NINE
MINUTES LIKE GLACIERS
Fifteen minutes later, maybe more, I emerged from that room dry-eyed. It
had been the first time I’d really been alone since the whole ordeal began. I
had wanted to be strong for Sonja, a husband strong for his wife. I found
her in the waiting room, using her last drops of cell phone battery to call
friends and family. I hugged her and held her as she cried into my shirt until
it stuck to my chest. I used what little battery was left on my cell phone to
call Terri, my secretary, who would in turn activate the prayer chain at
church. This was not a ritual call. I was desperate for prayer, desperate that
other believers would bang on the gates of heaven and beg for the life of
our son.
Pastors are supposed to be unshakable pillars of faith, right? But at that
moment, my faith was hanging by a tattered thread and fraying fast. I
thought of the times where the Scripture says that God answered the
prayers, not of the sick or dying, but of the friends of the sick or dying—the
paralytic, for example. It was when Jesus saw the faith of the man’s friends
that he told the paralytic, “Get up, take your mat and go home.”^1 At that
moment, I needed to borrow the strength and faith of some other believers.
After I hung up with Terri, Sonja and I sat together and prayed, afraid to
hope and afraid not to.
Time dragged, the minutes moving at the speed of glaciers. Between
muted conversations and small talk, the waiting room ticked with a
pregnant silence.
Ninety minutes later, a female nurse in purple scrubs, a surgical mask
dangling from her neck, stepped into the waiting room. “Is Colton’s father
here?”
The tone of her voice, and the fact that it was a nurse and not Dr.
O’Holleran, sent a surge of hope through my body.
Maybe God is being gracious despite our stupidity. Maybe he’s going
to give us another day, another chance.
I stood. “I’m Colton’s dad.”