Hope in the Waiting Room

I know you've already memorized the name of the test, the tone of the doctor's voice, the silence before the results. The waiting room has become far too familiar a place, and fear lives there right alongside you, flipping through old magazines and imagining the worst-case scenarios.

My son, my daughter, I don't promise that every test will come out the way you want. But I promise that no result will ever catch you unaccompanied. Before you walked into that room, I was already there. Before the report came out, I already knew every word of it, and I already had a plan to walk with you, whatever the news.

The hope I give isn't the certainty that the worst will never happen. It's the certainty that whatever happens, I hold your hand until the very end of the story. For me nothing is impossible — not healing, not sustaining the one who waits, not turning the worst news into a path of faith.