Should I scream, windmill fight with the air, or hide and cry in my room? I had multiple feelings going on at the same time as I kept hearing the piercing words from the doctor: “Your husband’s organs are shutting down.” “What quality of life will he have?” “The machines are keeping him alive.”
I tried intently to think positively because God would not send us this far from home for this to be the end. But the doctor’s words pushed their way to the top of my mind. It would have been a relief if I could package these words up and send them to an unknown destination.
I decided to go outside and get some air. The hospital had become its own world. The machines beeping, hurried footsteps up and down the hall, doctor huddles outside the room, numerous faces coming in, constantly checking. Nothing felt normal, and the days blended together. I could not remember the last full night of sleep or the last meal I actually tasted instead of just eating because I needed to function. I spent so much time inside the hospital that I almost forgot what stillness sounded like.
I sat quietly on a rocking bench, staring blankly into the distance. The cool breeze felt good brushing through my hair. The rocking bench moved gently beneath me. For the first time in days, nobody was asking me a question or overloading me with information. I just sat there, tired in every possible way.
In front of me stood three small green trees. At first, they were just part of the scenery. I was looking at them, but I was not actually paying attention to them.
Something spoke calmly in my spirit that God is with us. As I sat there, the trees no longer looked random to me. The middle tree seemed to be embracing the side trees. I saw God as the center, and on both sides were Jay and me. I sat there for a while just looking, breathing, allowing the moment to settle into me.
Then my eyes shifted slightly left to another group of three trees. These were taller and looked like cherry blossoms. The one in the front was taller, and the others followed behind in slightly descending height.
Something spoke again in my spirit that God is guiding us. We were walking through something neither of us could ever have imagined.
Nothing had actually changed; my husband was still critically ill, and the doctors were still concerned. But something inside me had shifted. I still had questions I could not answer, and I worried about what the next phone call or conversation might bring. But the panic that had been gripping me all day loosened just enough for me to breathe again.
I am learning that faith is not always about getting answers. It is finding the peace to make it through the next moment, the strength to walk back into the hospital, the calm to sit through another discussion, and the hope to keep believing despite what I am hearing or seeing.
Before my husband fell ill, I expected reassurance to be obvious. Lately, however, it has come in the form of a hand squeeze, a slight smile, hearing my husband whisper “love you,” a room finally feeling peaceful after family tension, and three trees, two sets, standing still while my mind was all over the place. Those small moments have meant everything to me.
Loving someone through critical illness changes you. You learn how fragile life can feel and how powerful presence can be. Love looks less like fixing something and more like simply staying beside the person through every moment.
When someone you care about deeply is critically ill, your mind constantly searches for certainty. Back then, I found myself studying every movement and every number on the monitor. A good lab result could lift my hope for hours. I was constantly searching for something solid to hold onto.
Life does not always work that way, however. Sometimes all God gives you is enough grace for that day or peace for the next hour. His grace is sufficient. Maybe that was what I was being reminded of among those trees. Everything is not going to suddenly get easier, nor will difficult paths disappear. But God is with us as we walk through it.
Going back to the hospital, I felt different than I had the day before. It was not because I was free of fear or worry. But I did not feel as alone in it. The machines were still there, and so was the emotional and physical exhaustion. Yet, peace showed up and gave me enough strength to breathe, to sit beside my best friend again, to keep loving him through uncertainty, and to believe we were still being held and guided, even here.
Maybe sometimes, “enough” is the miracle.