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). “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.