The man glanced at my shirt, and his words flew toward me in a rage. “Ministry, huh?” he growled. “I don’t believe in God, so your ministry doesn’t need to waste time on me.” He told me he was dying of cancer, and he asked me where God had been. “People don’t care, so don’t bother praying for me.”
I sat down beside him to listen as he poured out anger, sadness, and fear. I heard the hurt in his soul, and I understood because I’ve felt that same hurt. In fact, pain was the genesis for the nonprofit Mom began, and then Lisa Bain Ministries as we carry on her legacy of hope. We sit beside people as they go through dark tunnels, offering our time and small gifts of hope.
I was silent after the man finished sharing his pain, then I reached over and pulled a handmade prayer quilt across his legs. His hands were shaking from cold, and he refused to make eye contact.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
“In fact, I am,” he said, still looking away.
I handed him a snack bag from one of our Resilience Care Boxes. “I have just what you need, and even something that might help with the nausea.”
His head turned toward me and his eyes narrowed.
“What do you know about nausea?”
I told him I had sat in this same chair years ago when Mom would grab peppermints to settle her stomach. “We walked through cancer together, which is why I’m here today. In fact, that chair you are in was her favorite chemo chair because it was near the window, and we always needed a little brightness when we were here.” I told him I was remembering a conversation with Mom, as she sat in the same chair he was now in.
“Really?” he said, his eyes softening. “What was it about?”
“It was raining, and we watched the drops gather on the window glass and listened to the soothing sound. My mom talked about how our difficult journey made the raindrops beautiful and spring colors more vibrant. The rain was helping her flowers grow and bloom, and it was all good. Mom was thankful for the rain that day. It eased her soul.”
He pulled the quilt up and waited to hear if there was more to the story.
“The cancer was getting the upper hand, and as we left that day, I grabbed my umbrella to keep her dry, but she waved it off and told me ‘Not today.’ She told me she wanted to feel the rain on her face that day, while she still could. When we got in the car, we were completely soaked, and we laughed. ‘There goes my good hair day.’ Mom said. And you know, she was bald from the chemo.
“Our view of the rain changed throughout her cancer journey. I don’t think you ever go through something hard without it changing you—either for the good or the bad. My mom chose to make the journey count for good, which is why I’m sitting here with you today.”
I finished and pulled out a stuffed Mabel Joy pup from the box and put it in his arms. I laid a gas card on top of the stuffed dog, to help with the expense of driving many miles back and forth to treatments. He had grumbled earlier about having to drive two hours one way for chemo.
He looked at the stuffed dog and then held it up to his chin.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked. “I yelled at you, and even told you I hated your God.”
I told him I was there because I understood pain. “I’m sorry people hurt you. Your journey matters, and if I helped you see that today, even for one minute, then I can 
go home happy.”
He looked a little suspicious. “So, you’re not going to preach to me, or make me pray with you?
I shook my head. “I’m here to let you know you are loved. That’s it.”
In a hurting world, love transcends pain every time. It preaches louder than any sermon, and cuts through the fear and doubt.
I was about to stand up when he grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “And thank you.” Tears had pooled in his eyes. There was a huge message behind that thank you and those tears. I whispered a prayer for him as I walked away that day. God knew.
Years ago, as I sat in that same spot with mom during a tough chemo treatment, God knew that on another day, I would sit here again with someone who walked the same journey and needed hope. What we go through on our worst day can be used for a greater purpose later, when our journey is behind us.
As I left the center, clouds had formed on the horizon, and it was raining. I could smell spring in the air. The journey through the darkness of cancer and my own autoimmune disease has taught me to feel everything, even when it hurts. I didn’t have an umbrella, but I didn’t need one. I remembered the man’s tears, the way love drowned his anger, and I lifted my head to feel every raindrop on my face.