Facing the Specter of Death I rested in the hospital recliner chair. Beside me, my fourteen-year-old son lay still, unresponsive, tubes attached, his head bandaged to cover up the incision the surgeon had made to protect his life. He wasn’t saved yet. The doctor had said his body could still give up. Had the shimmering and fragile thread that tethered him to this earth stretched to its limit? Would it snap? I didn’t try to figure it out. I didn’t even pray. I simply stayed near my child, touching his arm, surrounding him in light, and waiting. Waiting. Unable to sit every moment, I took breaks to wander through the…