brother robert

He lay in bed, in the darkness, thinking. He had given his life to God, spent 70-some years in his service. His name was Brother Robert and he knew his time was drawing to a close. The cough had grown more rancorous, gripping his lungs every time he breathed deeply. The diagnosis was pneumonia. He’d managed, however, to remain resolute in his faith. He harbored no anger, no resentment. God’s will was God’s will. He did allow himself this, though: As his condition had worsened, he grew more and more inclined to think about Clare, the only girl he’d loved and how things might have been different if he’d chosen her, instead of his Savior, for she had made no bones about choosing him. He thought of her smile and how her eyes lit up the night and how her touch somehow made him feel safe. In a few minutes, he would get up from his bed, sit down and handwrite a letter to her, beginning “Dear Clare” and ending “Oh, how I loved you and love you still.” He would never get to mail it.