Canadian Sunrise - The Personal Testimony Of Kenneth May
May 1, 2004
Mr. and Mrs. May live on a two hundred-acre farm, producing grain and cattle in Forester's Falls, Ontario, Canada. His grandfather built their house in 1871 and Mr. May is the third generation to live there. They have two married daughters, one living in Lachine, Quebec, and the other in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
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The following letter was written by Kenneth May.
The sun had already dropped below the horizon and twilight was fading when I parked the tractor behind the barn and walked wearily across the back yard toward the old two-story house that had been my home since birth.
Our red and white collie fell in step behind me, reaching up to lick the salt that had collected on my hand during a long day's work in the fields. I was bone tired and the thought of Margaret's hot biscuits and a long, soaking bath made me want to hurry up and get inside.
I climbed the steps to the little porch on the back side of the kitchen, knocked the dirt from my shoes, and pulled the remaining straw off my wet shirt. "Did you get the hay finished?"
Margaret called from the stove as she wiped her brow with her apron. "Yes, but it's a good thing I only have to do it once a year. I don't think I could take it." "Kenneth, " she said with her laughing brogue, "remember you're not as young as you used to be. You will be sixty next birthday." "Ummm, don't remind me," I said as I walked through . the kitchen to wash up before supper.
I glanced at the old house. You're almost a hundred years old, old girl, I mused to myself. You've been doctored up, but after so many years, I guess, a thing just naturally wears out. Maybe that's what is happening to me, too. Maybe I'm just wearing out.
I put my left hand under my right arm and gingerly felt the big lump that was developing in my armpit. I wonder if this is the beginning of the end, I thought. I walked back through the house to the kitchen. Supper was almost ready and I stood gazing out the window at the last streaks of the magnificent sunset. Next door, silhouetted against the darkening sky, was the old cemetery.
It separated us from the small church that stood alongside the road leading to Cobden. The ancient tombstones, weathered and battered from time and elements, seemed to beckon stealthily. Despite the warm weather, I felt a cold chill and shuddered involuntarily.
I had been close to death once before. Back in 1945. I had been taken by ambulance to Pembroke Hospital in critical condition from pneumonia. I remembered hearing the doctors whisper to Margaret that I was on the verge of death. I had prayed-desperately. I wasn't afraid to die, but I prayed God would let me live long enough to see my children raised. The next day. my fever had subsided and I was able to go home shortly with no bad aftereffects.
Then, last year, our younger daughter had married and moved away from home. I was happy for her, but inside there was a dark forboding that my borrowed time was now finished.
The last shreds of daylight disappeared and darkness enveloped the countryside. Only the lights in the little church beyond cast a reflection on the old tombstones that stood askew above the graves. I'm not afraid to die. I thought, for beyond the grave lives God. But, I slid my hand under my arm again and pressed the large knot in the armpit. Is this the way it's going to happen?" I wondered.
Margaret's cheery voice interrupted my gloomy thoughts and I walked into the kitchen to join her at supper.
That night, after my bath, I stretched out on top of the sheets with my hands behind my head. The light breeze coming through the bedroom window felt refreshing.
Margaret had dressed for bed and was reaching for the switch on the lamp when I heard her exclaim. "What's this, Kenneth?" I could sense the alarm in her voice and opened my eyes to see her staring at the big lump under my right arm, which was clearly visible.
I glanced down at the protrusion. "Oh, that's been coming for some time now. I just never mentioned it." "Why, it's the size of a goose egg. I think you ought to have Dr. Pye take a look at it." she said. "But I know you. You will work until you drop dead out there in the barley and then I'll be left all alone." There it was again; the thought of death. I quickly put it out of my mind and turned over on the bed, pulling the pillow under my head. "Well, let me finish with some of the chores and then I'll let him have a look at it. Probably it is just a swelling of some kind." But inside I had a gnawing feeling it was more than that-far more.
Summer on a farm is not an idle time. We had twenty milk cows that demanded milking twice a day. With the exception of the pasture land, all the rest was under cultivation. which meant constant tending. The promise of a big harvest just weeks away was satisfying, but I was tiring easily and constantly plagued with sickening thoughts of the future.
A month later, Margaret finally talked me into going to see Dr. Mackercher. He suggested that it might be a cyst and told me to wait another month and come back. But now it was August and we were beginning the harvest. As the weeks wore on, though, I noticed an extreme swelling in my right ankle. It became so bad I couldn't pull on my boots.
Evelyn, our younger daughter, was home from Ottawa for a weekend and between the two women, they finally wrangled my consent to make an appointment with Dr. Pye, one of the two doctors serving the little village of Cobden, nine miles away, whom Dr. Mackercher had suggested. I was scheduled to go in the following Tuesday. By this time, the swelling in my ankle had moved up my leg to my knee and the only way I could walk was stiff-legged.
Dr. Pye examined me and picked up the phone. "I am going to put you in the hospital and have that lump taken out," he said. "We can't tell much about this until we have a laboratory report."
The next day, Margaret drove me to Pembroke, fifteen miles the other side of Cobden along the Ottawa River toward North Bay. Thursday morning, they took out the lump and sent it to the lab for a pathological report.
They let me go home the following day and Dr. Pye said it would be about a week before they got the pathologist's report. He asked Margaret to call him the next Saturday at the hospital.
I planned to do some light work around the farm the following week, but the swelling in my leg had moved up into the groin and lower abdomen. I began to bloat until I looked like a cow that had eaten too much alfalfa. The pressure in my stomach was almost unbearable and my leg hurt so much I couldn't stand on it. I spent most of the week lying on the sofa worrying about the harvesting which was being done by a hired man.
Margaret called Dr. Pye the next Saturday. He was evasive and said he would rather talk to us in person. An appointment was made for us to come to his office Tuesday afternoon, Monday being Labor Day. Neither Margaret nor I discussed it over the weekend, but I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that things must be pretty bad or he would have discussed it over the phone.
Monday night, while we were sitting at the table, the phone rang. Margaret got up from the table and answered it. It was Dr. Pye. "Tell Kenneth he's to be in Ottawa tomorrow at 1 P.M. to enter the hospital," he said. "But," Margaret objected, "we're supposed to be at your office tomorrow." "No," the doctor said, "I want you at the hospital in Ottawa instead. I'm at my office right now and I'd like to talk to you as soon as possible."
Margaret hung up and turned to me. "Why don't you finish your supper first, " she said as she related the parts of the conversation I had not heard. But I had lost all my desire to eat.
I shook my head glumly and pushed my chair back.
"We had better be going, " I stated. "It will be dark before we get to town."
It was dusk as we drove along the country road into the small village that nestled against Muskrat Lake. The lights in the isolated farm houses blinked on as the last streaks of daylight disappeared from the sky.
Dr. Pye was waiting for us in his office. He motioned us to a chair and sat down behind his desk. "The news I have is not good," he said, his face ashen in the soft, overhead light. The lab report showed the lump we removed was cancerous."
He paused to let the effect of his words soak in. "You have a condition known as Hodgkins Disease...cancer of the lymph glands."
He was trying to break the news to us gently, but how can you soften a death sentence? Margaret's voice was trembling as she asked, "What does all this mean, Doctor?" "It means," he said, getting up from his desk and coming around beside us, "that Kenneth will never live to be an old man." He pulled up a chair and sat down as though the weight of the world were on his shoulders. I could sense his deep feeling of concern, yet his frustration at not being able to do anything about it.
"How long do I have, Doctor?" I finally managed to ask.
He sighed, as if this were the one question he hoped I would not ask. "You have from months to five years left . . . certainly no more." It was a difficult trip back home. Neither of us spoke as I drove slowly down the old familiar road.
Fifty-nine years is a long time to live in one house, know the same neighbors, travel the same road. As a boy, I had traveled this road from Cobden in a horse and wagon-only it was dirt then and not black asphalt. Growing up, I had driven my Dad's old car down this same road while I was courting Margaret. I had been so deeply in love I never gave much thought to the future, never dreamed I would one day travel it with only months to live.
We rounded the curve where the road branches off to Beachburg and then across the river to Ft. Coulonge. I remembered that romantic night so many years ago when Margaret and I were returning from the river. We had just set our wedding date and I misjudged the curve and almost went in the ditch. After that, I tried to keep both hands on the wheel while driving.
We drove on through the little settlement of Forester's Falls. My headlights reflected on the spire of the little United Church building. We made the sharp turn and headed out into the darkness toward the farm. How familiar were those miles; miles my father and mother had traveled carrying us to church as children, miles Margaret and I had traveled carrying Roberta and Evelyn to church, miles we had ridden in grief when our loved ones had passed away.
It was an old friend, that road from Cobden to the farm, and each mile spoke to us of precious memories. It had been a good, full life, and if my borrowed time had run out, then I was ready to face my Master.
I still had hope. Maybe all people feel this way when they have been told they have only a short time to live. I do not know, maybe it was just my will to live that was still alive. Whatever it was, I was determined I would not lie down and die peacefully. If God was calling me home He would have to take me kicking and struggling all the way to the gates of Heaven.
We pulled into the driveway and Margaret started into the house. The supper dishes were still on the table where we had left them what seemed like an eternity ago. "Aren't you coming in?" she asked, getting to the bottom step and looking back. "I'll be in shortly," I said, "you go ahead." She turned and took a step back toward the car." Are you all right, Kenneth?" she asked with concern. "Yes, I am all right," I said. "I want to check the stock and I'll be right in."
She turned and entered the house, the screen door shutting softly behind her. Our big collie came romping out of the stable and danced around in front of me. I ruffled his ears with one hand and started toward the barn. My right leg hurt so badly I almost cried when I walked. Sitting in the car had stiffened it and I felt as if I were walking on a stove pipe-every step was jabbing sharp edges up into my groin and hip.
After checking the barn, I walked around the other side of the house and stood for a moment looking absently at the old cemetery beyond our property . In the distance, the ancient church building stood bleakly against the dark sky . Overhead, a billion stars twinkled in the crisp air as the last breeze of summer sighed through the trees. In the distance, I heard the faint sound of a barking dog. Everything else was still.
"Oh God," I prayed, "once before you intervened in my life and healed me. This time my girls are gone and I have nothing to offer except myself. But if You will heal me I will serve You in whatever way You ask. If it is Your will that I die, please let me die quickly and without pain."
My grandmother had died of cancer in this house, and so had my father. The aura of death seemed to hang heavily in the atmosphere. The stars became blurred as my eyes filled with tears. I glanced once more at the old graveyard, at the church beyond, and then at the glittering stars shining from their eternal sockets in the clear Canadian sky. I turned away and entered the house. On the morrow, I would drive the eighty miles to Ottawa to begin the treatments.
It was arranged for me to stay with Evelyn, who was teaching school in Ottawa. Margaret could not stay since someone had to maintain the farm. The cows had to be milked, fodder brought in and the rest of the crops harvested. Fortunately, I had finished the threshing and a neighbor had helped me with the combine the week before.
Every weekday morning for five weeks, a driver from the Cancer Clinic picked me up and took me to General Hospital for the cobalt treatments. The technician would mark my body with an indelible pencil, much like a butcher marks a carcass before carving. Then the machine would be lowered to my flesh and while the technicians hid behind their protective lead shields, the cobalt rays were flashed into my body. When I returned to Evelyn's apartment. I would douse the upper part of my body with generous amounts of corn starch to keep down the skin burn from the radiation.
The second week, I came home for the weekend. It was late Friday evening when we arrived and I went straight to bed, worrying about the fields that needed to be plowed for the winter. Early the next morning, I dragged myself from the bed and hobbled to the window. I could not believe my eyes. Instead of the corn stalks and ugly furrows, the fields were all freshly plowed. I turned and saw Margaret smiling through her tears. "Last Wednesday," she said, "the entire farming community turned out to do the plowing. There were thirteen tractors and they got it done in one day." "Only among people who love one another could this take place," I thought.
The cobalt treatments were relatively painless but I could not see any progress in my condition. When I was finally allowed to come home, I still could not be up and around. I had to keep my leg elevated because of the pain.
The lumps were gradually returning. All winter, I tried to convince myself that the cobalt had arrested the growth of the cancer cells, but each time I felt my body I knew it was only make-believe.
This time they began in the groin; just small lumps at first-kernels. But they were growing progressively larger. Then a large lump began to appear on my left chest, just below my collar bone.
Dr. Pye was examining me on a regular basis but he said my system had absorbed all the cobalt it could stand. "If you go back to the hospital, they will have to treat you with Uranium or X-ray," he said.
By December the following year I had no choice. I had to return to the hospital in Ottawa. I had lost the use of my left arm because of the lump in my left chest. This time the treatment was X-ray.
I was allowed to return home after Christmas that year, but almost immediately began to notice new swellings all over my body. I noticed the first ones when I was shaving. Tiny knots, like dried peas under the skin, had appeared overnight on my face just below my ear. Each morning when I shaved I could see they had grown larger until they were the size of small walnuts. Others were developing in my neck and on my jaw. A large one appeared under my chin in the vicinity of my adam's apple, giving me the appearance of having a double chin. My face was beginning to look disfigured and I knew I had only a short time to live as the lymph glands ceased to function properly.
In March, I returned to Dr. Pye. He phoned the specialist in Ottawa, trying to have me admitted to the hospital. He, too, sensed that the end was near. However, the hospital was full and the specialist indicated it would be a couple of weeks before they could take me.
I went home, discouraged and afraid. Margaret, who had been praying daily for my recovery, also discerned that time was fast runing out. "I believe God is going to heal Kenneth," she told one of the neighbors, "He did it before." "Yes, Margaret," the woman answered, but cancer is such a different thing than pneumonia." Then came depressing news. Evelyn's husband had been transferred to Pittsburgh in the States. We had wanted them to be close by as the days grew shorter. Roberta's family was still in Ottawa, but I was afraid we would not be able to see Evelyn again until it was too late.
I told Dr. Pye I wanted to visit my daughter in Pittsburgh before entering the hospital. He agreed, sensing this could be my last chance, and suggested we postpone the hospital appointment until I got back.
When one of our farming neighbors learned we were planning the trip to Pittsburgh she said, "Oh, I do hope you will have an opportunity to visit a Kathryn Kuhlman Miracle Service while you are there."
"Who is she?" I asked. In answer to my question she gave us a copy of I Believe in Miracles. We were supposed to leave on Friday and I read the book diligently from Tuesday until then. I was impressed, deeply impressed. Can it be, I wondered, that God can heal someone in the adyanced stages of terminal cancer? Can it happen to me?
Early Friday morning, we drove to Ottawa, where some friends of Evelyn's met us and drove us on to Pittsburgh in their car. We arrived on Saturday and spent a delightful weekend with Evelyn and her family. Even though it was never mentioned, just below the surface was the constant knowledge that this would probably be the last time we would ever visit them.
Monday, the first of April, Evelyn took us all downtown to the First Presbyterian Church for the Monday night Bible Study conducted by Miss Kuhlman. I was greatly impressed by the service and afterward talked to some of those who attended regularly. They urged me to remain over for the Miracle Service Friday morning. "God can heal you, you know," one man said. I knew He could. I just didn't know whether He would or not.
"Why don't you stay over," Margaret encouraged.
"Evelyn will be glad to have you and you can fly back home Sunday." I finally agreed. Margaret returned, leaving me with our daughter and her family. As the week wore on, I became more and more anxious about the service on Friday. My leg was hurting so badly I couldn't stand for more than a few minutes at a time. The lumps on my face and in my joints had become painful. I knew this was my last chance.
I prayed. Only God knows how much and how desperately I prayed. Friday morning, Evelyn called me to breakfast but I declined. "Aren't you going to eat?" she asked. "No, I've been reading in my Bible where difficult cases of healing can sometimes be handled only through fasting and prayer (Matthew 17:14-21). This morning, I am going to fast and pray for God to heal me."
Evelyn put her arm around my waist. "I'm sure He will Daddy. If He loves you as much as I do then how can He help but heal you."
We arrived early, having been warned that the crowds on the steps at the old Carnegie Hall were always large. "How am I going to tough it out on this leg?" I wondered as we climbed the steps and took our place at the rear of the ever-growing circle of people who pressed around the doors. "I don't think I can make it unless I sit down."
I was impressed with the friendliness of the complete strangers who gathered around the door. When they found out I was from Canada several came over to talk. Then the oddest thing happened. A woman, a total stranger, came up and asked who I was. I told her and she said, "You have cancer, don't you?"
I was amazed, but thought she could probably tell from the lumps on my face or perhaps she had talked to someone who had been present Monday night. Before I could ask, she reached out, took hold of my arm and began to pray. I was embarrassed and felt awkward. But as she continued her prayer I bowed my head and said from my heart, "I am Yours, Lord, do with me what You will."
I felt a strange sensation running through my body, a nervous tingling. The prayer was over and she said simply, "I know God will heal you." I started to thank her for her encouragement but she melted into the crowd.
I turned to Evelyn, still embarrassed over what had just taken place, when I realized the pain had left my leg. It was gone. I remembered the specialist saying in Ottawa, "If we can ever cure the cancer the pain in your leg will take care of itself."
I tried to speak, but all I could do was stutter. Evelyn's eyes were wet with tears. She did not know what was going on in my body, but she could see the joy in my eyes. I stood the rest of the hour without feeling a trace of pain. When the doors opened we moved with the crowd and were soon seated in the auditorium.
We were surrounded by a warm noisiness-not loud, but the kind that gives you the feeling of belonging. The service started and I could feel the power and presence of God. One of the staff workers came to me and said softly, "You are from Canada, aren't you?" "Yes," I answered, assuming some of the people on the steps had told her.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"The pain in my leg is gone," I said. "I think something has happened to me; I am sure something has happened!"
She ushered me to the platform where I was introduced to the crowd. Miss Kuhlman quizzed me about my condition and then told me to go home and have the healing verified by my doctor. She reached up and gently laid her hand on my shoulder as she began to pray. Suddenly I felt the warmth and overwhelming power of the Holy Spirit. "I am going to fall down in front of all these people," I thought. I resisted, trying to keep on my feet, but to no avail. I tried to get up, but could NOT and while I was lying there I heard a voice-as plain as day-saying, "You are healed, Kenneth May."
"That I am," I replied out loud. "I was healed outside the door." And I got to my feet and walked from the platform like a normal man. The limp was gone. The pain was gone. I could sense the swelling leaving my leg. I had been healed.
I walked back to the lobby and stood leaning against the wall while the water poured off me as if I had just spent an hour in the hot sun cutting hay. Then I began to shake. Crouching against the wall trying to control my body, I shook as if I would shake the building down. Eventually, it subsided and I returned to my seat beside Evelyn.
Most of the day Saturday, I spent on the sofa in Evelyn's living room, shaking. The water literally poured out of the pores of my skin. Twice, I had to get up and change clothes because they were wringing wet.
Sunday, they put me on a plane for Ottawa. My eyes were watering so badly Evelyn was afraid I couldn't see, but I assured her I was all right. I didn't know what was happening but was convinced it was associated with my healing. Margaret met me at the airport and we drove back to Forester's Falls.
Three weeks later, I kept my appointment at the Clinic prior to my admittance to the hospital. Margaret and I both knew a dramatic change had taken place in my body, but we said nothing to the specialist. I knew he would find that the lumps had virtually dissolved and the swelling disappeared from my leg.
Following the examination, I returned to the waiting room. "I would like you to wait and have another doctor examine you," the first doctor said.
I agreed and we waited until all the other patients had gone and once again entered the examining room. The second doctor gave me a thorough checkup and then turned and looked at the other.
"What am I supposed to find?" he asked, with a puzzled look on his face.
I interrupted him and asked, "What did you find, Doctor?"
He shook his head. "Nothing," he said, and walked out."If you will come back in another month, we will have our chief specialist examine you," the doctor said with a confused look. "However, I think you can forget about going in the hospital for a while."
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"I cannot say anything until the other doctor examines you," he said, "Besides, it is too early to make a definite diagnosis of your present condition."
A month later, I returned for my last visit at the Cancer Clinic. The chief specialist examined me and when he finished I said, "What do you find, Doctor?"
Like the first doctor, he gave me a strange look and said, "Nothing." That's all he said.
I dressed and returned to the sitting room where Margaret was waiting. Moments later, the doctor appeared and walked straight over to her. He was a man of few, very few, words. He looked her straight in the face and said, "He is a very well man." He shook his head and repeated it as if he did not believe it himself, ". . . a very well man."
Margaret's face was beaming and her eyes moist with tears. "It is a miracle, Doctor'" she said.
He paused for a long moment and then said, "Yes, it is," and he shook his head and walked back through the swinging doors into the cancer clinic.
The summer sun was just setting over the tops of the tall spruce pines as we drove out of the big city into the rolling hills of our native Canada. The miles slipped by in silence as we both sat absorbed in our own thoughts. It has been a long time since I had noticed the brilliant beauty of a Canadian sunset.
As the sun sank out of sight and twilight settled across the pastoral countryside, I turned to Margaret and said, "God is good, isn't He?" "Yes, He is everything," she answered, still engrossed in her own thoughts.
Source: BrotherKeith2004@yahoo.com
Location: Forester's Falls, ON, Canada
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