loss of spouse
Single parenting was not a part of my dream for the future. But a few months after our 16th wedding anniversary, a doctor said, “I’m so very sorry” as he diagnosed my husband’s brain cancer. Soon I was left to raise a 10-year-old son and an eight-year-old daughter alone.
Tears dripped into my bowl of cookie dough. I kept stirring, uncaring. Dark chocolate chips slowly blended with the thick mixture and my tears. I longed for a touch of sweetness to soothe my inner ache. Instead, hopeless thoughts filled my mind.
My tired body leaned against the kitchen counter while my sister, Laura, dried the last of the dishes. Across town, my husband, Jason, lay in a hospital room recovering from brain surgery. Wrapped in the night’s stillness, I thought about what was to come and murmured, “I guess we’re about to see the answer to our prayers. One way or another, it will all be over soon.”
An invisible knife pierces my heart. Ever since my 59-year-old husband lost his valiant battle with colon cancer, I’ve waited for him to call, to hear his hearty laugh – but silence looms.
“I will not forget you! See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands” (Isaiah 49:15-16).
You probably don’t remember the first person’s hand you held, but most likely it was your mother’s or father’s. When you got a little bigger, Mom or Dad would take your hand before crossing a street. Their hands of protection were always there, even though you liked to run free.