The Pope and Brad Pitt

I recently had to stay in the hospital for several days following an operation. It was an operation that I didn’t want but my doctor assured me had to happen. The procedure went well and afterwards I was left to recuperate in a room that could have rivaled any four-star hotel.

“Honey, look,” my husband Bill said excitedly as I lay in a morphine-induced stupor, “They have a lazy boy and digital cable-we’re never leaving.”

To ease my discomfort I was given extra doses of morphine and unlimited access to the “Design Channel.” The week wore on and I spiraled in and out of consciousness, greeting visitors who stopped by to wish me well and ask where Bill was. In fact, to this day, I remember the very first words I heard coming out of surgery.

Calling to me across the fog of amnesia, I heard the sound of my pastor’s voice, “Hi, Mignon,” he said, “Where’s Bill?” It was then that I knew I had survived and was now back in the real world.

During my week long stay I began to grow depressed. Several friends dropped by to chat. Some of them I do not remember, and some of them I will never forget. Like the day Brad Pitt came by. He walked into the room holding a bundle of the most beautiful flowers I have ever seen.

“Why Brad,” I said trying to sit up taller in my bed, as I adjusted my flimsy paper gown-there is just no dignity in a hospital. “What are you doing here?”

“Well Mignon,” he replied with that famous boyish grin, “I heard that you were in the hospital and I had a break from filming, so I thought I would drop by.”

Never mind the fact that I have never met Brad Pitt before or even knew anyone who knew him. The fact that he was nice enough to come to the hospital to visit was good enough for me. We talked on and on about various things that I can’t recall, but one thing I do remember was the speed with which he left. One minute he was there, and when I turned my head to get a drink of water he was gone.

I was not alone for long, because shortly after, in walked none other that Pope John Paul II himself.

Powerful and dazzling in his white regalia and pointy hat, he waved his hand toward me, making the sign of the cross.

“I am so sorry Father that I cannot get out of bed and kiss your ring,” I said awed by his presence, even though I am not Catholic. He continued to pray over me, telling me that I would get well and not to lose heart. I continued to feel bad about at least not trying to get out of the bed; after all, the Pope was praying for ME! Our visit was cut short however; as I turned to slide out of the bed so that I could kneel. When I looked up, he was gone.

Now up to this point I had not thought it all strange that a movie star and a religious icon should visit me, an average 35-year old protestant located in a hospital in Southern Texas. But as I sat there, the truth slowly dawned on me. In my morphine- induced state I was having hallucinations—wild ones. I laughed out loud. God sure did have a sense of humor.

Here I had been feeling sorry for myself, alone and unable to pray-yet the Lord had sent me two imaginary emissaries to lighten my load and reassure me that He was still there. Even though it was a strange way to do it, the Lord used the incident to lift my mood and focus my attention back onto Him.

Looking back the memory of that hospital stay turned out to be another opportunity to see God’s faithfulness and support working in my life. Though I have to say, I sure miss talking with Brad Pitt…

Viewed 768 times

Mignon Murrell is Christian freelance writer whose work has appeared in newspapers, magazines and online. She recently finished her first book, Stirring The Waters- Devotions for Inner Healing She is also a prolific speaker and singer.You can find out more about Mignon by viewing her website at: http://www.mignonmurrell.com
© 2009 Mignon Murrell

This column is used with permission.