I wander down the all-too-familiar halls of the hospice until I find her room. He’s there too, sitting near the hospital bed. Close enough to touch her hand. He offers her another muffin from Tim Hortons.
He’s there every day.
She’s been here for months and he’s there every day with his cane and a bag from Tim Hortons.
It’s a different love than the kind I saw during the summer of twelve weddings. It’s different than the vows they read fervently to each other from the front of the church.
Not any less solemn. But quieter, somehow.
I come across it in a folder Mom had asked me to sort. A mission statement, signed and dated by a passionate young girl.
A mission statement to serve Christ to the death, with abandon, and other 17th-century-type words.
For years, I wondered where that girl went? Who was she? Was that ever really me?
Years of stale faith, of doubts and of sin that came back again and again to the point where I wondered if I ever really knew Him.
But also years of loss.
Of prayers to help me pray.
Of desperate dives into the deep context of His Word.
On a Tuesday night, I tell her all of this. How I used to envy 15-year-old Kate’s confidence in how life and faith are supposed to work.
“Now I better understand what I’m giving up to love Christ, but I also better understand what I’m gaining.”
A quieter, deeper love.
A love that shows up in the hospice and sits there quietly day after day.
“For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” Romans 8:38-39