I hear them whispering in the hallway,
Hear the footsteps fall as they come and go;
I see them slip in checking her vitals,
Scanning the labels, tapping displays. And though
I taste faith in the men with the titles,
Who’ve done this thing five hundred times before,
I smell the stem cells being pressed through her veins
Like garlic—strong and strange and sickly-sweet.
They plume from pores above bone-deep domains;
Engulfed, I dissolve like a storm-battered beach.
At length, I touch her arm, play then with her hair,
And feel beyond the realm where senses reach,
A love strong as death, immune to decay,
That steadies my heart and moves me to pray.
conversant faith 
This brings me to tears, Kyle. Still praying with you.
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Emmanuel, God with us, who came to bear our pain as the Man of Sorrows, is with you. Thank you for sharing with us Kyle. This is beautiful, in a raw and visceral way.
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Lord, You know her case, and know the healing art. Lord, May Kyle find Your mighty arm which holds him evermore (hymn 285, vs 2-3)
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I am praying and standing with you.
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Yall have been coming to mind lately Kyle. Standing with you.
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