or touch the grocery clerk on the arm, or pull my husband over to my lips as we traveled the freeway. I might never be able to sing again.
Tears filled my eyes. I looked at him, then choked out a whispered, "We can pray."
I was fairly sure this man was not a Christian — in fact, he was probably Jewish — but I couldn't restrain myself. "There is a greater Physician who made me and can heal me. I will go to Him."
I stumbled out of the office and down the stairs, hoping I would meet no one who would wonder at the tears raining down my cheeks. The long drive home during rush hour traffic was a nightmare. I couldn't see well because of the tears, and I worried about the safety of driving in my condition. Yet I had to go home. God's angels must have been very close to me that day.
For some time I had been praying that the Lord would make the Bible more precious to me. I had read the Bible all my life, but I sensed that it didn't seem so precious to me as it did to some others who had newly come to it later in life. Disciplined obedience on my part was necessary, I knew, and thus I had reread sections of the Old and New Testaments. But for some time, I had tended to shy away from the prophetic books since their interpretation was, I thought, subject to so much speculation. Yet of late I had been impressed that obedience required reading these books also. I had completed Daniel and Revelation and was halfway through the Book of Ezekiel, where I had left my marker that morning.
It was a relief to find myself alone when I got home. I wanted to tell Ralph, but not yet. I had a battle to fight with God. Throwing myself on the bed, I cried and prayed and then reached out for my Bible. For lack of any other idea, I started to read where I had left off. And the words leapt from
Page 10
the page as if God himself were speaking, "On the day of his coming your voice will suddenly return to you" (Ezekiel 24:27).
"Oh, God, could this be for me? Dare I claim it?" I searched feverishly for the context. Did it mean (for me) when Christ would return? Whose coming? Suddenly! That's what the doctor had said. If my voice were to come back it would come back suddenly! "Oh God, you must mean this for me. Otherwise why would I see it when I wasn't hunting for it — when I didn't even know such a verse existed?" And my heart became calm and trustful again.
The next months were "toughies." Various pastors and friends prayed for me, but I could sense they didn't really believe God would heal me. Even those who specialized in praying for the sick wanted to warn me against all possibilities. "You know, your verse says, 'On the day of His coming.' "
I knew they meant well, and I knew that true faith was not a conjured-up feeling that God would somehow honor. My faith at times was strong. I would assure people that whatever was God's will was okay. I knew I was in His very loving hands. Yet on the way home from such a public declaration I would break down in tears at how long it seemed and how difficult to be patient.
God gave me those months because I needed them. I was unable to rush out and manage this or that; I couldn't make myself heard. Little by little I began to understand the rock of security that the Bible is meant to be, and mine became underlined throughout in pinks, yellows, and greens of felt-tip markers. Every morning I tried my voice, hoping to find that this was my "suddenly" day. And every day I again cried to the Lord, reminding Him of His promise, yet assuring Him that I'd serve Him no matter what. He'd just have to show me how. I constantly prayed that no matter what happened, my attitude would be a testimony for Him and that I would not be resentful of the surgeon who should have been
Page 11
more careful. I wanted especially for the non-Christian doctors to know of God's power — that He is real!
By the end of January, I began to notice a slight difference. The left side of my throat was very weary at times, and I would stretch my neck to relieve the tension. Then the whisper became a bit louder and every now and then would crack into a real voice for a moment. Day by day there was a bit more voice until, in about three weeks, I was talking again. How I praised the Lord! Even the Jewish doctor said, "Well, I guess God has done a miracle for you. Your right vocal chord is still paralyzed, but you'll get along okay."
As I look back now, I see that God had me, and our whole family, in training, making us ready to trust Him wholly. If we had been able to do something — anything — we would have done it. But there was absolutely nothing we could do except wait and trust and pray.
That lesson was invaluable. We learned that God looks over the daily affairs of man. That He cares what happens, even to us. And that, to Him, our growing stronger in faith is far more valuable than anything else.
Not my voice, not our financial security, not our position — nothing is to be compared to the value of learning to depend on Him. I needed that lesson for what was to come.
