Just Ask (21 page)

“I am.”

“Oh, Dad.” Then I reach over and hug him again. “This is so horrible. So unfair. It can't really be happening, can it?”

“I'd give anything to change it, Kim. Anything.”

We sit there in silence for several minutes. I honestly can't think of a thing to say. It's as if I'm frozen in time, like life is standing still, and yet I know that it's not. If
what the doctors say is true, my moms life is spinning away—much too fast. And there's nothing—not one thing—I can do to stop it.

Finally, my dad excuses himself to go in and talk to Mom. And although I'm feeling a little irked at God right now—like why didn't He stop this?—I still pray. I pray that God will help my dad right now, help him to say the right things to my mom.

But I also pray that God will change this whole recent chain of events. Maybe the doctors made a mistake, or maybe God wants to do some kind of miraculous healing—whatever it takes, I'm praying that He will come through for us.

It's around four o'clock when my dad comes out of Mom's room, and he looks worse than ever. “She wants to see you,” is all he says.

“But what do I say?”

“I don't know, Kim.” He shakes his head. “I'm going to the chapel.”

So I go into my mom's room. I'm expecting the worst—more emotions, more tears, more unanswerable questions—but I am surprised to see she's smiling. “Come here, sweetheart.” She reaches for my hand. When I get closer to her, I can see she's been crying.

“Oh, Mom.” I give her my hand and then lean down and place my head against her shoulder. “Why is this happening?”

She strokes my hair. “I don't know why, Kimmy. I don't know why.”

We stay like that for a while, and finally I stand up, but I don't let go of her hand. “I didn't think you were this sick, Mom. I thought it was just the change, that you were going to be fine—” My voice breaks now. “I've been praying and believing that everything was going to be fine—and it's—”

“Everything is going to be fine, Kim. Just wait and see.”

“But what about—?”

“Like I told your dad, sweetheart, this is all in God's hands. There's nothing to fear.”

“You're not afraid?”

She considers this. “Well, I can't say I'm not afraid. But I trust God. I know that I'm in His hands. I know that He's watching over me. I have this deep sense of peace inside.”

“Really and truly?” I study her closely I mean, I've known this woman for almost my entire life, and she's really a bad liar. I can usually tell if she's keeping something from me.

“Really and truly”

“So what does that mean? That deep peace? Do you think you're going to get well after all?”

“I'm not sure. Maybe that's it. I can't even explain it, Kim. But it came over me last night. I was wide awake and just thinking and praying, and suddenly I got this deep sense of peace, and I knew it was from God, and I knew that everything was going to be all right.”

I feel a surge of hope now. “You're certain that it's going to be all right?”

She nods. ‘Tm certain.”

Suddenly it feels like I can breathe again. Okay, I'm not completely relieved, and I can't say that I'm not afraid. But I do have this sliver of hope running through me now. And my mom's not the kind of person to mislead anyone. She is the most honest person I know.

“I've been praying for you,” I say. “A lot.”

“I know. I can tell.”

And then I tell her that other people are praying for her. And I promise to have all my friends praying for her. And before long, I'm beginning to believe that perhaps this is what God wants. He wants it to look like my mom is seriously ill, but then He wants to do a miracle. And what better person to do a miracle for than my mom?

“I think you're right,” I finally tell her. “I think it's going to be okay.”

She smiles, and I am absolutely certain that my mom has the sweetest smile on the planet. “Yes, I think you're right.”

Now my dad is back, standing like a shadow in the doorway.

“Come in, Allen,” my mom calls to him. Then she takes both our hands and smiles. “My two favorite people.”

My dad looks amazingly recovered, or else he's putting on a brave front for my mom. “How are you doing, honey?”

“I feel better.”

Now Dad turns to me. “We need to discuss some things, Kim. Medical things about treatment and whatnot. Do you want to hang around, or do you have things you need to do?”

I look at my mom. “What do you want me to do, Mom?”

“I want you to keep doing what you normally do, sweetheart. Keep your grades up and keep practicing violin and writing the column.” She chuckles now. “A nurse was talking about that column today”

“Really?”

“She knew your dad was the editor, and she wanted to know who Jamie is.”

“Did you tell her?” I ask.

“Of course not. But she told me that her fourteen-year-old daughter reads “Just Ask” religiously, and it seems to be the only source of advice she'll actually listen to. The nurse said she wanted to send Jamie a box of chocolates.”

I kind of laugh. “Tell her just to send it care of the paper.”

My dad smiles as he shakes his finger at me. “No bribes or gifts for columnists.”

I turn back to my mom now. “Okay, I guess I should go. Our Christmas concert is less than two weeks away, and I've got a solo I should be practicing. Not to mention homework and those never-ending letters.”

My mom is beaming up at me. “I'm so proud of you, Kimmy.”

“Take it easy,” I tell her. And as I'm leaving the hospital, I realize that I didn't even ask her if she was coming home today. Somehow I don't think so.

As I drive toward home, I'm feeling this crazy mix of emotions. I mean, on one hand I feel like my heart's been torn from my chest and thrown into a food processor. But on the other hand, I have this unexplainable hope too. I remember how my mom looked so certain when she assured me that everything's going to be fine. How can I not believe her?

Even so, I call Natalie as soon as I get home. I pour out the whole story, and she is very sympathetic. When I get to the part about my mom's peace and how I'm thinking it might be a God-thing, she becomes very excited.

“I can really see that,” she says with enthusiasm. “God could be so glorified in this, Kim. I mean, everyone loves your mom, and I'm sure everyone will be praying for her. And when she beats this thing, it'll be so miraculous that everyone will be praising God. It'll be totally amazing!”

“Yeah, that's kind of what I'm thinking.”

“I'm going to call our church prayer chain first thing,” she says as we finish our conversation. “We have like five hundred people on it, and they are all seriously into prayer.”

I thank her and hang up. Then, like I promised my mom, I go through the paces of practicing violin and homework. But to be honest, it feels like just motions, as
if something inside of me is dead or dying. I tell myself that I'm just imagining it, that everything is going to be okay, but it's not working. Finally, in my last attempt to distract myself, I pick up the package of new “Just Ask” letters and absently peruse through several before a certain one totally stops me in my tracks.

Okay, this is a tough one. I mean, I know how this kid feels, and I kind of feel the same way. And yet I'm supposed to write something honest and hopeful and encouraging. Finally, I know that all I can do is to ask God for help. So I actually kneel down (an action I usually reserve for only the most serious of prayers), and I beg God to bring some sense out of what feels like senseless and random acts of brutality. Like why did this sweet grandmother get struck down like that? I'd like to
know myself. And why did my mom get diagnosed with stage four ovarian cancer today?

I pray and pray—and I am brutally honest with God; Chloe Miller was the one who always told me that He can take it. I tell God that, like that letter writer, I'm confused and angry too. I tell Him that life doesn't make sense sometimes. And that, although I want to believe He's got a bigger plan and can bring good out of this, like my mom and Natalie are believing—and like I want to believe too—sometimes it just seems too hard to go on.

And finally, I feel an answer coming. Oh, it's probably not a complete answer, and it might not even be the perfect answer, but I do get the impression it's coming from God, and all I can do is sit down and write it.

Somehow I feel better after writing that. I'm not totally sure why since it doesn't really change anything. Okay, maybe it changes me. Maybe that's what God is up to right now—changing me. Or maybe that's the only part of this big-picture thing that I actually have any control over. Meaning I can control my own choices— like whether I choose to walk in faith or I choose to walk in fear. I'd rather walk in faith. I think that's what my mom's doing right now. And I guess if she can do it, I can at least give it my best shot.

And sure, I don't know what's around the next comer. Does anyone? But I can hang on to God and trust that He knows. And when I'm feeling lost or confused or angry (as I expect I will from time to time), I can take these things to Him and ask for help. I think that's what He wants us to do. To just ask.