Sixteen days ago, the voice was lilting and full of joy. She eagerly looked forward to being in Heaven and was unafraid. She is still looking forward to Heaven and is unafraid. But she is very, very sick and that voice is almost non-existent. She still knows her family and when she can, she has words for them.
The breaths are ragged and disorganized. They catch my brother’s heart and wrench it. He tends to her lovingly and tries to pray. The words stick in his throat, and he feels so helpless. If a heart breaking could be measured in decibels, the atmosphere would be shattered.
Ah, dear friends, how very much he needs your prayers. They all do — Clint, Shana, Doug, Juliana and Steven, Chip, Susan, Hannah and Clinty. And Frieda. Pray that her faith will soon be sight; that her suffering could cease; that she would hear the Angels singing and that death could be swallowed up in Victory. Soon and very soon.
. . . and this for my beloved brother.