Almost 20 years ago I received a letter from a young mother in my church at the time. Her name was Jan, and this is the story she wrote me:

It was the end. I knew it. I could no longer fight. I sat here emotionless. I was totally alone. Others had tried to help—doctors, nurses, parents, husband, children. But they were gone. Hours earlier I had come into the hospital on an emergency basis. I had back pain so severe that at times, it dropped me to my knees. This was not my first hospital stay. I had been sick for a long time it seemed.

First came flu-like symptoms that wouldn't go away. I battled for weeks, then months. Eventually, I was unable to get out of bed and unable to eat anything without severe pain and vomiting. I finally sought medical help—but my faith was failing fast.

Next came the tests—some painful, mostly embarrassing. Then came a kidney infection that almost stopped my much-needed surgery. It disappeared miraculously. Eventually, my gall bladder was removed. The surgery was declared a success. I was sent home.

But I noticed that I still couldn't eat without getting ill. Deep within myself I knew I was still sick. My symptoms worsened. So, here I was, back in the hospital.

I sat in the bathroom. It was the middle of the night. No people, no "miracle" medicine, no strength left. I was too tired to fight. I sat there—four walls surrounding me. And a bleak, monotonous "bleep" from my battery-operated IV filled the silence. I couldn't stop the sound of that miserable machine, anymore than I could control my own miserable life. So I sat there—dull, miserable, in pain, with no hope.

It was while I was there that I finally did hear something else. I didn't hear it with my ears—but I did in my spirit. I heard someone crying. And I immediately knew that it was Jesus crying for me. I was shocked—totally surprised. I didn't think he would do that for me.

This experience did not leave me emotionally elated. Nor did I feel a physical touch. Life was the same, except I now knew I really was not in this battle alone. Jesus cared in a way my wildest imagination would never have hoped for or expected.

Slowly I got up and shuffled back to bed, my IV still "bleeping" in my ears. Life was the same but different entirely. I believe that Jesus at that time made intercession to the Father for me. When there was absolutely no one else that would help me, he cried for me. And I did recover. Thank you, Jesus.