These days, I keep my blood pressure cuff and stethoscope on the bed next to Jane for taking her vitals signs several times a day. This evening, our granddaughter Lily came up and sat on the bed at Jane's feet, and put the stethoscope around her neck.
Then Lily looked at grandma and said, "grandma, can I . . . can I . . . can I . . . fix you?" Jane's eyes welled up with tears, as she marveled at the complete childlike faith of this little girl.
Shortly thereafter, I took Brent, Shelly and Lily back to the hotel again, and this time as I started to drive away, it hit me. Soon this week, we'll be saying goodbye to them as they return to Michigan, and Jane will be saying goodbye to them for good.
Just then, that invisible hand reached out and grabbed me by the throat again, trying to keep me from swallowing, squeezing the very water from my eyes. After a little while, the hand releases its grip, and I return to "normal."
So now, we're settled in for the night; hoping and praying that she gets a full night's sleep; resting in the assurance that if a child can have that kind of faith, maybe we can too.