Heather Jangra tells how her heart was moved by the Taize worship chorus "Stay With Me"

Jacques Berthier

It was Monday evening, and the telephone rang at my mother's house. "This is the D18 Ward Sister at New Cross. We've done further scans and we now know what's wrong with your husband. Please can you come to the hospital within the next hour."

Her words seeped out like black water. "OK," I said breathlessly, "I'm on my way." There was a knowing silence from both of us, and then I replaced the receiver. This was the culmination of an eternal and anxious weekend, where I had watched my cheerful and healthy husband, Bimal, rapidly become sick, semi-paralysed and inanimate. I had waited for hours for the doctor, who was busy wading his way through a flu epidemic, and then for the ambulance, whose crew were in the midst of a strike.

On the Sunday evening, after the initial brain scans, we were told that Bimal had suffered a stroke. I was allowed to see him, and with his usual stoicism, he was busy flexing his weak arm, and talking of playing guitar again. On Monday, however, his skin still burned, and he lay in a pale dishevelled huddle under the bedclothes. His Diabetic Specialist took me to one side.

"I don't like this," he said. "I don't think that Bimal has had a stroke: he's far too young, and he's deteriorated today. I'm going to get to the bottom of this by the evening..." It looked as though the specialist had been as good as his word. My mother took me to New Cross Hospital in the car: it was a strange, silent journey.

"I know what they are going to say," I quietly told mum. "They are going to tell me that he has a brain tumour. They want us to come now because they are going to take him to Smethwich Neuro."

Upon arrival, I was surprised to see our minister. He hugged me and have me a big smile. Bimal had apparently phoned him. We were ushered into a small room, and a doleful doctor introduced himself. A whisper of nurses gathered by the door. "We have found a large lesion," he said, looking at the floor. After a while, I was allowed to see him, behind the green hospital bed curtain.

My listless husband suddenly became very animated, as I tried to comfort him. "The doctor said this is potentially life-threatening. I don't want to die!"

"Now listen to me," I heard myself saying calmly, "God is with you right now, and He isn't going to leave you. You must trust in Him." Inside, I was screaming. Where was my God in all of this? I felt so empty.

The Midland Centre for Neurosurgery and Neurology was one of those places that we had driven past so often, and I imagined it must be a place of great sadness. We trooped through the National Health-painted corridors, and were greeted by a tall, burly, affable young man in a white coat. He smiled wryly from beneath his sandy moustache.

After the examination, he introduced himself as the Senior Registrar. We all sat down in his small room, and he explained that things need not be as bad as we imagined. He said that it certainly looked nasty, but that "sometimes, a thing looks like an apple, and it's not until you take a bite that you discover it's a pear!" This was the first ray of hope that we had been given, but my thoughts were filled with the damaging half-knowledge that I had gleaned from working alongside general practitioners. I remained despondent. Where was my God?

The following morning, I stood in my mother's large downstairs window, and looked up at the solid, heavy sky. My sleep had been deeply disturbed by all of the negative fears that I could not dispel. Previously, I had prayed for a healing. This felt like the exact opposite! "Whatever happens Lord, please don't make me bitter: let some good come out of this," I prayed.

I searched my soul. Had I done anything wrong? Was this divine retribution, or a test of my faith? A small voice from within assured me that the God I knew was, first and foremost, a God of love. Yet somehow, I was stumbling in the darkness for Him.

The phone calls started: friends from Church, and from our band; offers of help, and offers of prayer. Visitors found me out at my mother's address, and sat with me. I made them tea, and we watched 'Sesame Street'...

That afternoon, I found Bimal sitting up in bed, watching television, and attempting to eat, with an improved right hand. The change was startling. "God will heal me," he said. "And even if I do die, I will be with Him. I win either way. But I don't think I'm going to die."