“Oh, no, we couldn’t accept that,” Charissa said, even though her back was killing her.
Jeremy’s eyes communicated suspicion. Or was it judgment? Maybe he was assuming something about her refusal to let him paint in their house without being paid to do it. “Your call,” Jeremy said, “but it’s no problem.”
John didn’t hesitate. “That would be an incredible help,” he said. “Thank you.”
Jeremy was still staring at Charissa, waiting for her confirmation. Despite the salesman’s insistence that latex paint was safe for pregnant women, maybe she wasn’t being prudent. Even with the windows cracked open, the fumes made her dizzy. “If you’re sure,” she said. “I don’t want to impose.”
“Glad to do it.” Jeremy rolled up his sleeves, revealing tattoos on both muscular brown arms. “I’ll call Abby and tell her I’ll be home in a couple of hours.”
“Thank you,” Charissa said. “That’s really kind of you.” She rearranged her ponytail. “How about if I go get pizza? John has this favorite, greasy place.”
“Pizza Depot?” Jeremy asked. “I love that place! Abby hates it.”
“Dude!” John gave him a high-five. When Charissa left ten minutes later, they were painting walls and talking about faith and church. The next morning Charissa and John greeted Jeremy, Abby, and baby Madeleine in the narthex of Wayfarer Church and introduced them to Emily, Dr. Allen, and Hannah.
“Have you ever seen a more beautiful baby?” Charissa asked as she and John lay in bed at the apartment that night.
“Just ours,” he said, and kissed her.
Meg
from: Meg Crane
to: Becca Crane
date: Saturday, February 7 at 6:35 AM
subject: Please call me
Dear Becca,
I know you don’t want to talk to me right now, but I really need you to call me back. I’ve had some news I need to share with you, and I don’t want to text or leave it on your voicemail. Please call me.
I love you.
Mom
Every time the phone rang over the weekend, Meg seized it, her despair escalating with each call that was not from Becca. “You still haven’t heard from her?” Hannah said when she got back from worship on Sunday.
“Nothing.”
“That’s not okay, Meg. Sorry to say this about your daughter, but I’m about ready to wring her neck.”
Meg had spent the last twenty-four hours making excuses for why Becca hadn’t called. Maybe her cell phone was dead. Maybe she was out of town with Simon. “Maybe it’s better this way, to wait until I know more.”
“What more do you need to know?” Hannah asked. “Your whole world has been rocked. Becca needs to know that.”
“But maybe it’s not fair to call her and tell her I have cancer if I can’t tell her anything else about treatment or prognosis.” Meg reached for her glass of lukewarm water and took a slow sip, swirling the water around in her mouth before she swallowed one little bit at a time.
On second thought, what if something went wrong with the biopsy in the morning? Meg had never had any kind of surgical procedure or sedative before. Maybe she should try one more time.
She dialed Becca’s number and listened to it ring, hanging up while Becca’s voice was asking her to leave a message after the beep. When she left for the hospital with Hannah early Monday morning after a fitful night’s sleep, she still hadn’t heard anything from her daughter. Nothing will separate me from your love, Lord, she prayed. And tried to believe it.
Hannah
Even with all her years of experience in hospital waiting rooms, Hannah felt agitated by the palpable stress of loved ones trying to distract themselves with deliberately banal chatter while a television morning show host interviewed a domestic expert about the best way to remove lime scale deposits from stainless steel sinks. Hannah left the waiting area intending to find a quiet, secluded corner but instead wandered into the gift shop near the lobby fountain.
The shop catered to a wide variety of cancer patients’ psychological profiles: sassy T-shirts, soothing inspirational cards and jewelry, luxury spa items. Hannah spun the circular card rack, looking for something that would speak comfort.
“Would you like a gift bag for that?” the cashier asked a woman at the counter.
Hannah positioned herself behind the rack in order to watch the transaction without being seen. The woman, whose mane of chestnut hair belonged in a shampoo commercial, was purchasing a headscarf. “No, thank you,” the woman said, becoming visibly distressed as she signed the receipt.
The cashier probably reenacted that scene countless times over the course of a week.
Hannah waited until the woman left the store before she took her own purchase to the front. “You’ve got a tough job,” she commented quietly.
“Yeah. Some days are tougher than others.” The employee scanned the card. “Yesterday a little girl comes into the store with an older man—her grandfather probably—and she goes straight for that display over there, with all the teddy bears.” Hannah glanced over her shoulder at dozens of bears, each with a colored ribbon pinned on the fur. “And then she tugs on her grandpa’s hand and says, ‘What color cancer does Mommy have?’ I sent her home with a pink ribbon one. And I tell you, I was wrecked for the rest of the day.”
Yeah.
Card in hand, Hannah offered a silent prayer for the clerk, then found a cloistered corner where she could listen to the soothing cascade of water.
Monday, February 9
9:45 a.m.
I’ve been sitting here in a secluded nook, praying with that image of placing children on Jesus’ lap for his blessing. I started imagining myself taking Meg to Jesus, and I watched him enfold her to his breast and stroke her beautiful curls and quiet her with his love. Suddenly, Meg tugged on his beard to pull his face closer to hers, and she whispered something in his ear. He nodded and looked up. Right at me. And Meg smiled this wide smile and climbed down off his lap and came and grasped my hand and led me over to him, and both of us sat on his lap, one on each knee, and Meg said, “Tell him where it hurts, Hannah.”
And I started to weep.
Sometimes our bodies are so full of pain that we don’t have a clue what the source is. Or maybe what we feel is actually referred pain, like people who feel pain in their shoulder when they’re having a heart attack. I think it’s the same with our soul pain. Sometimes the pain is so deep we don’t even know its source. Maybe it’s enough simply to say to Jesus, “I hurt,” without knowing where it hurts or why it hurts or even when it started hurting.
Jesus, I hurt. I hurt for my friend. I hurt for little girls whose mommies have cancer and for the moms who are battling for their lives and for all the ones who suffer alongside in the heartache. I hurt.
If I look closely into your eyes—if I really have the courage to make eye contact with you and allow you to hold me in your loving gaze, what I see are your tears.
I’ve been asking you to receive my sorrow. My tears. But can I receive yours?
“Jesus wept.”
I once heard a preacher explain that verse from the Lazarus story as Jesus weeping in anger and disappointment over Mary and Martha’s grief. Their brother was in the tomb because Jesus hadn’t come when they called him, and now that Jesus was there, they didn’t believe he had the power to reverse death. So, the preacher said, Jesus wept in anger over his friends’ lack of faith.
I went home and wept for all the people who left church that day convinced that God was even more disappointed and angry with them than they’d imagined. I wept for the ones who went home thinking God sits in condemning judgment upon their sorrow, for the ones who went home and made sure that the tomb where they’d buried their pain and disappointment was still securely sealed.
Jesus wept.
You know what those words mean to me? Those words mean that even though Jesus knew the end of the story—even though he was moments away from raising Lazarus from the gr
ave—he still was so moved by his friends’ pain that he wept with them and for them. He didn’t tell them to stop crying, didn’t tell them to just get over it and open the tomb. No, he wept with them. He shared their pain.
Isn’t that the essence of compassion? To suffer with someone? Jesus, Man of Sorrows, acquainted with grief, reveals a compassionate, suffering, loving God who is moved by our pain.
Jesus wept.
Jesus weeps.
Help me receive your tears of compassion for us, Lord, while we wait to see what you will do.
Mara
Mara arrived at the hospital shortly before noon, carrying a tote bag with a burgundy prayer shawl a woman from her church had already knit for Meg. “What’s the latest?” she asked as Hannah rose from a seat in the waiting room to embrace her, the circles large and dark beneath her eyes.
“Still no news,” Hannah said. “The procedure must have gone longer than they expected. I thought I would have gotten some kind of update by now, but there’s been nothing.”
Mara lowered herself into a chair with a heavy sigh. Waiting sucked. “Have you eaten anything?” she asked.
“No, I didn’t want to leave, in case someone came out to talk to me.”
“Want me to go get you something?”
“No, thanks. I’m okay.”
Mara glanced around the room at everyone who was waiting for news. Hospitals made her jittery. “How about some coffee?” She motioned toward the corner machine.
“No, thanks.”
Mara rose and poured herself a cup, then added two sugars and some half and half. She was stirring the red straw around and around when a doctor came out and sat down across from Hannah.
Reluctant to intrude, Mara kept stirring the straw, trying to read lips. The more the doctor talked, the more Hannah’s expression darkened. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. The doctor stood. Hannah stood. They shook hands.
As soon as the doctor left, Mara bustled toward her. “Hannah, what happened?”
Hannah stared at the far wall, her eyes glassy.
“Hannah?”
“One of her lungs . . .”
Mara twisted her beaded necklace around her fingers and gripped it hard, fighting the impulse to wave a hand in front of Hannah’s face as the seconds ticked by.
Hannah turned her vacant stare toward Mara. “One of her lungs collapsed during the procedure.”
Oh, God. What did that mean?
“They’ve got a chest tube in, got her stabilized,” Hannah said, a tremor in her voice. “They’ll have to keep her a few days.”
“But what about the—”
“No biopsy results yet. Those will come back this afternoon.” Hannah sank into her chair, hands pressed to her forehead, eyes closed.
Mara swirled the straw around and around in her Styrofoam cup, then set the coffee down beside a bridal magazine and reached into her tote bag. “I brought something for Meg,” she said. “It’s a prayer shawl. One of the ladies from our church knit it for her.”
Hannah opened her eyes. “It’s beautiful,” she said, lightly fingering the yarn. “I know that will mean a lot to her.”
Mara would ask for one for Hannah too. She looked like she needed to be wrapped in prayer. “What can I get you?” Mara asked. “A snack? Lunch? Anything?”
“No. Thanks, though. Nathan is going to be here in a little while, and he’ll wait with me.”
Mara folded the shawl back into the bag and placed the gift at Hannah’s feet. There was no need for her to stay if Nathan was coming. She would just be a third wheel. She looked at her watch. She could go home and clean. Or get dinner ready. Or use some of the food Charissa had given her and make some meals Hannah could freeze. Or she could drop by Crossroads and talk to Miss Jada about starting work next week. Or call Charissa to see if they needed any help moving boxes. Or unpacking.
Or maybe she would call Abby and see if she needed a nap or something. On her way to the parking garage twenty minutes later, Mara dialed their number. “How’s my favorite granddaughter?” she asked.
“Not great,” Abby said with a weary sigh. “I can’t get her on a schedule, no matter how hard I try. She’s up every couple of hours.”
Madeleine started to wail; Abby tried to soothe; Mara talked over the noise. “Let me come over right now, Abby. I’ll watch her while you sleep. Or take a long shower. Or whatever you need to do.”
A pause and then, “Would you really?”
“Absolutely. Be there in fifteen minutes.” Holding a baby—even a crying baby—was exactly what Mara needed to help calm and quiet her own soul against the breast of God.
Meg
Beeps. Hiss. Pain. Tubes. Voices. Pain. Blur. Light. Presence. Words.
Meg tried to focus. Level of pain?
Yes. Pain.
Number for pain, on a scale of one to ten, ten being high?
Ten.
More words from the stranger, then a voice she recognized and a gentle hand stroking her hair. “I’m here,” Hannah said.
Meg closed her eyes and slept.
Where was she? A room. A waiting room. No—a hospital room. She was covered in a sheet, and there was something in her nose, and there was a needle in her hand and something uncomfortable in her side. She tried to move but couldn’t lift her head. There were voices in the corner of the room, voices she recognized. “Hey,” Hannah said, rising from a chair.
Meg tried to speak, but her throat and lips were too dry. She mouthed, Water.
“They’re going to bring you some ice chips,” Hannah said, pressing a button near the hospital bed, “and start you off slow. But I told them I’m bringing you a strawberry milkshake later.”
Meg nodded, wincing in pain when she tried again to shift on her pillow.
“Hang in there,” Hannah said. “The nurse will be back really soon. They’ve been in here checking on you.”
Meg mouthed, Okay.
Someone else approached and stood at her other side. “You’ve got lots of people praying for you, dear one,” the voice said. Meg turned her head. Katherine’s whitening hair fell in soft waves around her face. Looking into her beloved mentor’s eyes, Meg relaxed into the presence of grownups who would know what to do.
When the doctor arrived with the results of the biopsy and scans, he asked who Meg had visiting with her. Hannah, Nathan, and Katherine each introduced themselves with handshakes before he walked over and stood next to the bed. His face was very kind, his voice gentle, and when he used big words like “metastasized,” he also used small words to explain what he meant. He did not use the word “chemotherapy” in his explanation, so Meg used it in her question.
“Your cancer is very widespread,” he replied. “And unfortunately, it’s very fast growing. With this kind of advanced progression, chemotherapy isn’t very effective.”
She blinked at his blurring face.
Ever since her diagnosis Meg had spent hours trying to prepare herself mentally and spiritually for the rigors of the remedy, researching side effects, bracing herself for the weakness and nausea and loss of her hair. But she had never once imagined that her cancer could be so severe, so widespread, that it could be beyond the grasp of a cure. Terminal. That was the word she was searching for as she tried to absorb this latest blow. She had rapidly growing, rapidly spreading cancer, the kind of cancer that was too much even for chemotherapy. She had terminal cancer.
She dug deep to find more voice, more breath. “How long?”
He paused. Hannah came to the other side of the bed and gripped the hand that did not have IV tubes. She could feel Hannah’s pulse beating. “Three, maybe four months.”
An audible gasp from Hannah. Or was that from her own mouth?
She was hovering outside her body, watching a blonde woman in a hospital bed talk with a doctor in a movie. There ought to be music playing, a haunting, melancholy soundtrack accompanying the giving of such news.
There ought to be music. A movie alw
ays had music.
Hot tears seared her cheeks, and she closed her eyes again.
Hannah
February 9
9:30 p.m.
The hospital staff brought me a blanket and pillow so I can stay here tonight. I don’t want Meg to be alone. Katherine stayed a long time with us. So grateful she was here. Her presence is a balm to Meg. To all of us. She brought a small wooden holding cross with her, something that Meg can grip in her hand for wordless prayer. She gave me one, too. I haven’t let go of it for the past several hours. Meg is asleep with hers.
Ever since Katherine and Nate left, I’ve heard one phrase again and again in my head: Behold, the Lamb of God. It’s John the Baptist pointing out Jesus to his own disciples in John 1: “Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!” I kept chewing on it, wondering what it had to do with my anguish over Meg. It just didn’t seem to speak any comfort to me at all. And then I heard a whisper: “You wish that verse said something else. What do you wish it said?”
Immediately, I knew: “Behold, the Lamb of God who takes away the pain of the world.” And I wept. Someday, you say. Someday you will take away all the pain of the world. Someday you will wipe away every tear and take away all mourning and crying and pain. Someday you will make everything new. Someday. But for right now, you call me to fix my eyes on the Lamb of God who suffered, who died, who took away the sins of the world. Right now you call me to fix my eyes on the cross of Jesus Christ and behold your love there. For Meg. For me. For the world.
Even as I fix my eyes there, I hear my own soul chafe that it’s not enough. I want you to end the pain now. I want you to reveal your glory now. I want you to heal my friend. To do what doctors say is impossible and make her well.
So what am I saying? That I’ll only be satisfied if you reveal your glory my way? What am I saying? That your salvation isn’t enough? That resurrection isn’t enough? That the promise of the kingdom coming in fullness someday isn’t enough? Is that what I’m saying?
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