In my head

I don't want to go in. I don't know who you are or what you'll say. I don't want seeing your brokenness to remind me of my own. I don't want to be that vulnerable, to face the possibility that you might say something mean or reject me. I don't want to feel awkward or say the wrong thing. I'm frightened. And yet, I want to serve you. I want to hear your story and see your eyes looking at mine. I want to learn from knowing you. I want to hold your hand as we both reach toward God.

He's my age. He's my age and a car accident put him in the hospital for six months. Suddenly, out of nowhere, half a year in the hospital, at times barely clinging to life, only now working on learning to walk again. The same thing could happen to me or one of my friends. Will he be able to make a full recovery? Will he be able to return to work or play sports again? How do I help him find hope and strength for recovery after such a sudden and devastating experience? How do we keep from becoming frightened of everything? On what do you construct a solid foundation?

Terminal cancer. She says it calmly, quickly, in the middle of an explanation, and for a moment I hope I imagined it. Then she says it again, and I know it wasn't just a misunderstanding. The first two doctors said there was nothing they could do. The third offered a possible experimental treatment. In the midst of anger and shock, a tiny bit of hope was offered. But the hope is for remission, not cure. It's terminal. How do we face that condition? Yet again, I feel like a snake oil salesman trying to peddle hope with a smile on my face and an ache in my heart.

I can say that life is a terminal condition. I can say that everything is temporary, both good and bad. I can try to cling to the one constant unshakeable thing: God. But it's hard to make that tangible, it's hard to tell that to people when it sounds so trite, even to my ears. So I sit in the silence. I listen. I offer what little comfort and hope I have and pray that simply showing up will be enough.