Mormons, Methodists, Baptists and Bikers

On a recent Sunday afternoon, I sat in room 3317 of St. Mary’s Hospital in Grand Junction, Colorado and began to drift into a mid-afternoon nap. Jana and I had been visiting Spenser the prior evening and had stayed into the early morning hours talking with Barry, so I was a little tired when we returned the following day. As I fell asleep, my mind began thumping to a pulsing, rhythmic sound.

All at once I realized the pounding in my head was actually the memory of helicopter blades whirring in the background of a cell phone call I received while standing behind the trading post counter almost five weeks ago. Since I am a child of the Vietnam era, helicopters always make me anxious. They remind me of tragedy, and injured and dying young men. Although I was too young to have been involved in the conflict, I vividly remember watching the evening news broadcasts and have seen all the movies. So, on that particular day, the thumping of blades confirmed my worst fears.

Michelle’s exact words have escaped me, but the fear I felt upon receiving her telephone message frequently returns, climbs up my throat and threatens to spill out my tear ducts. The gist of Michelle’s message was that Spenser had been in a serious accident and had to be airlifted off the mountain. As I hung up the phone, I could not get the sound of that helicopter out of my mind. It was that sound that had startled me from my slumber; the pounding rhythm that to me now represented both injury and salvation.

A follow-up call requested me to meet Barry and Laurie at the filling station in Monticello and drive them to the hospital. By that time I knew Spenser had been in an ATV accident and had suffered serious trauma to his brain. When we arrived in Monticello, Barry stood at the roadside waiting, his clothes stained with the blood of his son; my nephew. The scene constricted my throat and made it difficult to breath. After a trip I feared would last into eternity, we arrived at St. Mary’s just in time for the neurosurgeon to inform us he was taking Spenser into surgery; the situation, he said, was extremely troubling.

It was at that moment I realized my right hand had been severed, and there was a very real threat my heart would be torn from my chest; I have never been so frightened. I knew I could cope with losing my right hand while he helped his son, but I would not survive without my heart. I desperately needed that young man to live. The thought of no longer having Spenser running around the trading post shook me as I have never been shaken.

We found our way to the waiting room, staked out a position and waited for the surgeon to return. At about 3:00 a.m., I noticed the man lying on the couch opposite us begin to shiver. Jana had been able to secure blankets from a nurse and we had an extra, so I walked over and placed one on the man’s large frame. As I did so, I noticed he had a long beard, ponytail and tattoos covering his shoulders and arms. Oddly, as I placed the cover on him, the only thing I could make out in that tangle of tattoos was “JESUS.” That struck me as strangely incongruent; here was someone I would generally associate with the Hell’s Angles motorcycle group sporting religious symbols.

Later that morning this bear of a man awoke and inquired whether my brother-in-law Amer and I were responsible for covering him. When we affirmed we were, he asked why we were there. We explained Spenser’s circumstances, and he said, “Well, can we pray?” As we knelt on the waiting room floor, he said one of the most beautiful and meaningful prayers I have heard in a very long time. He later told us he was a member of the motorcycle group Soldiers for Christ, and that he had called his friends to place Spenser’s name on a prayer circle, where people all over the world would be praying for our nephew. The thought of countless people like this man praying for Spenser was extremely comforting, and left me feeling more at ease and more hopeful.

As the weeks have worn on, our Mormon friends, relatives and neighbors have reported that they have been praying and fasting for Spenser’s full recovery. Even the local elementary and middle school students gave up their lunches to ensure Spenser makes it through this ordeal. Our friend Fran early on informed us that her Methodist and Baptist friends had also placed Spenser’s name on prayer lists. All this positive energy and love directed at Spenser has surely helped improve his condition.

As my mind drifted back into focus, I could see Spenser lying in his hospital bed, sleeping peacefully. Over the past weeks, he has crept back, step by step, from the edge of the abyss. To us, Spenser’s improvement is nothing short of miraculous; obviously the result of the love, caring and prayers of the Mormons, Methodists, Baptists, bikers, Catholics, Navajo medicine men, and many others who claim no particular spiritual allegiance. All these individuals have helped keep us sane during an insane period. Thank you.

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