“My mind and body may grow weak, but He is all I ever need." ~ Psalm 73:26
The consultation room smelled of
lemon disinfectant. Dr. Halloway’s tie was slightly crooked, a small human
detail Martha found herself focusing on as his voice droned on through precents
and timelines.
Advanced. Inoperable. Without treatment, a few months. With
chemo, perhaps twelve to fifteen, though the quality of life will shift.
Martha’s fingers searched for Arthur’s hand. She wasn't sure
if she was steadying herself against the news, or bracing her husband for the
blow. His hand quivered, tethered to the hope of a simple pill.
Dr. Halloway snapped the chart
shut. "So, Martha," he said, his tone softening. "I
know this is a great deal to take in. We don't need an answer
today."
She gave a subtle nod. "Thank you, Doctor. We'll
talk."
Neither of them spoke for several miles. The rhythmic sweep
of the wipers seemed to count the miles they had left together. When Arthur
pulled into the driveway and cut the engine, he stared straight ahead, his grip
locked tight on the steering wheel. "Six to twelve months," he
whispered, turning to her with troubled eyes. "Martha... we should try.
Right?"
She turned in her seat, covering
his hand with her own. "Artie, look at me. For months, I've had the
quiet sense that my life here is getting ready—not closing down, but
completing," she said softly. "Doctors talk about buying time
like it’s something we own. But our days already belong to Him."
"I'm not sure of either choice, Honey," she
said, offering a soothing smile. "I'm only sure of Who is waiting at
the end. If we choose chemo, we’ll spend the months we have left fighting
something we can't stop. If we let nature take its course, my time is measured
by grace, not by medications."
Then the front door clicked shut behind them.
Days later, Martha and Arthur sat together on the back
porch. Steam curled from their mugs of hot tea as a pair of goldfinches
splashed noisily in the birdbath Arthur had placed decades ago.
Without a word, Martha set her mug down and stepped off the
porch. She returned with a pair of gardening shears, and knelt by the overgrown
beds. Arthur watched from his chair, hands resting quietly on his knees. He
didn't ask. The determined snip of the blades told him everything.
She was simply tending to what remained.
Lord, when the road grows short and the
noise of the world fades, grant us the grace to let go of what we can’t
control. Help us trade the need to fight against time for the quiet peace of
Your presence. Amen
