Agony of carcinoma

The man finished brushing his teeth and swung his wheelchair away from the sink.  “No more prayer!” he exclaimed.  “No more prayer!”  I had simply knocked on his door with an offer to help.  Actually he did welcome me in, though his words turned sharp.  “I’ve been prayed for in Jerusalem.  I’ve been prayed for in Mexico.  I’ve been prayed for here in San Antonio.  God cannot change the carcinoma on my lung.  He cannot change any of this.  It’s written on my hospital papers.”  I silently nodded to acknowledge his words, and he leaned toward me, seeming disturbed that I didn’t quickly agree.  “I don’t think you understand,” he continued.  “God cannot change my diagnosis.  It’s on my papers,” and he pointed to the medical records area down the hall.  I followed his hand gestures and facial expressions closely, wanting to respect all of what he was telling, though it seemed my silence frustrated him.  Again he stated, “I don’t think you understand me!”  This time I replied, “We may just see things differently.”  I smiled in hope of easing any anxiety about our differences, but in actuality, the opposite seemed to happen.  With growing agitation, he posed the question, “Do you know the worst thing that can happen to a man?”  I waited for his answer.  “It’s pain,” he declared.  “My pain is awful.  It’s absolutely awful.”  And suddenly I wondered if all this time he was meaning something he really didn’t say.  He was exhausted and worn from fighting through pain, and maybe he didn’t want his diagnosis changed.  Perhaps he didn’t want to live anymore.  The possibility of someone praying to reverse that proclamation of death might cause him great heartache.  And in that moment, I did the very thing he didn’t want.  Not in spite, not as a slap in the face, but wholly in support of his dire situation, I quietly prayed for the Lord to touch this man who has had pain screaming at him so loud for so many years.  Colossians 3:12-13 says, “Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.  Bear with each other . . .”  This was my opportunity to bear with this man.  I came to his hospital room not to argue.  I watched for a pause in his words that I could politely exit, and he could then rest.  “I have been blessed to meet you today, Sir.  Thank you for your time to talk.”  I stood to smile, and he waved without any apparent angst.  May the Lord comfort him.