Sometimes I picture him as an older man. He has a grey beard and silver hair and wrinkles around the corner of his eyes. Sometimes I picture him as a young man. He is just starting out his career and is learning the hard ropes of being a doctor. At times his skin is light, other times it is a beautiful mix of brown and gold. Sometimes, in my mind, he has a stethoscope slung carelessly around his neck because he had seen so many patients that day and we were his last ones before his long shift ended. Other times he is dressed crisp and neatly, with pressed pants and a starched shirt. He is ready for whatever might come his way as he is just starting his rounds at the hospital. 

Honestly, I can’t remember what he looks like. I’ve tried over the years – I’ve tried to conjure up the image of that doctor who saved me that night in the ER. I can’t ever really picture him, so I like to make him look all different kinds of ways. I wish I could remember. I wish I knew his name. 

But the only thing I can really say for sure is that he was wearing a white coat. 

The man in the white coat is the one who lifted me up on that awful, miserable day. He rescued me from a tomb of fear, anger, despair, and utter destruction. He set me on the path that would lead to hope and love and faith in humankind. 

And I can’t even remember what he looked like. 

I guess it doesn’t matter, really. Because the fact is what he looked like was the last thing I was concerned about in that moment. I didn’t care who he had voted for in the last election. I didn’t care if he was conservative or liberal. I didn’t care about his beliefs or his convictions. His lifestyle, his charities, his political views . . . nothing mattered except one thing. 

He was kind. 

Scott and I were scared in ways we didn’t know was possible as we brought our young, frail, and very sick child into the man in the white coat’s emergency room. He was the rotating doctor in charge on the wing that evening. He could have easily dismissed us as one more patient he had to deal with. He could have rushed in and out with an attitude of busyness. He could have simply looked at the diagnosis of Type 1 Diabetes, thought to himself “Here we go again”, and gone through the steps of treating a sick boy. 

The man in the white coat did none of those things. 

Instead, he came into our small patient room. He saw two parents who were stricken with grief over their child. He saw the look in our eyes of panic. He saw a mother who was drowning. 

So the man in the white coat stops. He smiles. He puts the chart down and leans against the wall, casually crossing one ankle over the other. “Where are you from?” he asks softly. 

“Quite a drive in a rainstorm like this.” 

“I’m sorry to hear about your son’s diagnosis.”

And then the words that would start turning everything around – 

“I want you to know we’re going to do this right. Your little boy is going to have to endure a lifetime of shots and hospital visits from now on. We want to make sure that he starts off well.”

The man in the white coat carefully explains to us what they will do that night. No holding Hugh down kicking and screaming to get an IV in. “We’ll take our time,” he says. “We will bring in a specialist in helping children through this process.” 

He tells us that they will be careful with Hugh. That they want this to be a positive experience for him and that the hospital doesn’t need to be a scary place. He assures us that everything the nurses and doctors do will be to the end goal of getting Hugh healthy and safe. “Your son will be ok,” the man in the white coat says. “We will make sure of it.” And he did. 

I think about him at least once a week. 

Sometimes I close my eyes and think of him as I’m sitting on the floor of a family’s home. The mother is telling me she doesn’t have any money. The dad has gone to jail. Drug use is obvious and normal in their life. What would the man in the white coat do?

He would show kindness. He wouldn’t lecture or criticize. He would listen. He would do it right. 

Or I picture him when I become overwhelmed. When Type 1 Diabetes seems to be winning. When I just don’t want to do it anymore. 

The man in the white coat told us we would be ok. 

There are even times I picture him when the world seems dark and angry. When I start to wonder if any human being alive can be kind, I close my eyes and standing there is the man in the white coat. He was kind. 

I’ve probably created an image over the years in my mind of who the man in the white coat is. I’m probably mixing in a little of my imagination with a little bit of Jesus and a dash of who I hope to be. But man – if we could all just strive to be that kind of person. The person who helps instead of hurts. The person who listens instead of argues. The person who sees someone drowning and reaches down a hand – no questions asked. 

Because the truth is, the man in the white coat COULD be all of us. If we stopped asking whose side are you on, if we quit hurrying around, if we put kindness before accusations. 

In fact, I bet there’s a white coat hanging around your house somewhere and you’ve just forgotten about it. Go ahead – Reach way back into your closet and find your old and tattered white coat (or pink or navy or glittery or whatever floats your boat). Slip into it – doesn’t it feel good to put it on, kind of like you should have been wearing it all along? Doesn’t it fit you like a glove? Don’t you feel like yourself now that you’re wearing it again?

Now go admire yourself in the mirror. Do a few turns and check yourself out. Wow, that white coat looks good on you.