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| The Waiting Room Hymn |
“There’s internal bleeding. We need to operate.”
The doctor’s voice had been steady, rehearsed. Daniel had nodded like he understood, like the word operate didn’t hollow out his chest. She had only gone to a movie. Just a ride home with friends. He had almost told her no.
“Dad, can I go? I promise I’ll be careful,” she had said.
His phone rested face down on his thigh. He had already made the calls — her mother first, then his sister. Each time he had said the same thing, steady as he could manage.
“They’re operating on her now.”
He had expected the words to break him.
By the third time, they barely felt like his.
___
Thirty minutes later, the coffee in his paper cup had gone cold, but he kept lifting it to his mouth anyway. Something about the motion steadied his hands. Somewhere down the corridor, a monitor beeped in a rhythm he couldn’t see.
He tried to pray.
The words didn’t come.
What came instead was the call from earlier that night — not his daughter’s name flashing across the screen, but another number he recognized and rarely used.
Mrs. Caldwell — the mother of her friend Cassidy.
At first, he’d almost let it go to voicemail.
Her voice had been tight, too fast. “Daniel — there’s been an accident. The girls were in the car together. They’re taking them to County General.”
He remembered standing so fast his chair scraped across the kitchen tile.
“Is she okay?” he had asked.
There had been sirens behind Mrs. Caldwell’s voice. Shouting. Movement.
“They’re taking them in now,” she had said.
He had grabbed his keys before she finished the sentence.
Now the doctor’s words had replaced hers.
“There’s internal bleeding. We need to operate.”
The waiting room had thinned as the night deepened. A couple dozed against each other near the far wall. A woman across from him flipped the pages of a magazine without reading it. The television muttered beneath a muted weather forecast.
Daniel leaned back and scrubbed his hands over his face.
That was when he heard it.
Not loud. Not meant for anyone else.
A hymn.
He didn’t see her at first — only the slow roll of a cleaning cart turning the corner near the nurse’s station. A woman in pale blue scrubs moved methodically along the wall, mop gliding across the tile in steady strokes.
She was humming as she worked.
Clear enough to carry.
Daniel stiffened.
Of all the nights.
He pressed his lips together and stared at the floor. The last thing he needed was a hymn floating through fluorescent air like everything was going to be fine. He wasn’t interested in reassurance. Not in platitudes wrapped in melody.
The mop slid back and forth. Back and forth.
A nurse stepped out from behind the desk with a chart in hand. As the woman passed, the nurse glanced up and smiled — not surprised, not annoyed. Just familiar. Another nurse down the hall echoed it, the smallest lift at the corner of her mouth.
Daniel noticed.
They acted like this was ordinary.
He shifted in his chair, willing the sound to fade.
It didn’t.
It would have been easier if he hadn’t recognized it.
If it had been just another church song drifting down a hospital hallway.
But he did.
Not all at once. Not the title. Not the whole thing.
Just a line.
Why should I feel discouraged…
He froze.
The words slipped between notes, half-hummed, half-breathed. But he knew them. Knew the rhythm before he wanted to. Knew the way the next line would rise and settle.
His grandmother used to sing it while standing at the kitchen sink, sleeves rolled up, dish towel over her shoulder. He used to sit at the table finishing homework, pretending not to listen.
He hadn’t thought about that song in years. Not since faith had slowly folded itself out of his routine. Not since Sunday mornings had become just another day.
The mop continued its steady path across the tile.
Why should the shadows come…
He swallowed.
He dropped his gaze again, jaw tight.
He didn’t need this. Didn’t need childhood memories surfacing under fluorescent lights. Didn’t need a hymn threading its way into the one place he was trying to keep sealed.
But the melody didn’t press harder.
It didn’t swell.
It just continued.
For His eye is on the sparrow…
His fingers loosened without him realizing it.
The mop stopped near his row of chairs. Water rippled in the gray bucket.
He looked up before he meant to.
She stood a few feet away, wringing out the mop with practiced hands, the tune resting easily on her breath.
It came out of him before he could stop it.
“I haven’t heard that in a long time.”
She gave the mop one last turn in the wringer before answering.
“Been a while for a lot of folks,” she said, not looking at him at first. “Night shift’s long. Music helps.”
He nodded once, unsure what else to do with that.
She glanced up then, meeting his eyes properly. Not curious. Not prying. Just present.
“You waiting on someone?”
“My daughter,” he said. The word caught more than he expected. “She’s in surgery.”
Her expression didn’t change dramatically. No widened eyes. No sharp inhale.
She simply nodded.
“I’ll keep humming, then.”
She pushed the cart forward again, the wheels turning softly against the tile.
And she kept humming.
The melody didn’t rise. Didn’t grow dramatic. It moved the way it always had — even, unhurried, unbothered by fluorescent lights or long corridors.
Daniel watched her for a moment before lowering his gaze again. His hands were no longer clenched.
The double doors at the end of the hall swung open.
Every sound in the waiting room shifted at once — chairs scraping, someone sitting up straighter. The doctor stepped through, removing his mask, and scanned the room.
“Daniel Mercer?”
He was on his feet before he realized he’d stood.
“Yes.”
The hallway seemed longer now. Brighter. He could still hear the melody behind him as he walked.
“ow’s Lori?” The question came out hoarse.
The doctor’s expression softened.
“She’s stable,” the doctor said. “The surgery went well. She’s going to need time, but she’s expected to make a full recovery.”
The words didn’t register all at once.
Stable.
Recovery.
Full.
He nodded, though his vision blurred. “Can I see her?”
“In a few minutes,” the doctor said gently. “They’re taking her to recovery.”
Daniel stepped back into the waiting room and lowered himself into the chair again.
Down the hall, the wheels of the cleaning cart turned.
The melody continued — steady, unhurried, threading its way through fluorescent light and polished tile.
She had moved on, but the song had not.
And somewhere between the silence and the melody, he understood —
God had not moved on.
Faith doesn’t shout. It hums.
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