When you’re dealing with cancer, things that wouldn’t normally frustrate the average person can be extremely stressful and frustrating for the cancer patient (and the caregiver). Although I had rarely seen Chris cry during the first 26 years of our marriage, after the cancer diagnosis, that changed. He became easily frustrated over things that never bothered him previously. Emotions easily surfaced, as he was having to deal with a life-threatening illness, side effects of treatment, side effects of the cancer itself, changes in work status and routine, changes in physical appearance, financial stress, loss of social activities, loss of physical capabilities, etc. I tried to put myself in his place, which helped me be more compassionate.
My moods reflected his. When he was up, I was up. When he was down, I was down. One particular day, Chris was very frustrated and mentally exhausted after a long day with the irritations we faced at the cancer center. He practically ran to his truck and couldn’t get away fast enough from Houston and all it represented. Because of the mix-up in his medication schedule at MD Anderson, he wasn’t allowed to eat until 4:00 that afternoon. He wanted pancakes, so we stopped at an IHOP restaurant on the way home.
The irritations of the day and seeing Chris upset brought me down fast. Tears blurred my eyes, and I could hardly read the menu. After the waiter took our order, Chris laid his head in his hands and closed his eyes. I escaped to the bathroom to have a good cry. I returned to our table as Roy, our teen-aged waiter, approached. Chris was still resting with his eyes closed.
Seeing the bandage on my husband’s arm, Roy assumed he had donated blood. He asked Chris if he would like some orange juice for a little pick-me-up—at no charge.
Chris turned down the offer of the juice because it caused acid reflux. He asked if they had a fresh orange that he could have. “I don’t think we have fresh oranges, but I’ll go check.” After the waiter left, Chris turned to me and said, “I think I have just asked for the impossible. I’ve never seen fresh oranges on the menu. If he brings back a fresh orange, I’ll consider that a small miracle.”
Just a few minutes later, Roy returned with a small bowl of canned oranges. He apologized and said, “I’m sorry, we don’t have fresh oranges, but we just got canned oranges in for some unknown reason.”
Chris and I both teared up. God had sent us a caring waiter to nourish both Chris’ body and our souls with canned oranges—something normally not in stock at that restaurant. I felt like God was saying, “Remember, I delight in delivering even small miracles. Here ya go.”
When we left the restaurant, Chris hugged the waiter and he walked to his truck—but this time there was a spring in his step.
It wasn’t just about the oranges. It was that someone saw we weren’t having a good day and took a few moments to care. Sometimes you may see someone in need and think that what you have to offer won’t make a difference and move on. That small gesture may not mean much to you, but it may be the high point of that person’s day.
If Chris and I had felt God’s love only when He healed my husband, then we would have missed the small thrills in life that God brought—such as canned oranges. We learned to look for moments of joy in our trials, and we found them.