THE HEROES HALL OF FAME
By Erwin Bourne—August 1, 2002

Thank you, readers, for your unwavering faithfulness
in reading my E-mail  inspirations.  A number of you
have replied that you look forward to each new
writing.  One person says he reads my “inspirations”
each morning during his devotions.  Another young
person, who is a youth leader, writes that he needs
daily missionary illustrations for his class.  To all
of you, I have you in my mind as I write.  God bless
you each one.

“There is no better illustration of this faithfulness
than is found in the second half of Hebrews chapter
11.  This Scripture has been called “the heroes hall
of fame,” and it bears great reference to our
discussion….  They died not receiving what had been
promised.  {Now} without detracting from the
sacredness of that Scripture, Dr. James Dobson submits
for your inspiration, his own modern day “Heroes’ hall
of fame.” 

In my first film series, Focus on the family, I shared
a story about a five-year- old African-American boy
who will never be forgotten by those who knew him.
Gracie, a nurse with whom I worked had taken care of
this lad during the later days of his life.  He was
dying of lung cancer which is a terrifying disease in
its final stages.  The lungs fill with fluid,  and the
patient is unable to breathe.  It is terribly
claustrophobic, especially for a small child.

This little boy had a Christian mother who loved him
and stayed by his side through the long ordeal.  She
cradled him on her lap and talked softly about the
Lord.  Instinctively, the women was preparing her son
for the final hours to come.  Gracie told me that she
entered his room one day as death approached, and she
heard this la talking about hearing bells ring.

“The bells are ringing, Mommy, “ he said.  “I can
hear them.”  Gracie thought he was hallucinating
because he was already slipping away.  She left and
returned a few minutes later and again heard him
talking about hearing bells ringing.  The nurse said
to his mother, “I’m sure you know your baby is hearing
things that aren’t there.  He is hallucinating because
of the sickness.”

The mother pulled her son closer to her chest, smiled,
and said, “No, Gracie.  He is not hallucinating.  I
told him when he was frightened—when he couldn’t
breathe—if he would listen carefully, he could hear
the bells of heaven ringing for him. That precious
child died on his mother’s lap that evening. And he
was still talking about the bells of heaven when the
angels came to take him.  He belongs forever in our
“heroes’ hall of fame.”

My next candidate for faithful immortality is a man I
never met, although he touched my life while he was
losing his.  I learned about him from a docudrama on
television.  The producer had obtained from a cancer
specialists to place cameras in his room.  Then with
approval from three patients, two men and a woman, he
captured on film the moment each of them learned that
they were afflicted with a malignancy in its later
stages.

Their initial shock, disbelief, fear and anger were
recorded in graphic detail.  Afterwards, the
documentary team followed these three families through
the treatment process with its ups and downs, hopes
and disappointments, pain and terror.  Eventually, all
three patients died, and the program ended without
comment or editorial.

The two who apparently had no faith reacted with anger
and bitterness.  They fought their disease, and seemed
to be at war with everyone else.  That’s what made
the third individual so inspiring.  He was a humble
black pastor in his late sixties.  He never lost his
poise.

On his last Sunday he preached:  “You ask if I’m mad
at God?  He didn’t do this to me.  We live in a sinful
world where sickness and death are the curse man has
brought on himself.  And I’m going to a better place
where there will be no more tears, no suffering and no
heartache.  Then he began to sing.
This unnamed pastor has a prominent place among my
spiritual heroes.

Marion Benedict Manwell who is still living is another
inductee in my hall of fame.  I was first introduced
in a letter she wrote to me in 1979.  I have kept this
letter all these years.  Let’s share (excerpts) that
she wrote many years ago in that original
correspondence:

Dear Dr. Dobson, I was the first child of a young
minister and his school-marm wife.  When I was eight
months of age, the heavy spring of the jumper in which
I was bouncing suddenly snapped.  Being taut, it came
straight down and tore…the soft spot on my head.
{Those with me) believed me to be dead.  Doctors gave
my parents no hope that I would live.  They were godly
people…their faith is responsible for my life.

When I told my mother that I wanted to a nurse and a
missionary, she said, “That’s wonderful.”  She knew
that I could never be either because of my
infirmities.  After my mother’s death, things became
even more difficult.  I had given my heart to the
Lord.  That, added to my introverted personality, did
not draw me into the cliques of our little town
school. 

Later I married.  The Lord has blessed me with six
sons and two daughters,  For almost forty years now,
God has protected me. He has given me the
confidence I needed.  It is so rewarding to see our
children leading lives as respected and honored
members of their communities.  That’s the most
rewarding aspect of cancer for me.



By Erwin Bourne
Outreach_amazon@yahoo.com