"I Am There"

On a clear night, when I look at the moon in the black sky, it often takes me back to a sad point in my life when my dear wife, Katherine, was dying.

But that was also the time of an incredible experience in faith, and a lesson in the power of enduring love.

Katherine was a diminutive woman, with shimmering brown eyes and a musical laugh. There was something about the energetic tap of her approaching footsteps that was music too.

It was love at first and last sight. I am a writer and poet by profession, and during the final months of Katherine's life I wrote a poem about our love, how we had shared 13 years:

Together in the morning and waked at night;
Shared sunlight, moonlight, firelight, candlelight,
And lovelight, hope and disappointment, peace
And pain; quarreled and found how quarrels cease
In love's embrace; talked, feared, planned, and worked out
Our plans or seen them fail; grown up through doubt
Of one another to love's certainty,
Till I was part and heart of her and she
Of me, one flesh, one mind, one spirit, one!

When doctors diagnosed her cancer and scheduled immediate surgery, I was filled with dread and rushed alone to the chapel. "God," I cried out in agony and anger, "if you are there, please allow my Katherine to live!"

It was she who had taught me to have faith, who had shown me how God works in our lives. I had had an unhappy childhood that led me to have little faith in God.

But Katherine changed all that. The capacity for doubt was not in her, and the currents of belief that ran from the depth of her being eventually flowed into me, and I became open to God's love.

Now I asked God how he could let this happen to Katherine, who was so full of love. If she died, would the faith she had given me die too? "Oh, God, where are you?" I cried.

It was then I heard the voice—a clearly audible and emphatic voice, yet with a quality so soothing that I felt an immediate change come over me: "Do you need me?" asked the voice. "I am there."

I turned and looked to see who was talking, but saw no one. I bowed my head and the voice continued with words of such comfort, words brimming with such hope and compassion, that I pulled an envelope from my coat and wrote them down to share with Katherine later.

As I waited for her to come out of surgery, I repeated the words I heard in the chapel: Do you need me? I am there. Finally the doctor emerged from post-op, and walked slowly, wearily toward me. With my eyes I pleaded for good news, but he shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "The cancer has spread."

I clutched his arm for support. "How...long?" I asked.

"Months, no more."