Our daughter, Anne, is just two weeks away from graduating with a degree in medicine from the University of Southern California. Her last rotation has been in E.R., which is her favorite. She is so well suited for this position that most E.R. doctors don’t consider her a student; they just throw her into the action and know she will survive.

So it was that she ended up last week sewing up the hand of an 80-year-old man who had gotten it caught in a meat grinder. It turned out to be a three-hour ordeal for Anne that brought new meaning to the term blood, sweat and tears.

First, Anne treats every patient as if they were a family member, so for her, it was my hand she was sewing back together from an impossible state of jagged edges, loose flaps and missing skin. The old man, sensing Anne’s concern, said, sweetly, “Don’t worry; I’m 80 years old, I don’t need that hand for much anymore. It doesn’t have to be perfect.” This, of course, made her want to try even harder.

Second, the man had prostate problems and had to keep getting up to pee, of course, at crucial times in Anne’s delivery. Towards the end of the operation, when he tried to get up to go again, Anne stopped him and said, “Oh no you don’t! Not ’til I’m done!”

Not to mention the other man at death’s door, behind a curtain in the next bed, moaning and crying out, “Lord, help me. Lord, help me.” This made Anne feel especially empathetic towards her 80-year-old patient, wondering how he was dealing with these desperate cries to God for help.

She got her answer when he leaned in and whispered, not bothered in the least by the dying man’s pleas: “That’s how you know you’re still alive.”

Have you done any crying out to the Lord for help lately? Good, because you wouldn’t be alive if you weren’t.