The Janitor's Prayer at Cedar-Sinai

In 2014, a janitorial supervisor named Hector Vega worked the overnight shift at a hospital in Los Angeles. He had no medical degree, no letters after his name. He mopped floors, emptied biohazard bins, and restocked soap dispensers while surgeons and specialists rushed past him without a glance.

But the nurses on the fourth-floor oncology ward knew something the doctors didn't. Every night around 2 a.m., Hector would pause outside the rooms of patients who couldn't sleep — the ones staring at the ceiling, terrified of what morning labs might reveal — and he would pray. Quietly, in Spanish, with his mop handle resting against the wall. He never announced it. He never theologized about it. He simply asked El Shaddai to sit with them in the dark.

One evening, a renowned oncologist found a terminal patient weeping — not from pain, but from peace. "The man who cleans my room," she whispered, "he prays for me. And when he does, I feel something I can't explain."

The doctor, who had spent thirty years mastering the science of the human body, stood speechless before a mystery his training could not touch.

This is what Paul means when he writes that God's wisdom comes not through impressive speech or human brilliance, but through the Spirit's quiet, unmistakable power. The things of God are spiritually discerned — and sometimes the person closest to heaven's frequency is the one holding the mop.