He would never admit himself worthy of the word 'Pastor', although I had called him that often as I clung to him, we all did.
Like aged orphans, wide-eyed to the one that had finally showed us the truth.
He'd always politely state, that he was following his own shepherd; as he wiped away our tears with his print-stained hands.
The vigor of rebirth had perhaps come too late for some, but we were still thankful for the moments we had, even those that were few.
We were too old to go out and reveal our faith the way the young people do these days, not even aware of the number of our own days, but we could hazard a guess that it wouldn't be much longer now.
"Pastor..." my voice could barely gather the strength to say it one last time.
I clung to my crucifix with the little strength I could muster, until fourteen days before, had been little more than a mere ornament. Now the curved ridges gave me hope for an eternity that I could only understand by the words which suddenly were the only meaning and comfort I needed.
Everything had changed with the utterance of four little words.
My last words, a simple request with our Pastor, could not but comply.
"Beseech me Pastor, read those words again."
"He died for us" the man said, without needing to even open his book to know what she was talking about. Those were the four words that brought her to grace.
The words that could never die.
And while feeling her peace transcend around the sterile smell of hospital disinfectant that he knew, if God was willing, he could smell for the rest of his days also - as a witness, a friend and companion... even a Pastor to those in need.
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