Ronda

Rich is the author of "What Southern Women Know (That Every Woman

Should)" and "My Life In The Pits." She lives in Gainesville,

Ga.

My brother, the only scion of my father's name, lay dying. The blood

poisoning that had consumed his body, had thrust him into a coma and set

off myriad problems so numerous that the doctors had placed him on life support

and offered little encouragement.

I would like to say that he was fighting valiantly to push himself back

from death's door but with a spirit as savagely shredded as his wounded

body, I don't know that he had the strength or the inclination. Death,

I suspect, looked peaceful to him, offering a reprieve from his torment.

So, we prayed and were grateful that preachers, would-be saints, extended

family, friends and the congregations of many churches offered up pleas on

his behalf.

There were even a few, who had not spoken to the Lord intimately in many

years, who sank to their knees and begged woefully on his behalf. Those were

probably the most powerful entreaties of all.

The first night, as death's whisper grew louder in our ears, my sister

and I slept on the floor on the critical care waiting room. I huddled close

to her, desperately seeking warmth for both my body and my battered soul.

Excruciatingly, the hours passed and then gradually the days as slowly,

he began to inch his way