Last Christmas

#39

Friend,

The easiest way to say this is also the hardest way to say this: This may be your last Christmas.

Oh, I’m holding onto hope that it is not, and I’m praying for a miracle, but it doesn’t sound great. We all know that incurable is a terrible word.

Man, this sucks.

I wish, I wish, I wish I could do something, could do anything, and then I realized that even my feeling of helplessness doesn’t compare to yours.

I can only imagine your feeling of helplessness as your body fights a battle against a ruthless enemy while your heart aches for yourself, for your spouse, for your kid, for your friends.

I’m so sorry.

Since, I can’t fix it, heal it, or cure it. I want to give you a few, tiny gifts that I hope you receive this Christmas:

1. Gratitude. Let me just say thank you for being my friend. We haven’t always kept in touch, but you have always been in my corner. I don’t know if I said that recently, so thank you.

2. Peace. I do pray for the peace that passes all understanding for you. Amazingly, sometimes people in the middle of the grief chaos cloud can find deep peace. I want that for you.

3. Relief. Practically, I don’t want you to be in pain. May you have days of health, vigor, and energy.

4. Freedom. You are free to be angry, to laugh, to scream, to cry, to be quiet, or to treasure.

5. Hope. When I think of being hopeful, I mostly think of it for myself, but I want you to have hope for others, especially your family. May you see that you’ve done well, that you’ve loved well, and they will care for each other and God will provide for them.

6. Joy. It’s a strange one, but I believe that you can receive the true gift of joy. You know joy is not happiness, it’s much, much deeper than that. I pray that you will experience joy beyond what I could imagine.

I love you, my friend.

Love,

Aaron