BY DOROTHY O’NEILLI took up the scrap of paper that had been left on my bedside table and read the words written by my husband: “ ‘I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future’ ” (Jer. 29:11).
 
So George, on a retreat in the Adelaide hills, had come home to leave the message at a time when he knew I would be away. He must have thought it important to do so; I had never known him to break a retreat before.
 
I thought it a good promise and kept it. At the time I wasn’t feeling too well. There were no specific symptoms that could be diagnosed, just a feeling of malaise. My doctor prescribed antidepression tablets, which only made me feel worse.
 
The Next Thing I Remembered
The crunch came one morning when I was on my way to meet three other women. We met every month in each other’s homes to share and pray for one another. I was about to drive off when I was halted by a strong inner urge. Get Fay’s telephone number.
 
Reluctantly I unlocked the front door, scribbled the number down, thrust the paper into my jacket pocket, and drove off. A few minutes later I was halted by the traffic lights at an intersection between two busy highways.
 
The next thing I knew a nurse was saying to me, “Mrs. O’Neill, you’re in the Royal Adelaide Hospital.” Immediately in front of me was a police officer who had come to take a blood alcohol test.
 
“What happened?” I asked.
 
“You seem to have had some kind of car accident,” he told me.
 
“Have I hurt anyone?” I asked.
 
“No.” The relief I felt was enormous.
 
I asked for a telephone so I could call my friends who had been expecting me. I took from my pocket Fay’s telephone number and explained my dilemma.
 
“We’ve been wondering why you hadn’t come,” she told me. “We’ll pray for you.”
 
Next I phoned my husband, who was in his study, and told him what had happened. “I’ll come at once,” he said. Then he asked, “Where’s your car?”
 
“I don’t know.”
 
I was kept in the hospital, and subsequent testing revealed I had a brain tumor. For the first time I faced my mortality. I knew that if the tumor was malignant I had little hope of survival.
 
Surgery was scheduled, and my surgeon came to see me. After he talked to George and me, he looked at me and said, “Mrs. O’Neill, my wife and I have shared your teaching.” He then told me that his wife was a member of a women’s Bible study group I was leading at the time. In the evenings his wife would tell him about the group and what she had learned. I then knew that he was a deeply spiritual man. My confidence soared.
 
I came through surgery well. The tumor was benign, and within a week I was ready to go home.
 
The years went by uneventfully until George fell ill. He continued serving as a pastor and tried to ignore the fact that he was becoming worse. But ultimately it became necessary for him to see a doctor. In November he was diagnosed with cancer. He died at the end of February.
 
I must say that he had seen himself as on a journey to a new and wonderful life. To enter his bedroom was to experience peace, a peace that was truly palpable.
 
Where Now?
At first, the end of George’s suffering brought me relief. I decided to go to England to attend my niece’s wedding. But when I returned to Australia, I fell into a deep depression. Life with George had left me unprepared for living as a single person. The months dragged by, and I had no inclination to do anything creative. Everything was an effort.
 
Eventually medical help and prayer began to ease me out of the darkness.
 

I moved to a retirement home. A friend who was already a resident there had suggested the move, and although the idea didn’t appeal to me, I saw that it had advantages that living in my own home couldn’t offer.
 
Once there, I found it difficult to settle in. I disliked the thought of living among “old people,” even though I was older than some of the residents. I made no effort to join in activities, or even to get to know my neighbors. Instead, I indulged in bouts of anger and self-pity.
 
One day while sitting alone in my unit, I took up the piece of paper that my husband had left me so long ago. I held it up and said angrily: “Where’s this future full of hope then?”
 
I sensed the room grow very still and was conscious of a kindly Presence. I felt as though I was a naughty child caught in a tantrum. The thought came to me: The future is now, Dorothy! I saw that I had been living unrealistically and that I had to change my attitude and live in the present.
 
Immediately I gave thanks for the retirement home and the people among whom I lived. I began to join in their activities. I became a member of the choir, and later started a creative writing group. Life changed because I had changed.
 
A future full of hope? Yes, even in my advanced age the future has become the present, and it is a good life. The promise to give me “hope and a future” has come true. I am profoundly thankful.
 
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After retiring as an editor, Dorothy O’Neill writes from South Australia. This article was published December 22, 2011.