By Sharon (SD) Mac
A few weeks before Steve went home, he began telling me gently, almost every day,
“Babe, go home first.”
He told me to check on our dogs, to rest, to save money on the hotel. “There’s no reason for you to stay there,” he said. “You’re not even comfortable.”
But he knew me — I wasn’t going anywhere.
Every morning I parked outside the hospital before 7 a.m., waiting for visiting hours. Every night I stayed until 9 p.m., then sat in my car, praying, sometimes dozing off, just so I could be near him. That car became my waiting room, my prayer room, my place of war and worship.
“Even if I have to sleep here every night,” I told him, “I will. I’m not leaving you.”
He smiled weakly, squeezed my hand, and whispered, “Just go.”
I shook my head. “No.”
And then, with that soft, knowing smile that always quieted me, He said, “I don’t know what I did to deserve your love. Thank you. I love you. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
That afternoon, I decided to do laundry. I thought it might help me breathe for a moment…just fold, wash, pray. The laundromat was close to the hospital. I sat there watching the machines spin when my phone rang.
“He coded,” the nurse said. “We’re trying to revive him.”
My knees buckled. The world went white. I fell, and a woman caught me before I hit the floor.
There were five women there…strangers, but in that moment, they became sisters. One prayed over me, another quietly gathered my clothes from the dryer, folded them, and put them in my bag. They surrounded me, speaking prayers between sobs as I clutched my phone, begging, “Please, save him. Please, God.”
One of them offered to drive me, but I managed to whisper, “Thank you,” and somehow drove myself to the hospital.
I waited in the lobby for what felt like an eternity until a nurse came to let me in.
Steve was intubated, still, but he was there…he lost a lot of blood, the nurse said and that he can’t hear or understand you anymore…But I knew he could hear me. I leaned close to him and whispered to his ear, “I’m here, Babe.I’m here Baba. I love you.”
They asked me to leave again, so I went back to the hotel and called my sister-in-law. As I parked, my phone rang again.
“He coded again.”
I turned around and drove back. When I arrived, he was alive, barely, but alive.
I told him I had a surprise. The girls were on their way. They had flown in for their grandfather’s funeral… Steve’s dad… but I knew God had arranged one more reunion.
When the girls came in, the nurse said, “He can’t hear, comprehend or respond anymore.”
But we knew better.
“He can hear us,” I said. “He’s still here.”
We talked, laughed softly, told him stories. And when we asked questions, he responded. Small movements. Gentle flickers. God was merciful…He gave us one last moment together.
After an hour, the girls said goodbye and left for Waco. I went back to the hotel. As I parked again, my phone rang once more.
“He coded. We’re having a hard time bringing him back.”
I haven’t even got down from my car (as I was talking to my sister in law at that time) So, I drove straight back to the hospital.
As the sliding door at the lobby opened. The security guard didn’t ask…he just opened the door that led inside the ICU. One of the nurses met me in the hallway and said softly, “He’s fighting it. He’s trying.”
I walked in, trembling, tears falling, and as I reached his room, I knocked and said,
“Hi, Babe… I’m here.”
He opened his eyes.
He looked straight at me.
And then, he coded again.
This time, they couldn’t bring him back.
I watched him take his last breath. The room filled with alarms, rushing footsteps, voices calling codes, but I only heard my own cry echoing through it all.
I fell to the floor, sobbing, gasping for air that wouldn’t come, begging God to let me trade places.
But in the midst of my breaking, there was mercy.
Because God didn’t let him go alone.
He waited until I was there…until I said, “I’m here.”
Until Steve saw me one last time.
That’s how love ends on earth, not with fear, but with faith.
With one final look that says everything words can’t.
His final breath wasn’t defeat.
It was deliverance.
His last words became the ones I carry every day:
“It is well with my soul.”
And even now, through the ache, the quiet, the long nights…I still whisper them back.
Because it is well.
Not because it doesn’t hurt,
but because God’s grace is still greater than the pain.
Soli Deo Gloria!
To God Alone be the Glory!
“Thou therefore endure hardness, as a good soldier of Jesus Christ.” -2 Timothy 2:3
“Resolved, never to give over, nor in the least to slacken, my fight with my corruptions, however unsuccessful I may be.” -Jonathan Edwards, Resolution, 56
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