“The last time I was in this chapel, I was praying for my son to be healed.”

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The man was walking out as Nancy and I were walking into the hospital chapel for our weekly service.

Every Sunday morning for several years, from 10:30 to 10:57, the camera is on in this chapel. I welcome people, read scripture, pray the prayers that show up at 300wordsaday.com each Sunday, and speak. Nancy plays the piano for a prelude and postlude and plays two hymns after I read the lyrics. I used to sing but realized that an instrumental interlude makes more sense.

The most we have ever had in the room for these services is 10. And four of those were family. During the pandemic restrictions, and most weeks, we have none. The service is live on a channel on the hospital network and is played back every day at 10:30 in the morning and in the evening. Because a program for the service is on the Sunday breakfast trays, people watch.

The man had walked out as we walked in, and then, a couple minutes later, came back and sat down for the service.

I went to him and sat down, too.

“The last time I was in this chapel, I was praying for my son to be healed.”

“How is he,” I asked. I braced for the inevitable story of death.

“He’s fine. I came back because I wanted to say thank you. And then I left. But I went down two steps and thought, ‘I need to go to church.’ So I came back.”

He was like the one of the ten men who called out to Jesus for healing. Jesus sent them away and, in the process, they were healed. And one man came back. Just to say, “thank you.”

On this morning, I was thankful, too.