Faith and Prayer The Chapel of the Good Samaritan finds me seated in the ninth, and last, oak

pew. I've chosen the northwest corner, a spot beneath ten pairs of arched, stained glass windows set at eye level of a standing man. Above them, at about twelve feet, are another four windows half again that size, yet identical in configuration. The ceiling, perhaps thirty feet above me, is also arched, with open beams. The front of the chapel, behind and above a non-descript altar, features a bronze "Corpus," the messiah crucified, sans cross. It's as if the body hangs, suspended in mid-air, the perfect reflection of how I feel. Days have passed and nothing has changed. The sedation has left my wife's system and the EEG continues to tell us cognitive brain activity is nonexistent. I take refuge in this place to consider a question I suddenly find overwhelming. It first occurred to me in the night, and now I feel I can't go on until it's answered. The question: Why haven't I prayed for anything to change? I've prayed for strength, for patience and for the children to be strong. But I've not prayed for change. Does this mean I don't want my wife back? That I've forsaken her? That I don't love her? Where is the prayer that begs God for her life, the return of her smile, her kindness, her delicate touch? It has not been uttered. Does that mean I want her dead...or that I'm simply too proud to beg? I've heard no voices, seen no burning bushes. I've been inspired over the years, however. And it's those who've moved me most deeply that I've chosen to see as carriers of the message. It's not what they say, it's how they live: simply and without haste. They're authentic and they endure. Happiness lies in the peace they find in the process of life, not in its events. Death is part of the process.

Only yards from here, my wife lies in death's grip, unable to function at even the most basic cognitive level. Her six children are lost in confusion and grief, while others who love her await news of her fate with little hope. Yet there is peace in this place. Faith, more holy in practice than proclamation, nevertheless brings a stillness in contemplation. Although a part of me finds it hard to believe that I've come to accept God's plan, I suppose it's true. This transition convinces me I've already changed my view of her life. Tragic in its simplicity, I guess one could say, her faith, oft repeated, was rarely followed by action. Yet it's persistent proclamation was as profoundly endearing in that simplicity as it was frustrating in its lack of results. Her journals, replete with good intentions, were where she prayed, many entries followed by some variation on one theme: "Thy Will, Not Mine, Be Done, Lord." I find peace in my own acceptance of that reality. Perhaps because the peace I see on my wife's face is a peace I've not seen in years. She feels no pain, the doctors have gone to great lengths to assure me. They say one thing they know for certain is how pain registers on the devices that monitor both the brain and the body. There's no indication of pain whatsoever, even after the withdrawal of sedation. She's simply at rest: no pain, no fear, no anger, no conflict, no doubts. And that gives me peace. Tears still flow freely as we all face the inevitable. But my grief is no longer focused on her suffering, her misery, or the fear in her eyes as she faded from this world. It's at the sadness of our loss...and hers. It's also a profound disappointment in myself as I begin to consider all I misunderstood. Much of the wreckage I so resented was simply inevitable, a self-fulfilling prophecy all along. Sally's naivet was a choice made long ago, and her diffidence an avoidable byproduct of another's example. To her credit, she had simply decided to see the world as a glass

half-full regardless of it all, then act as if God would direct the result in response to simply having been asked. It was a conclusion that lead to behaviors profoundly threatening to her life. But I will cling to her fierceness. It's an image I not only suspect, but hope will always bring me to tears: her jaw, firmly set, as a symbol of her patience and steadfastness in the face of my disdain on occasions of petty conflict, as well as her commitment to her children, for whom she would die if necessary. That image is one of her relentless commitment to love and patience over confrontation. In that, her faith was transcendent. It's a standard to which I will always aspire, but I'm sure I will never reach as I remain grateful for having known and desperately loved her.