I once mentioned to a cardiologist friend that I would love to observe a live medical operation in person and in real-time. This was circa 1993 when we were living in Peterborough, Ontario, Canada. I’ve always been fascinated with learning and experiencing new things. He set me straight that he didn’t do surgery. Thinking my request was good for a laugh, I was surprised at his subsequent response, “But, I think I might be able to connect you with someone who can make that happen.”

That someone was a surgeon named Dr. Wilbert Belch. To my chagrin, this man occasionally attended our church, where I was the preacher, but I had never met him. Apparently, he would sneak into the back row of seats after the service began and then slip out during closing prayer. He was agreeable to my idea and invited me to visit him at his home address.

Following his directions, I headed out of town at the appointed time, imagining a large mansion nestled on a finely manicured lawn with expensive cars sitting in the driveway. However, the homes out that way mainly were old farmhouses amid corn and hay fields, with some pastureland populated with cattle and other domesticated animals. The address I had written down turned me to the right, onto an unpaved laneway, with makeshift parking spaces filled with tractors and other farm implements in front of what looked like a century-old farmhouse on the left. The sign out by the highway had announced that this was a buffalo farm.

The address must have been wrong, so when I saw an old farmhand lumbering out from behind one of the machines and across the farmyard wearing well-used overalls, I rolled down my car window to ask directions to Dr. Belch’s home. With the ubiquitous scent of manure hanging thick in the air, the grease-smudged fellow with dirty hands and a floppy hat spoke somewhat haltingly, “Well, this would be the place.” Surprised by the receding vision in my mind being pushed out by the reality of the sights and sounds of farm life, I asked the worker man if he could direct me to Dr. Belch. In an unassuming way, he extended his hand and demurred, “Well, that would be me; and you would be Chuck?”

As it turns out, Dr. Belch owned the largest buffalo herd in Canada east of “the Mississippi” (which, of course, was somewhat a figure of speech since the Mississippi headwaters originate south of the US-Canada border in the state of Minnesota. But technically, Peterborough, where our story takes place, lies further south than Minneapolis!). This farm was not just a hobby but a passion he had for four decades. At its height, the herd numbered 400, and he served as the president of the Canadian Bison Association for a spell in the 1980’s. His nickname, by which he was widely known, was “Buffalo Bill.”

Inviting me into the farm kitchen, his wife served tea as we became more acquainted. He was a semi-retired general surgeon in his mid-late 60s, but he assisted the full-time surgeons from time to time when there was a need. He was happy to have me accompany him into surgery and already had a date in mind. It was to be a colectomy, where a tumorous portion of the patient’s large intestine was to be removed. He thought it would be more interesting to watch than a hip replacement surgery, which was relatively routine and uninteresting to him.

Before our visit was over, though, Dr. Belch invited me to tour his farm and see some of the enormous creatures up close—they are much bigger up close than they appear in the movies. I was probably more fascinated that I had never imagined the old farmhand (as I judged initially) was at once a successful buffalo man and a well-respected, successful medical surgeon. Outward appearances certainly can be deceiving. At any rate, his wife sent me on my way with a small load of buffalo meat!

The planned surgery date arrived, and Dr. Belch met me in the surgical waiting room. He ushered me into the prep room, introduced me to the primary surgeon, and talked me through putting on a drab surgical gown and properly washing my hands. Things were already busy when we entered the surgical room, and a nurse ushered me to the side wall, from where I would observe. As the surgery began, the smell of antiseptic permeated my senses; I leaned back against the wall for support. The last thing I wanted was to pass out and hit the floor right then and there. The nurse asked if I was OK, to which I weakly responded with a nod and a strained, “Yes.”

After the abdominal incision opened things up, Dr. Belch asked if I would like a closer look. So, I moved one step forward. Then he asked a nurse to bring over a step stool and set it down by the head of the operating table; he had me stand on it to have a good vantage point for watching.

Dr. Belch explained what was going on and invited me to ask any questions—but I was spellbound and silent, fearful of saying anything dumb. The offending section of the bowel was removed, and the gap was sutured together. Then, water was copiously flooded into the abdominal cavity to clean up the small amount of residual fecal matter that had spilled out.

Then the surgeon reached his hand in, moving the intestines around like loosely coiled rope, checking, as he explained to me, to see how well the patient’s previous surgeries had healed up. I did ask how he remembered to put things back in their proper place, and he said, “It will settle out all on its own.”

With the inspection now complete, the serious atmosphere of surgical tension morphed into a light banter of relief, with the only thing left being to close up the patient. As in any profession, there is in-house humor, understandable only to those who know the stress of life-and-death procedures and decisions where a slip of the hand, a mistake, or an introduction of an infection could significantly threaten a patient’s life. To outsiders, such quipping may seem sacrilegious, but these professionals took their jobs seriously; there was a time for no-nonsense concentration and emotional release. Their humor was not flippant but stress relieving. Of course, the humor was mostly lost to me, other than recognizing the sound of chuckles. Now being more relaxed myself, I proffered my own attempt at humor, asking Dr. Belch, “Have you ever operated on one of your buffalo?” He responded, “Well, yes.” I continued, “How did it go?” He wryly said with a straight face, “Well, it died.” As he finished, I could see the gleam in his eyes over his surgical mask.

A few years later, in June of 1995, Mary, my wife, was admitted to the hospital with severe abdominal pain. The initial assessment suggested an appendix attack, but the surgeon assigned to her case said the tests were inconclusive and didn’t want to perform surgery until he was sure. We were planning to move in two months with our teenage children from our Canadian home of twelve years to join a team of six others in Rochester, NY, to plant a new church. The decision was all but made when the pain hit Mary like nothing she had ever experienced before (apart from childbirth). Our move was in jeopardy, to say nothing about Mary’s health.

The pain was relentless. The surgeon did a biopsy, which was extremely painful, but still, he would not operate. A doctor friend in New York heard about the situation and called me to get more information. He said the described circumstances mandated doing an appendectomy ASAP. This was critical lest the appendix burst and things go south really quickly and really badly. I related that the surgeon assigned to her was hesitant and wanted to wait and send Mary home. My friend in New York pulled no punches, “Get another surgeon!” That same day, a nurse who attended our church and was working on another hospital floor visited Mary’s room. She quietly but emphatically said in no uncertain terms that Mary needed a different surgeon. The one she had had an abysmal reputation.

A little way down the hall, I ran into, would you believe it, Dr. Belch. Yes, Dr. Buffalo Bill Belch. He was doing rounds in his part-time capacity, checking up on another patient. After customary greetings, I mentioned that Mary was in the hospital, and to my surprise, he said, “Yes, I know.” This was not in his memorable halting voice but this time with a definitive tone. I mentioned the surgeon’s name, and Dr. Belch said, “I know him, but I am not at liberty to talk to you about Mary since she is not my patient.” But he apparently had seen Mary’s charts. When I asked if there was any way he could possibly take over Mary’s case, he immediately responded, “I’ll be right back.” Without wasting any time, he returned with an official-looking paper for Mary to sign authorizing the change of surgeons (with Dr. Belch’s name already filled in)! Before the day was out, Mary’s appendix was removed, and she was on the road to recovery.

Though the buffalo died that he operated on a few years earlier, Dr. Belch was sent by God at the right time in the right place to rescue Mary from possibly a disastrous situation at the hands of an inept surgeon. I don’t know what ever happened to that fellow, but we will never forget Dr. Belch and the blessing he was to us. That was the one who, on first impression, I took to be just an old farmhand in well-worn overalls. The old adage is true: you can’t always tell a book by its cover.

Thanks to Dr. Belch and his life-saving intervention for Mary and our family, we were able to continue with our plans to move from Canada to the United States two months later. The church we planted has prospered, with many lives hugely impacted by the spiritual life-saving intervention of Jesus Christ, who died for us for the forgiveness of sins.