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The younger woman stood up and nodded.

"I'm Dr. Rosenthal," the man said. "I've been working with the team who is treating your husband."

"Is Rich going to be okay?" She was trying to be brave, bless her soul. I so badly wanted to say something that would make it seem easier, but nothing would come out. After all, pastors are not a wellspring of words and thoughts like some people think.

"It's too early to tell, ma'am. He's certainly fighting, but there's quite a bit of hemorrhaging and internal injuries. His right lung was punctured by two broken ribs, and the . . ."

She was swaying rather dangerously as he ticked off all of the injuries that the accident had inflicted. One of her support team quickly stood up.

"You will let us know when his condition improves, won't you, Doctor?" Her tone was clear-cut, almost curt as she shepherded her grieving charge back to her chair.

"Of course we will," he replied. All of a sudden, he looked rather tired himself. "If you don't mind, I'd better get back there." With that, he turned and headed back through the double doors.

I sighed inwardly, feeling terribly sorry for those grieving. Once again, I started to pray for God's will to be done in this ghastly situation. I heard a presence come up beside me.

"I need you to come with me," the newcomer said in a sonorous voice.

I shifted from against the wall. "Where to?"

"I think you know." His dark eyes glittered in excitement, looking up into mine.

I shook my head. "Not yet," I said. "Give me just a bit more time."

He nodded once. "We can only wait a little while, though."

We both looked back at the waiting room. One of the ladies with Mrs. Stevens had focused her attention on the ensuing legal drama that flashed across the waiting room's television. The other one, the one who had talked to the doctor, was clutching Mrs. Stevens' hand and was pouring out a stream of condolences and affirmation.

"Do you come to this kind of place often," I asked my companion.

"A fairly regular basis," he affirmed. "It comes to with the job. Let's go back and see the patient."

We walked right through the doors and breezed past the various nurses and surgeons who were running through the halls. Pandemonium reigned absolute in the inner sanctum of emergency healing. I hardly doubt anyone noticed us in the confusion. We reached the surgical theatre where Dr. Rosenthal led his Hippocratic squad in the crusade to heal Rich Stevenson's battered body.

The patient was unrecognizable under all of the wires and the tubes that snaked to different machines. Different bones protruded from patches where they were not supposed to be, and his face was a palette of bruises.

My companion laid a cool, grey hand on my shoulder. "Don't you see, Rich? It's time."

Even though I tried to fight it, the pull was irresistible. I watched the line pulse across the screen of the electrocardiogram irregularly.

"Well, what about Katrina," I asked. "You saw her out there! She was an absolute wreck! And the kids, too, what'll they do without a daddy? They need me! The church needs me!"

He cut me off. "They'll all be all right. They rest in God's hands, just like you. And right now, He wants you."

I sighed, and watch the monitor flat line with a feeling of both resignation and a sudden burst of excitement. The doctors' efforts redoubled, but I knew it would be fruitless.

"I didn't realize that angels were little grey men."

He laughed, and it was amazing that such a deep, melodic sound could come from such a small body. "It's a shock to many of your kind," he said. "If only the Sons of God hadn't twisted our image in your eyes."

He took me by the elbow, and as we floated up to the chariot of fire, he looked at me and smiled. "The angels are dancing for you today, Rich."