Bouquet of Sorrows The days have been strung to weeks and the weeks
to a month like pearls are strung in a necklace. My mind is
exhausted, and my body is drained with all that encompasses the
dreaded phrase "terminally ill" attached to a loved one. As I
sensitively walk down the hospital's quiet corridor, to my right
side, I see a small sign that reads "chapel." And I am immediately,
as if by an invisible force, drawn toward it. "Medicine to my
soul," I think to myself. Perfect, at this late hour of the night,
it will only be my God and me. I am ready for a heart-to-heart
conversation with God, and I sigh in relief. Slowly I open the door
to the chapel, and walk in. I am so ready for questions, and
answers. Inside the chapel, the light is dim, but I can see a
silhouette of a woman knelt in front of a wooden cross. Even though
I can only see her back, she seems familiar to me. I feel as if I
know her and her story. I stay still not wanting to perturb her
praying. Suddenly, I am sure; I know her, her thoughts, her pains,
and her sorrows. I know it, because her thoughts, her pains, her
sorrows, they are all whispering to me . . .
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