She was tired. The struggle was overwhelming. Still, she managed a smile and a weak laugh. Cancer kills in a nasty way, and brain cancer is among the nastiest. A dear saint of God, a true believer, winding down to the end of this earthly existence and looking forward to the next step.

    I had known Marian and Tom a little bit while I was pastoring in Geneva, Ohio. They went to a different church, so it was just a passing acquaintance. However, they both retired and their long time home became too much to handle, especially once Tom was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. They searched around for an apartment that would be nice and where Marian could devote herself to her husband. As it worked out, they moved into the seniors' apartment facility where I live, and Marian started attending the worship service I started. A nice little happenstance.

    And then...brain cancer.

    Day by day, the struggle increases. Her son and daughter are working their time out so that one or the other can be at the apartment. Time is drawing short. Mom is getting sicker and sicker, daughter and son are becoming exhausted and Dad stares at the TV, whether it is on or off. This scenario plays out all over the world in one manner or another. Most families have such a story within the last three generations. Still, in apartment number 119, it seems unique because it is personal.

    Last Sunday, after our worship service, I walked down to 119 to spend some time. The daughter was there and I spoke with her when she answered the door. I took Tom's outstretched hand and asked him if he was going to watch the Browns. He smiled and rolled his eyes. I don't think he knew me, but he still remembered the woeful Browns. Then I sat down next to the hospital bed and took Marian's hand, and we talked for a bit. She is ready to go, to meet Jesus. Her fears are calmed. She can no longer express her love to her family with a hug or a wonderful meal or a joke, but she rests easy because they express their love to her by seeing to her needs. We talked a little of people we both know, and we talked of that which is coming very soon. But she was tired. After a time, I prayed with her and then rose to go. She held onto my hand and said something in a fading voice. I leaned over to hear better and she spoke it again. "You are a good man!" I thanked her, said my goodbyes and I left the apartment.

    I pondered her final words as I walked along. You are a good man! Interesting. I know my own faults and failures. I do not see the 'good man' part. What I see is a man with faults who has just tried to serve the Lord. I thought about the beginning of this journey and the high goals and how those goals went by the wayside as I looked to follow the Lord. We never know where the Lord will take us. 

    I got on the elevator and looked across the hall before the door closed. There were the windows that look into the community room where we have our worship service. I smiled a little. It was meant to be a worship service. A little singing, a little prayer, a little preaching. Somehow, some way, I have reverted to being the pastor. Illnesses, concerns for adult children, worries about increasing rent and the costs of living. People will see me in the hallway and we will wind up talking of needs and concerns. A pastor always.

    And I don't care that I never pastored that mega-church or wrote books or whatever. My heart is breaking for an adult son and daughter who are facing a death of one parent and the slow and crippling passing of the other. I hurt for that husband who is soon to be without his anchor. The sadness of apartment 119 is heavy on me. But this is my path, and I am grateful the Lord is letting me to continue along the way.

    I sometimes wonder about my classmates from college and seminary who had their futures worked out in their minds. What happened to them when the Lord's reality struck? The path can be wearisome, but it is good.

    Rejoice in the Lord alway, and again I say rejoice!