Sometimes, we get so caught up in our own problems that they start to feel like the whole world. Pain has a way of doing that, it narrows your vision until all you can see is what hurts. That’s exactly where I found myself in the days leading up to Christmas in 2015: exhausted, frustrated, and quietly overwhelmed by something I couldn’t seem to control.

It started as a simple stomach ache, annoying, but nothing alarming. I thought it would pass. Instead, it stayed. And then it worsened.

For five straight days, the pain refused to let go. It settled into my body like an unwelcome guest that had no intention of leaving. I ended up being admitted to the hospital, lying there as hours blurred together. Painkillers helped, but only just enough to take the edge of pain off. The discomfort never really disappeared, it just lingered, constant and draining. Even the smallest movements felt heavier than they should.

Eventually, the doctors gave me the news: I needed surgery.

“It’s not life-threatening.”.

They said.

“You can live without this organ.”

They meant well. They were trying to reassure me. And logically, I understood. But fear doesn’t always listen to logic. There’s something unsettling about the idea of being put to sleep, of losing control, even for a moment. Lying there, waiting, I felt that quiet fear creeping in, the kind you don’t say out loud, but feel in your chest.

When they wheeled me into the operating room, everything felt cold and distant. Too bright. Too quiet in a strange way. A doctor looked at me and asked.

“Are you ready, Sir?”

I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure what “ready” was supposed to feel like.

Then came the syringe.

And then, nothing.

But it didn’t stay that way.

Somewhere in the darkness, I became aware again. Not in the hospital, but in a place that felt… different.

I was walking through a garden, quiet, calm, almost unreal in how peaceful it felt. Everything was alive in a soft, gentle way. The air felt light. The kind of place where you don’t feel the need to rush or think too much.

And I wasn’t alone.

Beside me stood someone I can only describe as a kind, fatherly presence. He wore simple, flowing white robes, and there was something about him that immediately put me at ease.

We walked side by side, speaking quietly. I wish I could remember what we said, but I can’t. What I do remember is how it felt.

It felt safe. It felt familiar. I couldn’t quite explain why. There was no fear, no confusion, only a steady sense of peace and of being understood.

He felt like someone I had known long before.

The moment was simple, but it felt full, like it meant something, even if I didn’t have the words for it.

We eventually sat down on a wooden bench under a large tree.

There was a warmth there, something deep and genuine. The kind of feeling you don’t question, you just experience it.

And then, suddenly, it was gone.

A voice cut through everything.

It called my name.

Just like that, the garden disappeared. The man beside me disappeared. Even the memory of our conversation slipped away before I could hold onto it. All that stayed was that feeling, calm, warmth, something close to love.

Then I heard it again:

“Wake up, Sir Ulysses.”

I regained consciousness in the recovery room.

The lights were harsh, and machines beeped steadily around me. My body ached with sharp, immediate, and very real physical pain.

I was also overwhelmed by an intense cold, prompting me to ask for a warm blanket to calm my trembling.

But other than that, something had changed. I felt… quieter inside. Unexplained peace, somehow.

Later, as I rested in my hospital bed, I caught a news segment about the war in Syria. The story focused on a man who had lost everything, his home, his family, his sense of safety.

He stood among the ruins, battered, broken, yet quietly composed. There was no anger in his voice, no trace of bitterness. Only exhaustion.

Then he spoke a prayer that shook me to my core: he asked God for the gift of death.

In such unbearable moment, he clung to faith. His words humbled me completely.

Here I was, complaining about the discomfort of surgery, the dull ache of recovery, while this man had faced the collapse of his entire world. And still, he found the strength to remain calm, to pray, to exist with dignity.

It struck me then how easily we take life for granted, how often we fixate on what we fear, what we lack, what has been taken from us, instead of seeing what remains.

My pain was real, yes, but temporary. I had family, shelter, love. I had another chance at life, another chance to be grateful.

Those days before Christmas reminded me of some profound truths:

In the harshest fates, some are left praying for the end, while many of us worry about losing life, clinging desperately to every fragment of time we can hold.

This life is a gift from God, a fragile, beautiful gift that’s far too easy to overlook.

And I will never forget that garden, nor that man in the rubble.

Both reminded me that even in suffering, there is something sacred: the strength to keep moving forward, the grace to be thankful, and the faith to trust that even in darkness, light will always find a way in.

“Sometimes, it’s not the pain that changes you, but the perspective that follows it.”

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