A hospital corridor reflection, with no umbrella and two brave women on my mind

The elevator dings and opens its doors. Main floor. Time to unplant these feet and move.

I step out and start down the long corridor, the one with the tall ceilings and windows that let in just enough daylight to remind you you’re still here. It’s a strange kind of light—bright enough to guide the way, but soft enough not to intrude on the hush of this place, where grief and hope linger together like old friends who no longer try to avoid each other.

Up on the fourth floor, my wife had just shared with me the bad news she received from her doctor, whose somber tone said more than his words. More tests, more scans, more waiting rooms. But even early on, it was clear: this was serious. Surgery would be needed. Soon.

That walk back down to the lobby was slow. Not just from the weight of the moment, or the stiffness in my legs and neck from the autoimmune condition whose 7-syllable name we do not speak unless strictly necessary. No, this was the kind of slow that comes when your whole body knows the rules of the world have changed.

And yet—she was so steady. Not stoic, not pretending. Just… steady. Holding fast to her own center while the rest of us tried to catch our breath. I followed her lead, because that’s what I do, and because I wasn’t sure how else to do it.

The Long, Slow Walk Through Water

Fast forward a few months. Same hospital. Same corridor. Another slow walk, this time for my mom.

She’d had another stroke. Not her first. Not even her second. The brain, I’m told, is a plucky little organ. It keeps trying to reroute itself around the damage like a detour sign at a road construction site: Nope, not this way—try around back.

But the detours take a toll. The fatigue, the back pain, the missing of her husband—it all adds up.

She tells me to go home and rest, and I’m learning to translate hospital-speak. What that usually means is: I love you, but I need a break from being brave in front of you for a bit. So I kiss her forehead and take the hint.

By the time I hit the sliding glass doors, a surprise storm has rolled in. No umbrella. No hope of mustering up so much as a slow jog to the car. Just me and the rain and the slow trudge to a distant corner of the parking lot.

So I let the rain win. I get soaked. It felt honest.

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There are no punchlines in this one. No tidy wrap-ups. Just two women I love, who keep showing up to hard days with courage I admire more than I can say.

And if they can face what they’re facing with that kind of grace, then maybe I can keep showing up too—legs aching, lungs short of breath, moving through heavy air, but still moving.

Maybe that’s what faith looks like some days. Not soaring. Not sprinting. Just the simple, stubborn act of keeping up the good fight.

Even when it rains.