There are moments in life you never forget. I’ll never forget when my sister called to tell me an MRI to check on a recurring cyst near her ear had revealed a suspicious brain mass instead. When our call ended, I wailed, desperately hoping that everything she and my brother-in-law just told me was some kind of dreadful mistake. But a few weeks later, an invasive biopsy confirmed brain cancer.

Words and phrases like “inoperable,” “incurable,” and “cut your life short” fueled a waking nightmare, and life became a runaway train from which there was no escape. As much as it was a horror for me, I could only imagine her terror of living it.

We’re close in the way sisters can be, stitched even tighter from losing our mom when we were way too little to hold a grief that big. Lora took her big-sister responsibility seriously and appointed herself boss of me. Ever the compliant little sister, I let her.

She’s always been my biggest cheerleader, and I cried off and on for weeks following her diagnosis. Still, the intensity and relentlessness of my pain surprised me, until it finally occurred to me that I had known and loved Lora longer than anyone else in my life. When someone sees, knows, and loves you no matter what, it’s a beautiful reflection of how God sees, knows, and loves you without condition.

The utter shock of a diagnosis like this never quite goes away. It changes you and everyone close to you. One of the most exasperating things Lora would say as she adjusted to her new reality was, “You don’t understand. People don’t get it.” But, how could anyone fully understand something they had never experienced? She was right. Regardless, I tried, begging God to provide understanding.

Lora is over a year into her diagnosis now, and I love how her husband, Jody, describes this season: Golden.

Amidst all the symptoms of the disease, consequences from testing and treatment, and unexpected setbacks, beauty is distilled in moments. You finally grasp the preciousness of time when you don’t have as much as you thought. And, when so much is out of your control, you gain a sense of urgency and agency over the things you can control.

Recently in a conversation with Lora and Jody, they mentioned the awkward position they’ve repeatedly found themselves in with people wanting to help. What is offered isn’t what they need, and they don’t know how to express this for fear of sounding ungrateful. Well-meaning friends make assumptions about what is helpful. Most people (including me!) offer food, but it has to be for when it fits their schedule. What we fail to consider is how full the person’s refrigerator may already be, how small their appetite is from treatment or sickness, how our timing isn’t aligned with their existing plans, and how guilty or unappreciative the person feels from having to throw out excess food they simply can’t eat. Even if we ask open-ended questions about how to help, it’s awkward for the person to express what they really could use.

Through my sister’s eyes, I see how serving well begins with asking for suggestions, listening carefully, and getting creative by anticipating all sorts of needs. Serving well focuses on others and doesn’t assume that what expresses love to me is what’s best in every instance.

Ephesians 5:1-2 (ESV) tells us to be imitators of God and to “walk in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us.” Loving and serving others sacrificially is a beautiful imitation of Jesus.

When I realized there were better ways to help others going through similar circumstances, I asked my sister, brother-in-law, and friends for suggestions. Here are some of their ideas for helping someone with a terminal diagnosis:

• Be diligent in prayer. It means more than you know to the people for whom you’re interceding.
• Give gift cards. Restaurant gift cards are always nice, and general spending cards allow the person total flexibility.
• Short visits. I used to think it would communicate “I don’t care” if I didn’t stay a long while, but I’ve learned “less is more.” Be sensitive. The person who’s sick is sick, and your brief visit (15 – 30 minutes) is a gift!
• Send short texts without expecting replies. For example, “Keep smiling! No need to reply, I just wanted you to know I’m praying for you.”
• If you send plants, make sure they’re low maintenance.
• Give gas cards to out-of-town young adult children. The unexpected, added expense of travel impacts their budget and shouldn’t limit how often they return home. Offer to take care of their pet or cover boarding, too.
• Be sincere and sensitive with words and touch (hugging could be painful) and it’s okay not to speak much at all. No one knows what to say when someone is battling a difficult diagnosis, so embrace the awkwardness.
• Make space for tears and laughter. Both are good medicine.
• Send greeting cards from time to time. They usually arrive exactly when they’re needed.
• Send cash for cleaning, DoorDash, groceries, or whatever. Don’t ask, just give.
• Don’t try to “save” the person in the room. Avoid religious clichés.
• Don’t feel like you have to bring anything on a visit other than your presence. Even if you don’t get to see the person, maybe you were meant to see the caregiver.
• Speaking of caregivers, remember them, too. They’re sad, exhausted, and weary, and your care, encouragement, and thoughtfulness are life-giving.
• Gather friends to take care of the yard or housework. Show up with tools/supplies in hand.

We’d love to hear your thoughts and suggestions as well. How have you ministered to others, or what do you wish people knew if you’re going through something like this?