There was never any question of my not going. After all, this was the marriage of the first child of the next generation, the oldest of the children of Reid’s first cousins. I remember the groom when he was still in utero, remember his bris, his insistence on chocolate milk in his bottle, his five-year old pride at becoming a big brother. It is a mitzvah to rejoice with a bride and groom. And so I did, relishing as well the contact with family and strangers and people encountered at such simchas. It was good to get out of the house.

What do we do when we know we won’t get better? I often think of this, not only in relation to my own life, but also when I pray for many people who are living with chronic conditions and disability. Our traditional prayer, the Mi Sheberakh, asks for a complete healing of body and soul. Maybe what we are looking for is a restoration of wholeness, that divine state where we can accept what is and be sustained.

What is a “good death?” The hospice movement has opened our eyes to the possibility of a pain-free, gentle surrender, supported by the people who love us, comforted by familiar surroundings. And for the family, time for goodbyes, time for acknowledgement.

Last week, my doctor made a house call. It wasn’t the first time. I don’t know if he does this for his other patients, but I was oh, so grateful that he stopped by, drew a special blood test, and took the time to talk to me. Living with a chronic illness also means living with uncertainty. What’s going to get me? Will it be a gradual decline or some catastrophic event? How fortunate I am to have a caring physician who does not pat me on the hand, saying “There, there,” but tries to answer my questions, giving me the solace of information.

Maybe it’s because the mornings are still dark. I lie in bed, contemplating the day, and glance at my watch: just a few minutes more, and then I will get up. When I sleep, I am hooked up to a mechanical ventilator, to rest my lungs, to make sure I get good full breaths - in and out. Lately, I’ve been reluctant to switch it off and become dependent on my own capacity. Then I remember to say “Modeh Ani,” the prayer for awakening, and harness the Strength that will help me begin my day.

My daughter has one more semester of college; one class really, she is in that precarious state of almost there. She is trying to plan her future, and the process can sometimes be painful to watch, as she evaluates and hesitates, questions prior choices and the vagaries of life. I don’t remember it being this hard when I was her age. Gently, I try to listen and counsel: one step at a time.

In the acute moments of our lives, we may find ourselves turning to God for strength. Twenty-three years ago, when I was first diagnosed with cancer, I knew no formal prayers, yet I called out to God for solace. When, with Help, with luck, with technology, we reach safe harbor, then, too, we should speak God’s name.

There are times, when people share their stories with me, that I am without words. There are situations that are so difficult, they are beyond my imagining. It is then that I offer what small gestures of comfort that I can.

I have been waiting to write this week until I heard from my husband, waiting to hear that his dad, Stan, was out of his scheduled surgery, waiting to hear that everything had gone well. Tonight is the last night of Hanukah. As we light all eight candles, our hearts will be filled with praise for the miracles of skilled hands and modern technology, for knowing when and how to ask important questions, for faith in good choices. These eight lights shine through darkness, reminding us of God’s presence, strengthening us in difficult times.

This Hannah’s story is told in Maccabees II, Chapter 7. It is a story of great sacrifice to prevent profaning the name of God. One of my correspondents wrote me that Sixty-Five had been read at Mass on the third anniversary of the murder of a friend’s son. Let there be no more Hannahs and no more sons of Hannah.