I speak my friend’s email report aloud this evening, a tough
sentence. Cancer. Surgery.
Aggressive chemo. Nausea. Debilitating fatigue. Mouth ulcers.
“You could fall
to despair pretty quick in those shoes,” my husband says.
His invisible words hang in the air, dangling as if splashed
across the front of a huge, imaginary supermarket tabloid. They summon a response from me, and yet I am tongue-tied.
He’s right, I tell myself. I watched my childhood best friend fight a similar verdict
for two years. She suffered. I helplessly watched her suffer. It was hard to say good-bye.
His words. They
fill the room now. This is too much.
Too binding. Lord, have mercy!
Another reality enters boldly - filling space, swelling like an
emergency airbag expanding in a car. The words surrender to it: HOPE. I cling to it, to the Author of it. We will persevere, we will not lose hope.
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