They want you to feel relaxed.

They want you to feel like you're in a friend's living room.

But you're not.  

You are in a surgical waiting room.  You and fifty others, doing everything to avoid thinking about the surgery your loved one is undergoing.

On a sofa-like chair, one woman knits what appears to be a soft baby blanket.  An older gentleman is playing Sudoku, while his wife is engaged in a computer laptop version of Solitaire.

Off to the side, a woman sips coffee, staring pensively into the cavernous room.  Another lady scribbles crayons in a kids' coloring book.  (She does a nice job staying inside the lines). Still another snoozes.

In the back corner around a table sit three women--the high tech trio.  Between them are two laptops and an i Pad.  But they appear to be processing more dialogue than data.

All these people share one thing in common: they are waiting. Everyone of them holds a pager—and a slender strand of hope.

Any other day, this might be an inordinate wait time for a favorite restaurant.  But the only thing being served today is life-changing news: “We were able to get the tumor entirely”....or....”We're sorry, but the cancer has spread.”  The veneer of chatty good naturedness in the room is as thin as a sandwich bag.

Me?  I'm one of the fifty—waiting.  But I have something many of these people lack—a ring of prayerful brothers and sisters, from several area churches who have been with me all day long.  From morning until evening they stay...because their love for Christ extends their love to me and my wife—now in surgery.

Seeing the body of Christ in action—loving and serving quietly for no glory but the glory of God--is a humbling, heartwarming thing.  The faithful presence of this loving platoon—who come from an army of praying soldiers--makes sharing the surgeon's good news really great news.

Funny thing how knowing Jesus even changes the view from a waiting room.