Yes, here we are. In that same small room. Waiting. Waiting for another dose, another bolus, another turn, another in a long line of little adjustments meant to bring some measure of comfort.
But there is little comfort, even for all this care. Not for those gathered around, anyway. For as surely as the caring hand will not leave her weakened shoulder, the hand of death will not be stayed forever. With each diminishing breath we can see that it is coming. ‘But why will it not come?’ the heart silently cries out. ‘Where is the relief?’
“I can’t believe it!” the man says as he walks down the road. “We had thought He was the Messiah … but then He died. A horrible death. An agony of humiliation and stolen breath. And now it is the third day.”
“The words of comfort, the way He brought healing and relief in the midst of suffering, the joy and the hope … it is all gone now.” ‘Why did it happen?’ his heart silently cries out. ‘Why did it come to an end so soon – too soon?’
But the stranger only smiles in answer. And there is silence as they walk together for the span of a few paces. Then placing a nail-scarred hand upon the grieving shoulder, He draws in sweet breath and begins to tell of the mysteries of death and of life, and of all that is still down the road … still waiting when we finally get home …