Over time, it becomes tiring to look to every new day as a possibility for healing, but you do it anyway. With every sunrise you lean forward and stick out your tongue to try and catch some tiny medicine bottle droplet of good news squeezed out in the smallest tear of soothing liquid, hoping it will wet your thirst enough to carry you through to the next hour. It is in these hours, the watching and waiting hours, that any notion of justice, of good people getting what they deserve, of things working out the way they should, is robbed from you, so easily torn away like the sorry excuse for a garment that is the hospital gown. So you stand there, beside the bed of the one whom you love, wanting to help, trying to protect, hoping to heal, but aware that you are pitiful, weak, naked and bare. If you are desperate enough, you begin to look for miracles everywhere and anywhere you can find them. It is as if, just like your loved one, you have slipped into some other realm of awareness and as you stumble around in your inebriated state you bump into graces unseen by others unaware.
At some point, your tense, taunt muscles, fatigued from anxiety and lack of sleep, just give out, your resolve fails you and so, you. Let. Go. And you begin to float. For the first time, you begin to hear the words you’ve been singing for weeks over the bed of your loved one, the melody, the gentle notes of “All to Jesus, I surrender…” and you begin to lay back into the truth of your utter helplessness, your mere humanity, your complete lack of control. You breathe in and you breathe out and you sing.