MARTY

Marty’s sickle cells, misshapen, were doing the best they could to transport food and oxygen everywhere in his tall body. Their “best” began to falter; and to falter more. The doctor said, “I am so very sorry, but you have only weeks to live.”

That was many and many a month ago. Years now.

Marty has a family: a wife and two dear children. He wants to be a husband and a father, to do and be what families need — what the Scriptures require. So he fights with all his might. And the pain is very great, the trail hard and long. (Home a while, hospital a while, home a while… and so it goes.)

One day his daughter came to him and hugged him round his legs (she was seven at the time). She lifted eyes to him, until they met his own. “Daddy,” came her clear young voice — “I’m growing up to be a doctor. Then I will find a cure for you.”

She is still growing. He is still fighting.