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I was five years old when my father had his first heart attack. That night in bed I begged Jesus to please make Daddy well.

Two weeks later, the man who came home from the hospital was different. He was quieter, more ready to listen, and laughed a lot more. Before his heart attack, he would work at a pants factory until 9:00 p.m., but my new daddy got home at 6:30 every day.

Sundays were no longer spent working at home; instead we wandered through greenhouses and nurseries, picking out rose bushes. My brother Wally and I chose our favorites from the photographs pictured on the plant tags. My father planted rose bushes all around the house. Every free moment we found him on his knees pruning, weeding, and caring for the roses.

Thirty-three years later, my father was rushed to the hospital due to complications from congestive heart failure. The doctors didn't know how long he had-possibly only a month or maybe, if he was fortunate, a couple of years. Every day after work, I found him propped up in his hospital bed, hooked to his IVs, waiting for me. Most days his spirits were low, but I could always make him laugh with stories about the antics of Wally's boys—his grandsons.

When my father mentioned the doctors were considering him for a possible heart transplant, it was a ray of hope. That night in bed, I felt five years old again—begging Jesus to save my daddy's life.

But Dad was diabetic, making his odds for survival slim. A heart transplant was out of the question. The doctors did, however, suggest treatment with an experimental drug that could extend his life. Dad agreed and was transferred to another hospital. Amazingly, in a few days, his body responded to the drug and he was moved from intensive care. To celebrate, my mother placed a vase of white roses from his garden on the bedside table in his hospital room.

That June evening the whole room was filled with the smell of roses, and my father pointed out proudly that they were from his garden. For the first time in three weeks, he was cheerful and chatty, enjoying the televised Cubs game with his roommate.

Before I left he whispered, "I'll really sleep tonight without all those tubes yanking at me. Besides I'm coming home soon!" In the car, I thanked Jesus for the physical change in my father, for his new lease on life.

But a few hours later, I was awakened by a frantic phone call from my mother. Dad's heart had stopped four times. The doctors had revived him each time, but he finally died. Strangely enough, in that moment, I felt like a blanket of peace was thrown over me. I knew my father was fine, because he was with Jesus.

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