I didn’t understand. I was 71 years old. She was only 42. I kept asking God, “Why, Lord? Why her and not me?” She was my only daughter. She fought cancer and beat it but died after complications in the hospital. It should’ve been me. I’d lived my life. She left behind a family. Three years later, I had lost my husband and three dear friends. We used to play Scrabble on Tuesdays. I lost my oldest son in 2012. He would’ve been 62 that November. I was 86. It should’ve been me. I’ve thought a lot about the loss of my loved ones. I’ve lost several others—each one younger than I. At first, it seems so unfair that I’ve lived into my old age, and so many never saw old age. Few saw grey hairs. Fewer saw their kids become adults. I spend time in prayer everyday. When my aide comes in the morning, we pray and reflect. It’s important to me to be able to ask God for His intervention in my life and in the lives of others. I pray for family, my Sunday School class and for two of my daughter’s friends who are now facing cancer themselves. I have seen the Lord work. I have seen lives transformed, trials overcome, and sad turned to glad. He is so good to us. One day, it finally occurred to me: perhaps He has me here still—though I can’t walk or stand—to be an intercessor for those around me. And that day, I found peace. My old age now had meaning to me and, I hope, to those I lift up. There are days I still find myself wondering, but God gently reminds me that He’s the architect and Master Planner, and that He has the whole world in His mighty hands: that nothing takes place that He isn’t aware of or involved with in some way. In His goodness, He has even given me a role to play, one I humbly accept as the answer to my questions about why I’m still here. I’m here to lift up others, to intercede for them, to pray on their behalf. I finally have peace, knowing that I still have purpose and that the Lord orchestrated it all.
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