Six years ago, my brother P.J. battled an ulcer that sought to make a widow of his wife and leave my nieces and nephew fatherless. My family battled right back in prayer, and God worked a miracle. Today, a similar circumstance reminds me of this story, where I raised an Ebenezer worth revisiting now.
It’s the first night in a week I haven’t been up on the surgical floor at Sentara tracking my brother’s progress. I feel the need to just be still. The air in the evening calm after the afternoon lightning storm rekindles a creative fire dormant in these days spent pacing, swapping updates, and riding the ups and downs of a treacherous terrain.
Just after I posted last Tuesday night, P.J. was rushed to the hospital after vomiting blood. Mom called while I was in the shower the next morning to let me know she was driving down to Hampton. The voicemail chilled my clean skin. She called back while I was getting in the car, unsure where I would be going. “I don’t want you getting in the car,” Mom said. “Your brother might not make it.”
That’s how it began for me, really, though I imagine that each one…
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