I had just come home after my own stay at the University of Michigan Hospital. I had been there for seven days. Then, I went to see an elderly friend in comfort care.

It struck me before I even sat down, how familiar this room felt. We had laughed, ate lunch, made pictures, and worshiped the Lord, in this room many times. Now there was an awareness, his strength is not what it once was. I thought, “I am also going through a similar experience. I am trying to regain the strength and balance I have lost since my successful cancer treatment began.”

My friend, a parishioner, sat in his chair, smaller now, but present. His son had opened the door and greeted me. “His mind is clear today,” he said. Then he gently explained that his dad hadn’t been eating much. A little oatmeal. A few berries. He showed me the tray—what remained told the story more honestly than any report could.

I sat on the sofa close to him. “You’ve, always loved berries.”

He turned his head slightly, looking straight at me. “I know.” I can’t forget that look and sentence. It was such a simple sentence, but it lingerers in my thoughts. Memory still intact. Desire still there. But his appetite is no longer able enjoy what he likes.

We began to talk. We were not in a hurry or trying to fill silence. We let the conversation come naturally, as it does when time is both limited and strangely unhurried.

They told me stories I had heard before, like the lightning strike on his son’s  house. Then they told me one I hadn’t heard before.

They had searched all over the country for a windmill and couldn’t find one. Finally, someone nearby offered one—if they were willing to take it down and move it themselves. So they did. Piece by piece. And when they needed a motor, they ordered it from Argentina.

I could see it as he spoke. I imagined long days and steady hands. There was the satisfaction of building something that would stand and turn long after the work was done.

That was the life my dear brother in Christ had lived. A Marine. A pilot. An engineer. A steady man. A man who made things work. As they talked I remembered him standing on top of the windmill working on it. He invited me up. I climbed up there but lacked the nerve to stand on that tiny platform.

“Why haven’t you moved back to Georgia?” his son asked.

“Health,” I said. “We haven’t been able to yet.”

The words felt heavier than I expected. Not just an answer—but a quiet acknowledgment that life doesn’t always move according to our plans.

My friend looked at me again and asked about our daughter. “Was she married?”

“No,” I said, smiling. “She’s still at home with us. And we’re enjoying her so much.”

He nodded. I don’t why but that mattered to him.

We talked about peacocks and chickens, about quail his son no longer raises because of weasels. Then came a story about strength—his other son tearing his bicep lifting weights.

Dick spoke up, his voice carrying a trace of pride in his older son’s strength. “He carried this chair (a motorized recliner) out of the house by himself. The younger son added, “he lifted it into the truck with one hand.”

The room held two realities at once for a moment. One was the man who once lifted and built. The other was the man who now was losing his appetite and weak. For almost three decades I’ve been his pastor. He was a strong man spiritually, emotionally, and physically. Robust is the word that comes to mind.

Now: Strength remembered. Weakness manifesting. And both dignified.

When it was time, I reached for the Communion elements.

Throughout my years of ministry, I have realized something profound. These moments, quiet, unadorned, no crowd, no livestream, away from the platform—are often the most sacred.

I read from the Epistle to the Romans.

“But God showed his great love for us by sending Christ to die for us while we were still sinners. And since we have been made right in God’s sight by the blood of Christ, he will certainly save us from God’s condemnation. For since our friendship with God was restored by the death of his Son while we were still his enemies, we will certainly be saved through the life of his Son. So now we can rejoice in our wonderful new relationship with God because our Lord Jesus Christ has made us friends of God. … For the sin of this one man, Adam, caused death to rule over many. But even greater is God’s wonderful grace and his gift of righteousness, for all who receive it will live in triumph over sin and death through this one man, Jesus Christ.” (Romans 5:5-11,17, NLT)

The words settled into our hearts with thanksgiving. They carried a kind of gravity. This gravity only comes when life has been lived long enough to understand their cost.

We received the bread. We received the cup. Then we sang—softly, without accompaniment—about the blood of Jesus.

No audience. No urgency. Just three voices, thankful and steady at the same time.

And in that moment, it felt as though heaven was close.

I have stood in many sanctuaries. I have preached to full rooms and led countless services. But there is something about a moment like this. Sitting beside a man near the end of his earthly journey clarifies what matters most.

Not the size of the crowd.

Not the strength of the body.

Not even the accomplishments of a lifetime.

What remains is this: Faith, Hope and Love. And the presence of the Holy Spirit.

I left that room aware of something I am still learning, even after all these years. The work of our lives; what we build, what we carry, what we achieve is important. But in the end, it is not what we have built with our hands that sustains us. It is what Christ has secured for us through His atoning work on our behalf. And when everything else begins to fade—appetite, strength, independence—His presence does not. He abides.

Just like the memory that you like berries.

Just like the bread and the cup that reminds you of what Jesus did and His return.

That’s grace.

Peace!