Flecks of snow danced on the early morning sky, soon giving way to brief showers of the white stuff. The crystalline ballet was gloriously unusual for Atlanta and even more so in early February. My wife and I sat quietly in our van, parked in a hospital parking garage. I was due inside at five a.m. but couldn’t make myself shut off the engine. The very act of moving toward the door was in itself an act of betrayal to myself.

So I stole some moments, delaying the inevitable, watching the playful antics of the tiny white visitors through a defrosted window. Sandy sat very still beside me, and I know she was silently bracing herself for the long weeks ahead in which she would have to do the juggling act of all time: pulling double duty of an already excessively demanding lifestyle. I, on the other hand, was facing bed duty. For twelve weeks. Bless my heart, I wasn’t thinking of the circus act Sandy would be forced to pull off. I was sinking ever deeper, wrapped in my own trial of dual surgeries, requiring a potentially three-month stay in the hospital I was now looking at.

Sandy touched my hand reassuringly but said not a word. That tender act was all it took to release a welling of tears to my eyes. A single tear escaped from the forming pool and traced a line down my cheek. In my heart I was crying, “Lord, is there no other way?”  The leaden sky was silent. No. This was my journey—and my wife’s—and since there was no way around it, I collected myself, sighed deeply and shut off the engine. It was time. Together we headed toward the garage elevator that would take me to my home away from home and church for the next dozen weeks. Continue reading »