Mercy in the Waiting

June 1, 2025 was another hard day.

By this point, we had been in the hospital for 15 days. We were tired. We were still waiting on answers. And now we had to make another painful decision.

It was time to say goodbye to Oliver.

Oliver was our oldest dog. Megan and I adopted him before we were married, before Kinley and Cohen were born, before all the moves, businesses, and everything else life brought our way.

The kids never knew life without him.

He was just always there. Usually asleep. Usually in the way. Usually acting offended if someone disturbed his royal blanket situation.

But Oliver’s body was wearing out.

His vision was bad. His hearing was bad. His legs were barely working. With us at the hospital, he had been staying with family, most recently Megan’s brother, Derek.

A couple nights earlier, Derek let Oliver outside to use the bathroom.

Oliver walked straight into the swimming pool.

Not near it.

Not around it.

Straight in.

It was well lit.

And no, Oliver could not swim.

His legs did not even make a solid attempt at helping. Derek realized Oliver was not coming back up, jumped in, and saved him.

It was scary.

It was sad.

And honestly, it was also painfully Oliver.

That moment confirmed what we already knew.

It was time.

So we told Kinley and Cohen. They were heartbroken. They asked for another option, because of course they did. Oliver had been part of their whole lives.

We explained it as gently as we could. Loving him meant not letting him suffer just because we wanted more time.

Then the hospital did something we will never forget.

They allowed Derek to bring Oliver to the hospital so Kinley could say goodbye.

That may sound small from the outside, but it was not small to us. It was a gift.

A hospital can become all machines, labs, procedures, and medical words. But that day, it became a place where a little girl got to say goodbye to the dog who had been with her since the beginning.

Mrs. Ashley, Kinley’s Child Life Specialist, helped make it happen. I am so thankful for people like her. They see more than a patient. They see the child, the family, and the moments that matter.

That same day, we were also able to get into the Hog House behind the hospital.

The Hog House is a complimentary apartment for families with extended hospital stays. Until then, Cohen had not really been able to stay close with us. This gave us a place nearby, some privacy, a real bed, and a little space to breathe.

After 15 days in the hospital, that felt like mercy.

A bed close to your child.
A room where your family can gather.
A door that closes.
A shower.
A little pocket of normal.

Those things matter more when life is heavy.

And we had been waiting a lot.

I know I keep saying that word, but there is no better one.

Waiting for doctors.
Waiting for labs.
Waiting for answers.
Waiting for pain medicine to work.
Waiting for the next conversation.
Waiting for someone to tell us what battle we were actually facing.

Waiting was not just part of the story.

Waiting was the room we were living in.

That night, I thought about Joseph.

Our men’s group had studied Joseph’s story in Genesis. He was betrayed by his brothers, sold into slavery, falsely accused, and thrown into prison. His life kept taking turns that looked unfair and confusing.

But God was still working.

Joseph did not see the whole plan from the pit.

He did not understand the purpose in prison.

He did not get the full explanation while he was waiting.

But God was still positioning him.

That is easy to teach.

It is harder to live.

I was not in prison, but I did feel trapped. Trapped in the hospital. Trapped in uncertainty. Trapped between fear and faith. Trapped in a story I could not understand or control.

And then Joseph came to mind like a God-wink.

Maybe all those weeks studying Genesis were not random.

Maybe God had been planting something before I knew I would need it.

I sent a message to my men’s group that night. I told them there was not any good news from the hospital. We were still waiting. We were still hurting. And on top of everything else, we were saying goodbye to Oliver.

But I also told them my faith was slowly being renewed.

Not because I had suddenly become strong.

I had not.

I was angry. Tired. Scared. Struggling. Short on faith and strength.

But where I came up short, those men had my back.

That is what real Christian brotherhood looks like. It is not just men talking about strength. It is men praying when you cannot pray well. Calling. Texting. Checking in. Reminding you of truth when your own heart is foggy.

The prayer was still for the miracle.

It still is.

But another prayer was forming too.

God, whatever tomorrow brings, give us strength to walk through it.

Give Kinley supernatural power as she endures this pain.

Give our family faith when the path is unclear.

Give us enough grace for what is right in front of us.

That day held a lot.

A goodbye to Oliver.

A hospital that made room for that goodbye.

A place to rest at the Hog House.

A reminder from Joseph.

A group of men praying when strength was thin.

None of it fixed the situation.

But all of it reminded us that God was still working in the waiting.

We do not know the plan.

We do not know the path.

We do not know why this is happening.

But we are trying to trust the God who sees the end from the beginning.

For now, we wait.

We grieve.

We pray.

We receive mercy where it shows up.

And we keep believing that God is still writing, even when we cannot read the next page.