I don't respond to every squeaky hinge as if it requires a major repair job. One drop of oil can do wonders.
The ring of the phone awoke me one Sunday morning at 5:30. A woman whom I had been counseling for some time tearfully asked me to drive to Billings Hospital in Chicago (some twenty-five miles away) and minister to her sister and brother-in-law. Their 2-year-old son had been in the bathtub the night before; while his mother was out of the room, his 8-year-old retarded sister had climbed into the tub and sat on him. When the mother returned, she found him in a coma.
When I received the call, it appeared the baby would die. With Sunday's service before me I said, "I'll definitely go see them. But I have to see when I can work that into my schedule today.…"
"Pastor," she interrupted. "I think the little boy is going to die, and they need you right away."
"Okay. I'll be there shortly."
At six o'clock I phoned an elder and asked him to teach my 9; 45 Bible class. I told him ...1