My last thought is love.

It’s 4:30 a.m. I quietly tiptoe through my dark house, not wanting to wake my three sleeping boys and our babysitter who will be with them for a few days. My husband tinkers around downstairs, making his eggs and coffee. I wish I could have some. I’m hungry, but am not allowed to eat or drink anything this morning. We shuffle around slowly, but with purpose, grabbing my overnight bag, his travel mug (why does coffee smell so good when you can’t drink it?), and our ID’s. I give our bewildered dog a kiss and a pat on the head. I hope to be back home in a few days. 

It’s still dark out as we crawl into our vehicle and start the familiar drive to the hospital. I knew this day would come when I wouldn’t be arriving for bloodwork, counseling with a social worker, or an EKG. I would be arriving to donate my left kidney to someone I never met.

We arrive in the parking garage, barely skinning the top of our large SUV. But experience assures me we’ll enter unscathed. I’ve parked here a dozen times before. My husband drives to the top level. He likes to have extra space to park, and I’m glad to have another glimpse of the night sky turning to morning and a deep breath of fresh air. We don’t talk much as we walk hand-in-hand through the garage and down the steps, our faces glowing yellow from the fluorescent lights. 

We’re descending into the depths of the hospital now, and I check in at the surgery counter. I’m not the only one surrendering my body to a surgeon today. Around 10 other people fill the waiting room alongside me. Some look desperate, limping and hobbling around. Others, like me, look perfectly healthy. I wonder why they are here, but I keep my curiosity to myself. I sit quietly, fill out paperwork, and glance over and over for my digital number to show up on the board above the door. My stomach rumbles and my mouth is dry.

I am well aware that this moment is the culmination of the last two years. Since I felt the gentle nudging of the Holy Spirit over and over again saying, “you should do this,” I’ve been arguing with myself to get out of it. But obedience to the will of God sometimes means doing things scared.

Here I am, Lord, send me? 

Two years earlier, an announcement was made at church that a man in our congregation needed a kidney donor. My heart answered back that very moment with a resounding “Yes, Lord, choose me.” And my mind simply said “No.” For months I kept this inward struggle between heart and mind to myself, wondering what my family would think of their wife, mother, sister, daughter making this sacrifice. I tried to shake the idea, but went to bed every night and woke up every morning with the same thought: “You should do this.” Maybe I’m wrong, I thought. I scoured scripture each day to find some spiritual reason to say “no” but instead found that “yes” is the only fitting and freeing response to a call from the God who created me for his purposes and his glory alone.

When I finally shared my inner battle with my husband, he confirmed what I already knew: “You should do this.” Together, we went to our Pastor. “You should do this,” he says, after counseling me through many concerns and hypotheticals. “Your challenge,” he added, “will not be the donation itself. Your challenge will be continuing to choose this decision every day leading up to the donation.” A meeting was scheduled with the man who needed a kidney so I could share the news of my desire to donate to him. Hope filled that room and tears filled our eyes. And I knew then “I definitely should do this.”

“Yes, Lord, choose me,” began to grow roots. As those roots deepened my mind strengthened and my fears and doubts weakened. I began to pray earnestly that God would use this experience to impact as many people as possible. 

The next step was bloodwork to see if I matched the man I was donating to. My blood type, O Positive, is considered the universal donor, so I didn’t anticipate any problems. It was a little more complicated than that. Due to antibody levels, my kidney was not compatible with his body. This could have felt like the “no” I looked for months earlier, but the Holy Spirit nudged me along, whispering: Keep going, there is so much more I want to do.

Donating a kidney can work as a web. I agree to become part of an exchange program where a kidney swap happens between pairs in order that everyone who needs a kidney ultimately gets one through the swap. After months of waiting and wondering, I got a phone call. The news was better than I could have ever expected. We match with not one pair, but two. There are six people involved, consisting of three donors and three recipients. All six surgeries were set to happen the same day. 

Love is a choice. 

My number is on the screen now, and I walk with my husband into the surgery prep area and get settled in on a hospital bed. I meet a nice, young nurse, who is starting an IV in my arm. She doesn’t have much success, and has to call a more experienced nurse to finish the process. I breathe deeply and pray silently. My surgeon comes in, full of energy and enthusiasm. He says he just finished swimming his laps at the local YMCA and is ready for a great day. Business as usual for him. Not for me. This is the strangest day of my life, and it’s not even 6 a.m. 

My favorite nurse who walked with me through all of my appointments for testing and counseling pops in a with a purple kidney pillow. “Use this when you cough after surgery,” she says. It makes me laugh. Then I cry as she hands me a scrapbook documenting my journey from the beginning of choosing to become a donor until now. It’s the most emotion I’ve felt today, and I allow myself to feel it. She reminds me that I have a choice, and that I can back out of this up until I go under anesthesia.

Choice. It has been talked about over and over again since the beginning of my donation journey. I owe nothing to this stranger who is getting my kidney. There is no gain for me in this process. In fact, there is quite a bit of loss. I have been briefed many times on the risks of this type of surgery, the 6-week recovery time, and the small possibility of my remaining kidney failing in the future. There are many other physical risks, not to mention the emotional toll that many living donors experience. I am not unaware of the risks, including death. I press on. The anesthesiologist comes in. He talks quickly and confidently. He asks me if I’m ready. Choice. “Yes,” I say. I give my husband a kiss. He smiles at me and we linger with a hug. I hope to see him again. 

My hospital bed is wheeled into a cold, bright, sterilized room. I look over at the instruments that will be used during surgery and quickly look away. Heated blankets are heaped on top of me. The nurse anesthetist is sweet and sits down by my head. She asks me if I’m ok. Another choice. Another yes. Anesthesia is pushed through my IV as my eyes adjust to the white lights in the ceiling. My last thought is love. I wake up in recovery, with one less kidney. A few hours later, a young man wakes up two states away with part of me inside of him, sustaining his life. 

Love is a choice and Jesus is my example.