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Just when you think you’ve got it made … boom!  Something happens to turn your world upside down.

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It was mid-May 2012, just as dusk swept the sun below the living room window. I was home alone winding down from a busy Saturday doing errands. Lying on the couch, I perused miscellaneous articles and media on my iPad as I often did: the news of the day, followed by a link to a recipe, followed by a link to heart-healthy living advice, followed by a link to a story about a boy—a teenage boy who had recently died from a terminal heart condition known as hypertrophic cardiomyopathy (HCM). It was described as a stiffening of the walls of the heart, causing valve and blood flow abnormalities.

The article linked to earlier YouTube videos the young man had made of himself talking about living with his condition and his impending death. He looked to be about Bailey’s age and was vibrant and handsome.  I couldn’t help thinking at this moment she’s out with friends enjoying life, while his was tragically cut short.  I couldn’t imagine the parent’s grief.

Holding up hand-written note cards in the video, Ben Breedlove wrote that due to his condition, he had never been allowed to play sports alongside his buddies, and he regretted missing out on that. My mind flashed to all the lacrosse, soccer, and field hockey games our kids had played in over the years, and that Eric and I had joyfully attended.  I imagined for a moment how horrifying it would be if one of our children died. I was certain I’d never recover from such a loss. The thought of it turned my heart inside out. His family must have been devastated.

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I felt a lump in my throat and couldn’t fend off tears as I watched the first of the two-part video he’d made.

When it was over, I laid my iPad on the couch and headed to the kitchen for a glass of water. As I approached the large counter peninsula that divided the living room from the kitchen, my sadness morphed into anger and I yelled and shook my fists at God, whom I’d never really acknowledged as being real.

“Why do people have to suffer like this?” I demanded through gritted teeth. “I just don’t get why people have to suffer,” I yelled accusingly. I made my way to the other side of the counter and rested my torso on the cold granite, my face buried in my folded arms. “Suffering is bullshit!” I pounded my fist on the counter. “Nobody should have to—“

A loud knock on the front door startled me. I wasn’t expecting anyone and rarely did anyone show up unannounced. I wiped away the tears still on my face, walked back through the living room, and without thinking, opened the door—unusual for me as I’m generally more cautious, especially when Eric is away on a business trip. I don’t know why I was so nonchalant about opening the door, but I was.

“Hello?” I said, half intonating a question.

A robust older gentleman with white hair, a cane, and glasses stood at the door, while a heavily built older woman with a black open-knit shawl draped over her shoulders stood two steps down where the walkway met the porch.  The old man peered over his spectacles—his eyes a beautiful shade of sky blue and surprisingly clear for his age—as he spoke the only words either would say to me, and that I will never forget:

“We just came to tell you that suffering isn’t going to last forever.”

My heart raced, and my mouth fell open. I looked to the woman, who was nodding in agreement. I barely noticed the gentleman handing me a small leaflet. I was lost in the surreal moment. I had just used that exact word—suffering—again and again in my tirade at God. It’s not a word I use often, and I remember it felt odd coming out of my mouth, but it had kept coming anyway.

“Okay, thank you,” I managed, dumbfounded.

There was a momentary awkwardness as they smiled and continued nodding but said nothing further.

“Well, good luck with your mission,” I said, assuming they were from a local religious organization. More nodding and smiles. I closed the door slowly, giving them an opportunity to say more, but they didn’t.

I strode the approximately eight-to-ten paces back to the couch, and in one continuous motion sat down and sprung up again, racing back to the door to find out to which church they belonged. An unencumbered blast of cold air rushed over me as I flung the door open, mere seconds having passed. I expected to see their backs, with them just having turned to walk away, but they were gone—utterly and completely gone.

I leaned out the door, looking up and down the short, empty street in front of our house. Nothing. Venturing onto the cold, rough concrete in my bare feet, I tiptoed down porch stairs and followed the walkway that curved around our corner lot. I examined the street that ran perpendicular to our side yard, then scanned the entryways of surrounding houses. The neighborhood was deserted and eerily silent, though that was not too unusual. It had become as of late, an almost empty-nester community. I scurried back to the front of the house and scanned the small street again. No one.

How completely bizarre, I thought. The man had a cane and they were both old. They couldn’t have walked away that quickly. Nor was there a car in sight. The sun had not fully set and there was still plenty of light by which to see. I was stunned and tried to grasp the situation. What just happened? I fought the overwhelming feeling that God heard me yelling at him and had sent angels in response. Crazy, I thought. No way.

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My surreal night wasn’t over yet…

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