Tucked within the rolling expanse of rural South Dakota resided a man and his wife. This man became a patient of mine when his quiet and secluded life suddenly changed forever. Little did I know he’d leave an imprint on my heart that I’d carry with me for the rest of my life.

He lived on a cozy little acreage forged with his hands and had remained there for over 70 years alongside his wife and the whisper of trees.

But one day he noticed a sizable lump on the side of his face. It was cancerous. And he was told he had only mere months to live.

We prayed together. We shared laughter together. We cried in the sanctity of the hollowed chapel of his living room.

When I visited him last week, the mass had gotten so large that it was muddling his speech. He held out a wavering hand that shook, in it, a crafted picture frame he had carefully whittled from the wood of a barn on his property.

“I don’t think I have more than a few days left,” he said. “I wanted to make this for you, so that you had something to remember me by. I included a picture of the farm to hopefully bring a smile to your face when you need it. You’ve been an excellent chaplain, and I love you.”