Troutville Volunteer Fireman

We returned to Roanoke (from Africa), on Sunday, March 6 and before coming back to Texas, I stayed in Virginia a couple days to visit with my aunt and cousins. The next day Aunt Teen and I thought we’d venture out to Cracker Barrel for lunch (as soon as “The Price Is Right” was over). I was getting hungry and right at noon, as the credits were rolling at end of the show, I said, "Ok, ready to go?"

"Well, let me just see the first few minutes of the news, then we can go," she replied.

So I waited through about 10 minutes or so of the local headline news. One of the news items in that first few minutes was a follow-up story on the condition of a firefighter who lived in Buchanan, Virginia, a small town just outside Roanoke, near Troutville, in Botetourt County. His name is Don Keller, and he came home one night to find his home on fire. His parents were inside so he went in, without an airpak, first to get them out, and then turned back and re-entered the home, thinking he could get a start on extinguishing the fire as the other firefighters were on their way.

The news reported that Don Keller had developed pneumonia and that he had a heart attack - his second one.

I wanted to see him. I wasn't sure, but I thought there was a good chance he had been to our home two years ago. After all, Troutville isn’t that big. So I went by the Troutville Fire Department, the station where he was a volunteer, and inquired.

One of the guys there gave me the cell phone number of Don’s mother. I called her and asked permission to visit her son in the Intensive Care Unit. I had only given her my name, not the story behind why I wanted to see him. Without questioning me, she gave me the code word, his room number, and permission to see him. With all the right information to be considered family, I was allowed in his room in the ICU.

Don wasn't responsive at all, but I stood there and held his hand and talked to him. I told him who I am and that I didn't know whether he had been to my house or not, two years ago, but I still just wanted to thank him for his service to the community, risking his life for others, and to encourage him to keep fighting and get healthy.

I had felt led to bring in a copy of Jessie's drawing, but there I was, feeling kind of odd, talking to someone who didn't know me, who wasn't responding, and I wasn't sure what to do with the picture.

After about 15 minutes or so I figured I'd talked his ears off enough - if he could even hear me - and I told him I'd be back in a month – I was already planning a trip back anyway – and that I wanted him to talk to me then. Feeling awkward and turning to leave, fighting a tugging that wouldn’t quiet itself down, that said, "Leave the picture," by now I knew better than to ignore that still, small voice, that prompting by the Holy Spirit.

I stepped back over to his bedside and, taking his hand again, said, "One more thing before I go, Don; my daughter drew a picture and I want you to have a copy."

I told him that as soon as he was able to open his eyes I wanted him to look to his left, toward the window, and see the drawing Jessie made. I didn't know why I felt so strongly I should do this, but I did.

After I left I thought, out of courtesy I should just touch base with his mother and let her know that I had been there and also explain who I am and why I wanted to see him. So I did. After I explained it she began to cry. Then she told me -

"Oh, Linda, I am so glad you called! I am so glad you went to see him! Linda, Don carried one of your children out."

For what I felt at that moment, I have no words.

Then she told me how he had sat with his mother for many days after our fire, and cried, and talked about how much it affected him. And then she told me he keeps a photo of my family in his truck at all times. It's so he can always remember why he does what he does. I was so touched by this. So Tuesday morning after breakfast, before heading to the airport to return to Houston, I went back by the hospital and talked to Don some more.

He was off the respirator, but still was not yet really responsive. As he lay there, eyes closed, coughing from the irritation of smoke and the respirator tube that had been down his throat, I told him I knew that he was indeed there at our home; that his mom had told me all about it and that I looked forward to hearing him talk and seeing him with his eyes open.

I explained the significance of Jessie's picture to Don's mother and asked that she make sure he gets it. In just one month Aunt Teen, by now 90 years old, is planning to take one last climb up the mountain out her back door, and I am planning to return to Virginia to be there with her. I hope Don will be fully recovered by the time I return the next month so he and I can talk.