The Tavern Ghosts
On a winter night in 2007, I found myself once again sitting in a tavern in a small town in southern Michigan where I worked—one I’d practically lived in for the past ten years. Things had happened there that I’d never share with anyone back in Indiana… memories I’d gladly erase if I could.
That night, I’d just come off my second-shift factory job on the other side of the railroad tracks. The place was quiet—seven souls scattered along the bar, all regulars, all familiar. I took my beer to a table by the jukebox and fed in a song: Roll Me Away by Bob Seger.
Then I looked up. It was 1998 all over again: the same faces. Same stools. Same conversations. And it hit me:
“What am I doing here? How did my life come to this?”
I put the beer down and walked out. That was the last time I ever stepped foot inside that tavern.
Driving home through snowy streets, something shifted inside me. Sadness became anger. By the time I reached my one-bedroom apartment and climbed the narrow stairs, I was boiling. I threw my coat on the floor, marched to the center of the room, and pointed a finger at the ceiling. I began to blame God for all of my problems:
“This is Your fault! You knew what I’d become—and You let it happen!”
I railed. About the car accident when I was eight. About why God hadn’t taken me then. About a lifetime I felt had been squandered.
And then—whether it was God, or my own conscience—I heard it. Plain as day:
“Your mother had enough to deal with… an alcoholic husband… eight other children… The last thing she needed was the heartache of a dead child.”
I stood frozen. Just breathing. Just listening.
So I thought, Well, that pretty much says it all. Thanks for the honest answer, God. You didn’t spare my 8 year old life that day out of any concern for my well-being, but out of mercy for my godly mother. Okay. I can understand that. You knew I wasn’t worthy of Your love. Thanks a lot!
But with that mind-set came a deeper dread. I felt like I had finally crossed the line with God. Like He had brushed His hands together and said, “That’s it. We’re done.” I imagined Him turning and walking away.
And that image settled into me like cold cement. A heaviness, a depression, came over me that I couldn’t shake. It wasn’t just sadness—it was spiritual distance. Silence where there used to be hope.
A few weeks later, I got a call from one of my sisters. She said maybe it was time to come home. And honestly? She was right. If I died up in Michigan, who would come for my body? That thought haunted me.
If death was coming—and I believed it was—it would be easier for everyone if I was closer to home.
So I left. In December of 2007, I moved back to Indiana. And in March of 2008, I took the job at the hospital.
The job that changed everything.
A Quiet Beginning
I worked the third shift as a security officer at a small hospital tucked into the north end of the city. My nights began with a quiet walk around the entire perimeter of the hospital grounds—an outside patrol that gave me time to collect my thoughts. That evening, I’d been feeling off all day—queasy enough to consider calling in sick. But with only three months on the job, and not much seniority to lean on, I knew it wasn’t wise to miss a shift without notice.
Outside Patrol & Routine
On this particular night, I made my way through the familiar loop—past the emergency entrance, around the wooded edge of the property, and back toward the ambulance bay. It was uneventful, like most nights. A soft hush lay over the city, interrupted only by distant traffic and the hum of rooftop vents.
I entered the hospital through the ambulance bay—the same entrance I used each night, since our security office sat just inside across from the E.R. work station. But as I stepped through those automatic doors, a flush swept over me. I knew instantly: I was about to vomit, and there was no stopping it. That sinking, helpless feeling hit hard.
No One Knows the Day or the Hour
It started suddenly. I quicky walked to the public restroom just inside the ambulance bay, barely making it across the threshold before a surge overtook me—unexpected and violent. I doubled over, and before I could make sense of what was happening, I was expelling a stomach full of blood. It wasn’t a trickle. It came fast, without warning, and left me dizzy and stunned.
I stepped back, shaken and unsure. Something wasn’t right. My body felt unmoored. Legs trembling, I dropped to my hands and knees and began crawling toward the hallway, desperate for help and clarity. Time blurred, sounds muffled. The room seemed to tilt, and I wondered if I was about to lose consciousness.
I felt myself being hoisted onto a gurney and rushed into one of those curtain-shrouded E.R. rooms. Needles pierced both arms, a blood pressure cuff clamped around my bicep, and the heart monitor’s beeping rang loud and relentless. Techs hovered, poking and prodding, firing off questions I was too weak to answer.
Then the nurses stepped out and pulled the curtain shut. One of them said—perhaps not realizing the curtain did nothing to muffle her voice:
“He’s lost a lot of blood. I’ll be surprised if he makes it until morning.”
That line cracked something open in me. This was it. I was going to die. In an instant, memories surged—ugly moments, selfish choices, shameful acts—all flashing like a twisted highlight reel. More accurately: a low-life reel.
Regret slammed into me with full force. Remorse flooded every corner of my mind. I knew where I was headed. Hell. And even in that fading moment, I felt an aching need to apologize to God—for squandering my life chasing nothing but myself, for the rebellion that had defined me.
What I didn’t know then—and wouldn’t learn until later—was that the hemorrhaging stemmed from a hidden malignancy. Lymph-nodal cancer, lodged in the top-left quadrant of my stomach, had been silently wreaking havoc. It was this unseen invader that had triggered the cascade—the blood loss, the collapse, the chaos in the E.R.
In that moment, though, all I knew was pain and regret. The diagnosis would come later, but right then I was standing at the edge… peeking over the precipice into a damned eternity.
Not My First Rodeo with Death
There had been other close calls—three times, in fact—where I thought I was on my way to the other side. Each time, I’d tried to bargain with God: “Let me live, and I’ll change.” And each time, that promise barely lasted a few days before I slipped back into my old ways, chasing comfort and ignoring conviction.
But not this night. This night, there were no deals. To the best of my memory, I simply said:
“Lord, I could tell You that if You let me live, I’d change—but You’d know I was full of crap, and I’d know it too. The truth is, I can’t change. I’ve tried, and I can’t do it. You don’t owe me a thing, and I don’t deserve even a second of Your attention. But… Lord… if there’s even the smallest chance that You still love me, please forgive me. I give up. I surrender the ownership of my life to You. I’ve done things my way, and this is where it all led. If I’m going to change… You’re going to have to do it. Because I can’t.”
But God…
At that very moment, something impossible happened. I felt as though someone had wrapped a warm blanket around me from behind—while I lay there on that hospital bed—and pulled me into a gentle bear hug. I’m not kidding. It wasn’t a feeling I conjured or imagined. It was real. I felt every fear, every ounce of anxiety drain out of my body, as though they’d been flushed from my spirit. In their place came calm… and clarity. I knew—with a certainty stronger than pain, louder than doubt—that if I died that night, I would be with Jesus in Heaven.
I just knew. There was no bright light, no booming voice from above. Just that embrace… and peace like I’d never known.
That was eighteen years ago. Since then, every single day has been a quiet adventure in trust. A slow, steady unfolding of grace. An intimate relationship with Someone I’ve never laid eyes on, but somehow see everywhere I go. In the sky at dusk. In the laughter of strangers. In the second chances that come wrapped in ordinary moments.
It hasn’t always been easy—but it has always been real. And if I learned anything from that night, it’s this: there is no life so wasted, no heart so hardened, that surrender cannot soften it. I’m living proof.
A Grace That Interrupts
I’ve come to realize that we rarely get warnings. There was no grand signal that something sacred was unfolding beneath the chaos of that night. It wasn’t just blood and sirens—it was a door creaking open.
We don’t get to choose the moment when grace interrupts us, when time turns soft and thin and holy. But we do get to remember it. To testify to it.
That night, I learned that even amid fluorescent lights and fading consciousness, you can be held. Not just medically—but spiritually. And sometimes, being caught off guard is exactly what opens us up to being found. I deserve nothing from the Lord that night. But He gave me everything!
Invitation
If you’ve ever had a moment when the ground beneath you gave way, I want you to know: it might not have been the end. It might have been the beginning.
If you’ve had a life-changing moment by surrendering the authority of your life over to Jesus, why not share your story on this platform? Send your story to me via email and maybe you’ll reach that one person who looking for a solid and unshakable relationship with Jesus like you have. (Optional) Include a small profile photo and short bio if you wish.