Ink

I stare at neat rows of greeting cards, words of humour and well wishes standing at attention. Envelopes of green and blue and cream stand quietly behind them, promising the perfect sentiment for every occasion.

I could cry. It would take very little. There is no card for today: a friend in the hospital again while cancer and infection ravage his body. No pithy phrase to scratch out sadness, panic, the clawing fear that there is simply never enough time.

I pluck a blank card and matching envelope from the display, a box of Junior Mints for myself and head back to work. Hopefully I had heard the news and purchased a card early enough in the day that my coworkers could jot down their prayers and well-wishes and I could swing by the hospital on my way home. The card moves through the building, from desk to office. At one point it returns to me, held by a young friend and co-worker. He places the card on my desk, stands quiet and uneasy.

'Is he… is Tony religious?' I notice his hands are shaking. I stop what I'm doing and turn towards him.

'Yes,' I reply, swallowing the urge to clarify the vast difference between faith and religion, both in practice and hope. 'Yes, he is. Very.'

He leans a bit, swaying almost, surveying my desk. Beneath my blotter are scraps of paper scrawled with Scripture, prayers and quotes printed from various places, and I know he’s read most of them.
'I… I notice the fish sometimes,' he’s scanning, searching. I hold out my wrist, nails carved into flesh, a bodily reminder of my spiritual home. An icthus made of nails… Jesus and the love that bound him to brutal death.

'And are you… religious?' I ask softly, conscious of the buzz outside my office door: regular activities and the hum of daily work. Someone tells a joke and there is laughter, the scraping of chairs and the rattle of keyboard keys.

'No,' he replies, almost a question. The silence swells between us and I wonder why it doesn't make me uncomfortable. A week ago, over lunch, a friend reminded me of my mission field… of this catalyst of grief that could open doors if I was prayerfully mindful of opportunities. I’m weak and introverted… hardly the missionary's resume. Or perhaps…

Suddenly, almost convulsively, he blurts, 'If I write, 'May your faith guide you', is that okay? Coming from me? Even if I don’t… believe?'

Tears, almost. I smile. 'I think that would be perfect.' I nod, and he lets out a breath, reaches for the card and steadies his hand to write. Jerking upright, he nods at me, pauses and leaves.

After he's left, I slide the card towards me and open it, skimming over words written by others. Thoughts… prayers… quiet confidence sketched in ink from those who share Hope. And in blue, firm- pressed and neatly written: 'May your faith guide you.'