It was 1931. The nation was in the grip of what came to be known as “the great depression.”  In Columbus, Georgia a young family struggled to survive these desperate times. The father, Ralph knew one thing and he knew it well. Hard work. He was a journeyman plasterer at the tender age of fourteen and bought his first automobile at the age of sixteen. He was married at eighteen to his sixteen year old sweetheart, Christine.

Little Evan came along in January of 1929. All was well for about eighteen months until the little guy began to favor his right knee. The joint became swollen and painful. In these days before Penicillin and the Salk vaccine, it was enough to strike terror into the hearts of his parents. There was no spare money or insurance to cushion the blow of this unexpected difficulty and to make matters worse, no one knew what had caused the condition and there was a sense of dread that whatever it was would spread.

Grandpa Fred managed to scrape together enough money to get an appointment with President Franklin Roosevelt’s personal physician in Warm Springs, Georgia. This doctor told the family that the condition would most likely prove to be fatal and predicted that the child would never reach adulthood. Further, he wanted to operate on the knee, apparently out of curiosity. The boy’s attending physician, a Dr. John Sherrill of Birmingham, sent them a hand written note objecting to any surgery unless there was a clear benefit to be gained. (There wasn’t and no surgery was performed.)

Sixty some odd years later, Evan recounted some of his memories of those years. He didn’t tell me of the pain which was a constant companion of his childhood. It was someone else who told me that he used crutches until the age of twelve. By this time, the constant swinging of his right foot to the rhythm of the crutches had gradually caused his foot to rotate until in pointed outward. The cure? The leg bone was severed a few inches below the knee, turned until the foot pointed forward and then “set” in a cast. It left his leg misshapen and scarred while it did nothing to help the knee, which had become totally “locked” by the mysterious malady.

But back to those early years: Ralph and the rest of the men of the family traveled around the country working on mostly government jobs. Post offices, court houses, military barracks or housing made up the bulk of their work. The guys would work all week and on Friday afternoon, they loaded up and drove back to Columbus, regardless of the distance.  On Saturday, Ralph would take Evan with him to the barber shop. They treasured the few brief hours together and all too quickly, it would be Sunday night. After the evening church service, the men got back into the cars and drove however long it took to be back on the job site by seven o’clock the next morning.

Once a month, this Saturday routine was altered. Ralph and Evan would get in the Model T and creep up the primitive highway from Columbus, Georgia to Birmingham, Alabama. There, the work boots and shuffling of crutches would echo down the empty halls of an office building until they reached the office of Dr. Sherrill.  He would examine the knee and make recommendations. The kindness of this man and his willingness to accommodate the young couple and their small son, even on a Saturday was a testament to his compassionate character.

Well, little Evan did not die from the mysterious disease. For most of his seventy years no doctor would dare open the joint for fear of unleashing some terrible condition that had been dormant, so far.

Finally, in 1999, a team of surgeons in Birmingham removed the knee altogether and inserted a stainless steel rod that fused the upper and lower leg bones into a single, non flexing unit. It was at this time that what had long been suspected was confirmed. The culprit was tuberculosis of the bone.  The doctors agreed that it was the most diseased joint that they had ever seen and marveled that he had lived on it as well as he had for so long.

Now, the reason that I’m telling you this story is not primarily about my dad, Evan. It isn’t about Grandpa Ralph and Grandma Christine. It’s about Dr. Sherrill. Grandpa died in 1986 and Grandma joined him in heaven in 1990. It was in the process of going through their things that the family came across the following letter:

Dr. John D. Sherrill
1032-35 Martin Building
Birmingham, Ala.
July 14, 1933

Mr. & Mrs. R. L. Leary
Columbus, Ga.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Leary:

Your letter came today and I want to tell you not to get discouraged about Evan, and I want you to bring him to see me. I wish that for one month you would keep the leather brace on, do not remove it for anything except for his bath, then do not encourage motion at all. At the end of one month let me see him again. Write me in the meantime how he is getting along, also let me know the exact date to expect you when you do com.

Watch closely about the swelling of the joint, and please do not feel discouraged.

Yours very truly,
John D. Sherrill, MD.

Please do not feel discouraged. What simple but powerful words to a family wracked with anxiety about a mysterious illness and an uncertain future! What a kind and thoughtful man to take the time to share them! That they would treasure this simple note for the rest of their lives bears witness to the comfort and hope that it gave them.

Please do not feel discouraged. No, I don’t have all the answers. I can’t make you any promises except that we are in this together.  You are not alone in the battle.  Please do not feel discouraged.

There are not many men of the mettle of Dr. John Sherrill anymore. But Lord, aren’t there scores of scared, discouraged people all around us?  Maybe you and I could share those words with someone who desperately needs to hear them.

I leave you with the words of one of the great encouragers, the Apostle, Paul:
Therefore, encourage one another and build each other up, just as in fact you are doing. (I Thessalonians 5:11)

God bless us, every one!
Hal F. Leary