Saturday, September 5, 1964. I was to conduct a wedding that afternoon, so I retired to my study to arrange final details for it, and to complete preparation for the following day's ministry at Charlotte Baptist Chapel.

Suddenly as I was writing, I lost control of my hand. It wandered all over the paper. I called out to my wife; but in a few moments I had lost my speech, my right side was paralyzed, and I found myself unable to walk. I was put to bed, and the doctor was called immediately.

I had little doubt as to what had happened, and he confirmed the verdict. It was a cerebral hemorrhage. A main artery taking blood to the brain had snapped. He said I was a "very lucky man," because the hemorrhage had stopped just in time. Had it gone a fraction further it would have proved fatal. He suggested that I should forget any work, and take life gently. If I were prepared to do this, he told me, I could expect to live until I was ninety. If, however, I insisted on going back into harness, he thought ...