So I sit. I listen. I hold hands that are lighter every visit.
That Thursday in early spring, Bettina Ruiz caught me at the nurses’ station. She’s been on that floor almost as long as I’ve been visiting it, and she has a way of telling me who needs me before I ask.
“New admission in 412, Pastor,” she said, flipping a page on her clipboard. “Stage four. Came over from a hospital up north so she could be closer to her son. She’s a firecracker. Already asked me if the Jell-O comes in any flavor besides green.”
“Does it?”
“Not on this floor.” Bettina smiled. “Go say hello. I think you’ll like her.”
I remember straightening my tie as I walked down that hall. I don’t know why. Habit, maybe. My late wife, Carol, used to tease me that I fixed my tie before knocking on any door, as if God Himself might be on the other side waiting to grade me.
