2002.

May 15.

The first day after my kidney transplant was anything but peaceful. No sooner had I opened my eyes than I was gripped by a sudden and severe bout of accelerated hypertension. My medical team responded swiftly, battling beside me like warriors. Multiple antihypertensive medications were started. Then came another complication—hyperglycaemia. My blood glucose level had surged to a staggering 716 mg/dL, far beyond the normal range. I was placed on insulin therapy. Just like that, I became a post-operative diabetic.

Yet, amidst the storm, grace began to flow.

On the second post-operative day, a miracle unfolded—my new kidney began to function. My vital parameters stabilized. My nephrologists gave the green light. I was instructed to resume my anti-tuberculosis treatment immediately, having already been under care for TB prior to surgery.

My diet was revised to a 1600-calorie, diabetic, salt-free regimen—made entirely of natural foods. After months of tasteless sustenance, I finally savored a proper meal again. A dietician handed me a detailed food pyramid and encouraged me to embrace a colorful, plant-based lifestyle.

The team emphasized the life-long importance of immunosuppressant medications. Their timing, dosage, and consistency were critical. “These drugs are powerful,” they said, “but their side effects are manageable—not life-threatening.” I trusted them. I trusted God.

They reminded me with honesty: transplantation is a treatment, not a cure. I recalled hearing the same words during my transplant counseling in October 2001 at Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital, USA. That memory brought a quiet smile of gratitude to my face.

On the ninth day—May 24th—I was finally allowed to step outside. My doctors said, “From now on, it’s all in your hands. You must take care of this incredible gift.” I nodded with reverence. I knew this was a sacred responsibility. I promised myself I would rise to the challenge—I would honor this second chance.

Infections, they warned me, were the most common post-transplant complication. I became vigilant. My body—God’s temple—was now even more sacred. Having emerged from the valley of death, I now sought to live a life rooted in simplicity, vigilance, and serenity.

With great care, I memorized the post-discharge instructions. I was to follow up every other day, bring my transplant reports, undergo minor procedures—a stent removal in a month and a protocol biopsy in three. At discharge, they handed me a care kit and a set of summary notes. I thanked them with all my heart. Their eyes spoke blessing. Mine brimmed with tears.

I stepped outside—into life. Every object glowed. Even the trees shimmered. Joy surged through me. “I can walk to the car myself,” I whispered. My in-laws, gentle and protective, supported me like a newborn. It was humbling.

Home welcomed me with open arms and tearful smiles. I had returned—alive, whole, and full of purpose. The moment felt like a divine embrace.

I whispered a prayer:
“O Lord, let this joy be forever. Use me as a tool of Your will.”

And then—I saw her. My daughter. Just four months old. Her gentle eyes absorbed the world with wonder. In that moment, I knew—she would be my companion through life. Already, she was transforming me. Her innocence, her delight in voices and light, stirred something deep. I made a silent vow: I would recover quickly. For her. For my wife. For this gift of life.

At home, I lived in isolation—in a sterile, well-ventilated room. Twice daily, I would step out to the yard. I began with short five-minute walks, increasing gradually. It became a ritual of healing—a sacred rhythm.

Nature spoke softly. Pain did not bother me. My hair began to grow again. My mustache darkened. My voice returned. I looked younger. I felt renewed.
I was healing. Slowly. Steadily. Miraculously.

Then came an unexpected blow.
I noticed spots—chickenpox.

I had contracted the virus from my donor—my sister—who had recovered from it shortly before the transplant. Once again, I was locked away inside four walls. But this time, I felt not solidarity—but solitude. It was lonely. It was hard.

I tried to keep my mind active. I picked up The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, diving into the dark chapters of Nazi Germany. But soon, a strange heaviness fell over me. “I’m going to fall too,” I thought. I stopped reading.

I turned instead to the Bible—New International Version.

I began with Ecclesiastes. Its words struck me like thunder:

“Wise or foolish, all lives end in death.”
But its final verses breathed new life into me:

“Now all has been heard; here is the conclusion of the matter:
Fear God and keep His commandments,
for this is the duty of all mankind.
For God will bring every deed into judgment,
including every hidden thing, whether it is good or evil.”
(Ecclesiastes 12:13–14)

I read on. Song of Songs painted an intimate picture of divine love—a sacred bond between God and the soul. I longed to be His bride. His beloved.

Then I read The Last Days of Napoleon. His exile. His return. The Hundred Days. His final defeat at Waterloo. I had no army—but I imagined one—God’s Army. Invisible, powerful, and always near.

But time moved strangely. I tried to walk again—but my legs failed me. Life felt heavy. I remembered the words:

“Meaningless! Meaningless! says the Teacher.
Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless.”
(Ecclesiastes 1:2)

I cried inside. I longed for meaning. For motion. For God.

And then—I found this verse in Hosea 6:2:

“After two days He will revive us;
on the third day He will restore us,
that we may live in His presence.”

It was time.

I stood.

I took one step. Then another. Then many.

I was walking again—like a child discovering his feet.

I smiled and whispered, “Now my wife has two children.”

Hope returned. Faith anchored itself in me once more. God had done wonders.

Today, I walk several miles.
I breathe deeply. I live meaningfully.
I cherish my daughter, my wife, my health.
This journey—from surgery to suffering, from isolation to inspiration—has become a testament.

A testament to God’s mercy, to His healing, to the wonders He still performs.

I walk with the One who is flawless.
The One I have fallen in love with completely.

He is Lord. He is God.