I walked into the room and noticed right away he was yellow. The liver had gone. He was weak and he found it hard to speak. I asked him if he wanted some water. "Yes" he said. I gave him a paper cup with water and ice and a straw. He drank it all in several slow, long sucks.

We talked about daughters and wives. What it meant to be a husband and father when you are on your death bed. The subject of love came up and how you express it to those closest to you. How do you grapple with fear? It seemed those not in the bed were more fearful than the one in the bed. It often is that way. As a father and husband how do you lead your family from a hospital bed? How do you make peace?

Was it too late? Too late. Religion is a mystery, we die or we live. He was resolved. Maybe. I saw a tear roll down his cheek. I prayed for him. I gently asked him to not pray a prayer just for the sake of others who want to hear it. I asked him to cry out to the one who has water. I said it was not too late for that.

I left the room more somber then when I came in. Water. I gave him water. That is within my skill set. I could not give him living water. Only one person has that cup in His hands. Only One. O that He would pour it out.