Small Offerings

A friend left me a voice mail the other day. Her husband was just diagnosed with cancer, and a complicated surgery is scheduled for next week. Would I pray?

I am a nurturer by nature, and I’d do anything for my friends. When they are hurting, I immediately connect emotionally. How can I take away their pain? I want to fix, heal, cure, carry. But aside from performing the surgery myself (and without a medical license that would hardly be legal. Or safe.), how can I possibly solve a problem this gargantuan? I cannot make this better for my friend, as hard as I try. The enormity of the situation is overwhelming.

I happen to have a lot of friends struggling with pain during this season. Deep pain. Hear my heart, Friends: “I care about you and wish I could make this go away. I want to turn back time and erase this from your future. But I cannot. I feel helpless and I hate that.”

So today I am making chocolate chip cookies for my friend whose husband has cancer. Mrs. Field’s recipe. They are rich and buttery and probably very bad for you. But they make excellent comfort food. When I feel helpless, I bake and I pray. Jump into action. But often my offerings to those that are hurting feel so insignificant. Naïve. So childlike in their shape. “Your husband has cancer? Have a cookie. And I’ll be praying.” Love in the form of a baked good. Hope translated into prayer.

No sweet treat will cure his cancer. No hug, touch, or word will ease her anxiety. I cannot take this pain away from my friend. And that distresses me to the core of my being.

Today, after the cookies have cooled, I will meet my friend at Starbucks. We will order vanilla lattes, find a quiet table in the corner, and pray together. I’ll ask God to fix, heal, cure, carry. Which is the best that I can offer.