My friend Morgan Love is in the hospital again.
I’ve lost count of how many times she’s been in the hospital. She’s slept in a hospital bed more times than any human I’ve known.
By now, Morgan knows everything there is to know about hospital life. She is savvy in all things medical. She knows healthcare institutional routines, backward and forward. She can sign official medical documents in her sleep. She knows the entire medical staff by name, age, rank, and denominational preference.
If you go to the hospital to visit this 20-something, you’ll have to wait in line behind all the nurses, therapists, techs, doctors, surgeons, specialists, and probably even members of the custodial crew, who are all waiting their turn just to say hello.
You might also see her fellow Delta Gamma sorority members dropping in. Or other random people visiting, who all want to bask in her glow.
She’s just one of those people.
People visit Morgan the same way they gather to visit the statue of a saint who grants miracles. Probably because Morgan is always happy. Even when she’s not actually happy, she’s “always happy,” if you know what I mean.
Morgan’s mother—who also lives in hospitals with her daughter—once told me, “She doesn’t ever admit when she’s in pain. That’s why it’s hard to know if she’s hurting. She’s more worried about you than she is about herself.”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Morgan not smiling. I don’t even know what she looks like when she frowns.
You will never hear her complain. You will never hear her condone the complaints of others. She will even defend those who have wronged her.
There have been times when various medical staffers from various medical institutions have made significant errors. I’m not talking about small mistakes. I’m talking serious oversights that affected Morgan negatively.
And yet, Morgan will advocate for them. She will softly say, “They were just doing their best.”
Then she will flash another smile.
“Don’t your face muscles ever get tired of smiling?” I once asked her.
She shook her head and replied. “I don’t get tired because I practice a LOT.”
I have, however, seen her cry. But only once. It was during the singing of “Amazing Grace.” She was backstage at one of my concerts. Her TEP feeding tube was snaking from beneath her pretty blue dress, her violent red hair was in a braid. And she was wiping her eyes.
“That song always makes me cry,” said Morgan.
Then, we just hugged for a little bit. And as I held her frail frame in my arms, I thought about something an old Appalachian preacher once told me.
The preacher said, if you ever want to see a true modern-day saint, just look for those who suffer.
“Someone who suffers,” the old clergyman explained, “is someone close enough to kiss God on the cheek.”
That’s Morgan. Although she is only a child, she is infinitely wise. She holds daily company with saints and angels. She has a higher knowledge than most will ever have.
But occasionally she descends from sainthood and comes down to my level. She always puts things in a way I can understand them.
“Sometimes, I can’t believe how lucky I am, going through all this bad stuff. I mean, if I weren’t suffering, I’d never get to experience this deep level of love.”
Right now, Morgan has sepsis. Among other issues. It’s not good. She has more surgeries scheduled. More tests to be run. She needs prayer. She needs prayer badly.
Although, the truth is, Morgan Love would never actually ask for your prayers. She simply doesn’t have time to ask.
She’s too busy praying for us sinners.