In the three years I’d been accompanying my wife, Vickie, to the hospital for chemo, the other men and women who spent long hours in the spacious waiting room had become a community I depended on. The space was full of natural light, the walls painted reassuring hues, the chairs comfortable, the conversation uplifting despite the reason we were all there. At home, watching Vickie’s struggles, I could easily fall victim to despair. I prayed for healing for Vickie, and for myself. I prayed not to feel so helpless. In our familiar area of the hospital, God seemed to answer both prayers. There in the waiting room, it was impossible not to feel hope.
Vickie fit in perfectly, with her bold T-shirts showing messages of faith and positivity. I was more circumspect, especially in the beginning. I’d always thought of myself as a
