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full glass of water, and answer the call beckoning me.
    The respite of sleep.
    I drag myself to the family room, close the blinds against the stunning ocean view, and then wrap myself in the shearling throw I brought from home. Thus enfolded, I curl up on the leather sofa in front of the fireplace.
    And succumb.
    To sleep.
    That safe place, where reality is put to rest.

If you understand, that isn’t God.
    Saint Augustine
    Chapter Three
    Miles

    There are patients I dread seeing and patients I look forward to seeing. Everyone else falls in the middle somewhere. I don’t analyze each of them. The patients I dread aren’t the hypochondriacs, or the lonely people who visit a doctor just to have a meaningful conversation. No. The patients I dread are the ones I can’t fix.
    I’m a healer. That’s my job. So if I can’t help you, I don’t want to see you. That’s about me. I don’t like seeing my own limits.
    Especially since Sarah . . .
    I hate cancer.
    My jaw clenches.
    I look at the picture sitting on my desk—a picture of Sarah out on the headlands—the wind whipping her long, strawberry hair and laughter on her face. I can almost hear her laugh when I look at the photo.
    Sarah was my wife for twenty-eight years. My wife, friend, lover, companion, and mother of our children. Was the marriage perfect? No. But it was good, solid. I loved her. Respected her. And I depended on her. I miss her wisdom, her strength, and the warmth of her pressed against me in bed at night.
    And that’s just the beginning of the list.
    â€œDr. Becker . . .”
    Camie leans in the doorway of my office.
    â€œMr. Rohr is waiting in room two.”
    â€œThanks.”
    I look back at the picture. When Sarah was diagnosed, I vowed I’d heal her. Well, not by myself, I had to admit. But I vowed she’d see the best oncologists in the field and I’d do everything I could to ensure she followed their treatment plan to the letter. And if that didn’t work, I believe in a God who works miracles, so I also prayed—with purpose, patience, and faith. I prayed as I’ve never prayed before.
    But she didn’t heal.
    God didn’t perform a miracle.
    I lost her—my gaze shifts from her picture to the calendar—two years ago today. Though I don’t need a calendar to remember the date.
    I trusted her to God’s care and He chose not to save her. Bitterness was tempting. But I know God and I know He doesn’t always respond in the way we want. I don’t understand why. Nor do I want a God as small as my own understanding. But it took me awhile to get to that point. I’ve hashed through a lot with God in the last couple of years.
    I look at the files on my desk—the patients I saw this morning.
    Ellyn DeMoss.
    I’ve always looked forward to seeing her. Intelligent. Witty. Beautiful.
    I’ve always wanted to know her outside of my practice. Sarah agreed. When we’d go to Ellyn’s restaurant, Sarah always enjoyed Ellyn too.
    So maybe it’s time to get to know her.
    I pick up the picture of Sarah. “After all, I have a promise to keep, don’t I?” It’s the most difficult promise to fulfill I’ve ever made. “You knew that, didn’t you? That’s why you made me promise.” I swallow the lump in my throat as I run one finger across Sarah’s photographed face.
    Sarah saw something in Ellyn . . . Or a more accurate assessment is that she saw something in me when we were with Ellyn—those times Ellyn would make the rounds of the tables in the dining room of the café. She’d chat with patrons for a few minutes and because we knew one another, she’d stay at our table a little longer.
    I open my desk drawer and put the framed picture inside. I push it to the back of the drawer where I won’t see it every time I reach for a pen.
    It was Sarah who . . . suggested Ellyn. When she asked me to