“Well, you two are coping with this better than any couple I’ve seen,” the therapist said at the end of our first session. “I’m not sure I have any advice for you.” I laughed as we walked out—at least I was excelling at something again. The years of ministering to terminally ill patients had borne some fruit! I turned to Lucy, expecting to see a smile; instead, she was shaking her head. “Don’t you get it?” she said, taking my hand in hers. “If we’re the best at this, that means it doesn’t get better than this.” If the weight of mortality does not grow lighter, does it at least get more
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