My heart ached as I read Michael’s words. Not because they were dramatic or filled with despair—but because they were raw, honest, and spoken from the deepest place of love. Doctors have now mentioned hospice. A word that lands heavy, no matter how softly it is spoken. A word that feels like the ground shifting beneath your feet.

Just two days ago, the prayers were different.

People everywhere were praying for strength—for endurance. Praying that Michael’s wife’s body would survive the ambulance ride from Edinburg to Houston. Praying she would make it safely to MD Anderson. Praying that this chapter would not be the one that finally broke them. Those prayers were filled with urgency, hope, and belief that somehow, against the odds, the story would turn.

Now, they are still there.

Still waiting.
Still hoping.
Still holding on.

Michael is watching the woman he loves—his wife, his partner, his heart—lie silent. She cannot speak. Her body is worn down by blood loss, pain, and pure exhaustion as she battles neck cancer with everything she has left. Each breath is a reminder of how fragile life can be. Each moment feels stretched thin between hope and heartbreak.

There is a unique kind of pain in being the one who stays awake beside the hospital bed. The one who watches. The one who listens to machines instead of words. The one who would trade places in a second if it were possible. Michael is living in that space now—a place where love and helplessness exist side by side.

And yet, even here—even now—Michael refuses to let fear have the final word.

“We put our faith in Jesus almighty,” he said.

Not as a platitude. Not as denial. But as an anchor.

Faith in moments like this is not loud. It is not triumphant. It does not always look like confidence. Sometimes faith is quiet, trembling, and exhausted. Sometimes faith is simply choosing not to give up—even when the path ahead feels unbearably heavy.

Hospice does not mean love has failed. It does not mean prayers were wasted. It does not mean God has turned away. It means the road has shifted into one that focuses on comfort, dignity, and presence. It means holding hands tighter. It means saying “I’m here” again and again, even when words feel insufficient.

Michael is doing what so many loving spouses do in moments like this: he is standing guard over his wife’s life with everything he has left in him. He is loving her through silence. Through uncertainty. Through the kind of waiting that stretches the soul.

And perhaps the most powerful thing about Michael’s words is not that he is strong—but that he is still believing. Believing even while afraid. Believing even while exhausted. Believing even when doctors speak carefully and softly.

Faith does not promise us easy endings. But it does promise presence. It promises that love does not disappear when circumstances change. It promises that no moment—no suffering, no tear, no vigil beside a hospital bed—is unseen.

So what do you say to a husband like Michael?

You tell him this:
That love like his matters. That staying matters. That believing does not require pretending you are not afraid. That faith can coexist with grief, uncertainty, and exhaustion.

You remind him that his wife is not alone—not now, not ever. That every prayer spoken two days ago still counts. That every whispered “Jesus, help us” still rises. That faith is not measured by outcomes, but by trust in the midst of the unknown.

You tell him that holding on does not always mean holding on to answers—it can mean holding on to each other.

Michael is walking a road no one ever wants to walk. But he is not walking it alone. Love is still present. Faith is still present. And even in this unbearable waiting, hope is not gone—it has simply changed shape.

Tonight, Michael continues to sit beside the woman he loves. Still waiting. Still believing. Still choosing faith over fear.

And that—quiet, trembling, unwavering—that is a kind of courage the world rarely sees, but desperately needs to honor.