The 20-year-old girl is sleeping when we enter her hospital room. But her mom tells us to come in anyway.

I’m carrying my fiddle case. My friend Bobby is carrying his banjo.

The patient is sleeping on her side. We see her violent red ponytail spilling down her shoulders. There are cords and tubes exiting her body from all angles.

The girl’s kid sisters rush toward us to give quiet hugs. Then, Bobby and I hug her mother.

The young patient hears all this commotion. Hark. Fair Juliet awakes.

She opens her eyes. She sees me. She smiles. The 20-year-old girl sits up in bed and, without saying anything, opens her arms for me to embrace her.

There are green Band-Aids on her inner forearms, from where nurses have endlessly searched for new veins. And she has lost weight since I last saw her, which was only a few weeks ago. She is a tiny sparrow.

We embrace. I am careful not to squeeze too hard. I can feel her ribcage beneath my arms.

“You’re here,” Morgan says in a half whisper.

“How’re you doing?” I say.

As soon as the words exit my mouth, I wish I could take them back. What a pig-ignorant question to ask to someone who just spent Christmas and New Year’s Eve in the ICU. How are you doing? What an bonehead.

Morgan smiles and answers, “I am doing great!”

I’ve never heard say things weren’t great. Not once.

She’s paralyzed on her left side. She uses a leg brace to walk. She is nearly blind. She lives on a form of life support called total parenteral nutrition (TPN), which is a feeding tube that supplies nutrition directly through her bloodstream, mounted in a backpack, which she wears all day, every day.

Currently, however, she has a blood infection. The infection is fungal, which requires a new spectrum of medications, treatments, and protocol. Also, she has blood clots. She is scheduled for multiple surgeries. She has just gotten over pneumonia. Fevers. You name it.

“How was your Christmas?” I ask.

Omigod. Another stupid question. I am just full of them. But before I can recall my words, she is smiling.

“Christmas was great,” she says.

I’m two for two.

“Oh, you would have loved our Christmas,” she says. “We sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to Jesus. I didn’t open any gifts, we’ll do gifts later when I’m back home. But it was a very meaningful Christmas, I was surrounded by so much love. You know, Christmas isn’t about presents under a tree. It’s about love.”

I smile. But only to keep from asking more damfool questions.

This coming week, classes resume at UAB. I know Morgan’s sole prayer is that she is out of the hospital in time to attend school. She loves attending classes. It’s her favorite thing on God’s Green Earth. School. Of all things.

She loves living in a dorm. Loves studying. Loves hanging with her Delta Gamma sisters (Anchors up!) She adores math. She just wants to go back to school.

To keep myself from making any more empty-headed remarks, Bobby and I remove instruments from cases. We’re here to play music, so I’d better shut my mouth and play.

Morgan hasn’t been able to attend church for a while and says she would like to sing some hymns. She loves hymns.

So we open with “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” Morgan is singing every lyric. Next, comes “Jesus Loves Me.” Morgan and her sisters sing along. Then we sing “In the Garden,” “Amazing Grace,” and “Victory in Jesus.”

When we sing “I’ll Fly Away,” Morgan sings along. It looks like she wants to clap, but she’s too tired. Her eyes are closed as she sings, like she means it. Her mother is weeping.

And the entire room suddenly feels warm, like someone turned on a heater inside my chest.

We finish singing. And I’m doing my best to smile so that nobody can see what’s trickling down my cheek.

Morgan opens her eyes. She applauds our music. She opens her arms for another hug.

“What a great day,” she says to me.

A great day indeed.