2002.

It was the second week of January!

I was critically ill, battling relentless fever. A series of medications were tried, but none seemed to bring relief. The drugs reacted adversely. I yearned for solid food, but my body rejected it—everything tasted bitter, bland, or overly spicy. For days, porridge was my only sustenance.

Dialysis had dried my frame. My body aged unnaturally, my skin and flesh shriveled. In bed, I lay still, like an eagle stripped of feathers—brooding in silence.

There were hours of inactivity. Time seemed endless. In that stillness, I drifted through memories of the past, haunted and helpless. I shook with anxiety, fretting over my condition, my dreams, and my fate.

On a restrictive salt- and sugar-free diet, I grew weaker. Noise startled me. Even minor disturbances disturbed my rest. At night, when the city of Chennai slept, I remained awake. I imagined myself a guardian, shielding my family from unseen evils.

I heard uncanny noises: the howling of coyotes, screaming panthers, screeching owls, and whispering birds. Perhaps it was hallucination—perhaps it was my sickness. The darkness taunted me. “Who-ooo,” it called. I felt its chill, my hair bristling in terror.

My dream of becoming a Chief Architect and earning a successful life seemed a distant past. Dialysis drained not just my body but my hope. Visitors sat silently by my side, unable to bear the sight of my frailty. I lay helpless—like a crocodile on land.

This ongoing struggle seemed insurmountable. I couldn’t overcome it. But then, light emerged in the form of my aunts. They moved in to support me, cared for me with love, and raised fervent prayers to God. Their unified voices called out in one accord.

They taught me Bible verses, spoke of hope and healing, though I remained scientific and skeptical. Yet, Einstein’s words echoed in my mind: “Science without religion is lame, religion without science is blind.” I tried to absorb the Scriptures.

A quiet faith began to form. I longed to see my sister. And then, she came.

Latha, 25, arrived with her two children—a four-year-old daughter, Acily Sckadon, and a mischievous two-year-old son, Prem Fredric. Her husband, Wilfred, a government servant, accompanied them. Pastor Sam Packianathan from Maranatha Church joined, along with Stephen and several church members.

They stood around me, each in silence, watching, praying. My sister stood by my head, the Pastor at my feet, others near the door and window. Overwhelmed with emotion, I stared at the ceiling, tears trailing down.

Latha spoke with conviction. “This is a testing phase. You must take God’s promises to heart. This pain is to shield you, to refine your life.”

She quoted, “This sickness is not unto death” (John 11:4). Like Lazarus, she believed I would rise. Her words resonated. Slowly, my heart opened.

Pastor Sam noticed my fear of evil. He lifted his eyes and prayed, “There is no sorcery against Jacob, no divination against Israel. It will now be said of Jacob and Israel, ‘See what God has done!'”

The words were balm to my troubled soul. I felt fear recede.

“Father God! Heal this son of Israel, Jeb,” Pastor continued. “Protect him. Let no evil prevail. Let your divine hand cover this family.”

The darkness that haunted me began to lift. A gentle light broke in. I found peace.

Latha then quoted Scripture: “He who has two coats, let him give to him who has none.”

I had none. My kidneys had failed.

Moved by love and faith, Latha offered to donate her kidney. The family rejoiced at her courage. Tests began the next day. Blood group, sugar, pressure—all matched. Tissue matching revealed a perfect compatibility. A transplant date was fixed. Hope returned.

But fate had another test.

On the next dialysis, I developed high fever. Dr. Subbha Rao, my nephrologist, advised waiting. “Transplant during fever is risky,” he warned.

Everyone remained hopeful. My heart raced with fear and expectation. Yet, the fever didn’t subside. Time passed. Latha had to return to Coimbatore. The transplant was postponed.

I continued dialysis. Life became a relay of small sprints. I moved from one test to another.

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.” (Ecclesiastes 3:1)

Hope remained alive.

“He who has two coats, let him give to him who has none.”