I lay down on the gurney, and a nurse spread a thin blanket over me to keep me comfortable.
“You’ll have a short wait before we can do your ultrasound,” she said. She started an IV and then pulled a curtain around the little cubicle to give me some privacy. “Just try to relax until then.”
When a recent colonoscopy had revealed a cancerous tumor, I wanted it out of my body as soon as possible. But the doctors first needed to develop a treatment plan based on the stage of the cancer. The endoscopic ultrasound that day would reveal how serious my condition was. What if the cancer had spread?
Covid restrictions had prevented my husband from keeping me company before my procedure. Once the nurse left, it was just me in that cubicle, all alone with my fears. And the Lord. Help me get through this, I prayed. And whatever comes next.
Worst-case scenarios ran through my head. What if surgery couldn’t help? What if there was nothing the doctors could do?
Then, out of nowhere, a feeling of peace descended. It settled over me like a blanket, covering me, smothering my fears. Looking down, I realized that my left hand was bunched up in an actual blanket—the one the nurse had spread over me.
I remembered a story in the Gospel of Matthew. The one about the ailing woman whose faith was so strong that she only had to touch the hem of Jesus’ robe to be healed.
This must be what the hem of that robe felt like, I thought, rubbing the thin blanket.
The sensation of the fabric between my fingers calmed me and made the Lord feel even closer. By the time the nurse returned to take me to the procedure room for the ultrasound, I was ready to face whatever came next.
The ultrasound showed that my cancer had not spread. The tumor is gone now, removed by a surgeon. But I still remember the feel of that blanket in my hand and the peace it brought me.
For more inspiring stories, subscribe to Guideposts magazine.
