This column originally was published on June 12, 2007.

Ten years ago, I made a call to my sister that left me unable to get out of my chair afterward.

As I gazed out my office window at the lush, summer blooms erupting in every direction, I thought, "This conversation and these surroundings can't be happening in the same moment. Here I call to wish her a happy birthday in her favorite season, and she's telling me that she's just come home with a breast-cancer diagnosis."

It's probably the worst kind of helplessness to watch someone we love shoulder a burden that demands the deepest bravery — and greatest vulnerability — she may ever find in herself. Everything about this development in my sister's life happened fast, from the discovery of the tumor to the surgery scheduled just a day later. I wanted so much to book a flight and go be with her, to be able to DO something.

But instead, I needed to turn my attention to the high-season pace of the Baha'i conference center where I worked, where 40 junior-high-schoolers were due to arrive in an hour and it was my job to get them settled in.

Then, shortly on the heels of my sister's call, came another that advised that one of the cabin counselors for the kids' session wasn't going to be able to make it. The only person available to take her place and serve as sleep-in chaperone for 11 pre-adolescent girls seemed to be me.

It was a long list of feelings I felt that afternoon, when I was able to feel anything at all. These included shock, disbelief, sadness, anger and, perhaps biggest of all, survivor's guilt, plus plenty of fearfulness. I also experienced a strange, hollow place inside where I seemed to feel nothing at all. Maybe that's what helped me get through those next hours until it was time to enforce curfew with those kids.

When a coworker approached me excitedly that afternoon with news about an art exhibit she'd been invited to take part in, my response was one I'd need to make amends for later. I knew her paintings were the release that often helped her find the heart to do the hard work required of us, especially during the summer months, but I wasn't a very supportive listener, or friend, that day. I was too immersed in the pain of my own troubles.

However, I did manage to do one thing I've felt grateful for ever since. I went back to her a few hours later to apologize, and when she heard about what was on my mind, she spontaneously offered what would prove a far-reaching response. She held me quietly for a few moments, then promised to pray both for me and my sister. She even asked shyly whether I might like to say some prayers together.

I was happy that she offered this, because I hadn't been able to get to that myself quite yet.

Afterward I definitely felt better, or at least different, as I contemplated the night ahead, one in which I was sure I wouldn't get much sleep, and after which I'd still have to struggle through another 10-hour day.

I had just been thinking about my sister when the phone rang and she was the caller. All of the arrangements were in place for her surgery the next day, she told me. Then she surprised me by saying, "I don't know what happened this afternoon, but I suddenly felt a wonderful shift that's made me feel such peace ever since, despite everything that's happening."

Then she went on to describe a decision she'd made to plant bougainvillea on the balcony of her town house as soon as her recovery was past. She'd seen the plant during her travels in the Caribbean and had always wanted to plant some, but had been afraid the mid-Atlantic climate wouldn't support it.

"But I'm going to take the chance this year and see what happens. I'm going to fill the deck with it," she told me.

Within those words, I heard her confidence, even faith, as she went forward into her surgery and treatment. I felt astonished at the depth of hope I heard in her voice. It was in that same conversation that she also told me, "I'm going to die eventually from something, but I'm not going to let this disease have my life — my living — now."

That night, something sort of amazing happened as those preteen girls and I got ready for bed. One of them, a quiet 14-year-old, had been crying in another room when one of the other girls found her and came to tell me about it. What moved me most was the genuine concern and compassion that all of the other girls instantly showed and expressed for her. It turns out that her mother was also battling cancer, and this girl felt sad even to be away from her that night.

I couldn't help thinking what remarkable answers my artist friend's prayers were already bringing as the group of us spontaneously began a long heart-to-heart that eventually ended in its own circle of prayers for her mother, my sister, and all of us. As such conversations do when the participants are youths, this one included lots of questions, and I think that our hearts found many answers that night in our little shared circle. Surprisingly, we all fell asleep peacefully, myself included, and I passed a far better night than I would ever have expected.

The next morning, I woke from a dream in which masses of pink bougainvillea blossoms filled up the side of a wall. It left me with a pleasant sense of calm, a shift in my inner numbness, and better energy with which to begin the long day ahead of me, the one during which my sister would undergo surgery. I still felt some wistfulness about my being powerless to help her, and wished there were some tangible way to show her my love and care, especially because I couldn't do it in person.

When I saw my artist friend at breakfast, I remembered suddenly that she had once lived in the Caribbean. Within hours, I was in her studio searching through several dozen paintings. Though beautiful, none were what I sought.

Then I asked her about bougainvillea, and she found a painting that had been hidden away out of sight. The image's familiarity instantly took my breath away. It was a view of a cascade of brilliant pink blooms tumbling over a white-washed wall — just like the one in my dream; just like the wall near my sister's deck.

In that moment, I was overwhelmed with tears that had at least a half-dozen reasons, but the biggest was astonished gratitude.

Today, that painting's a bright reminder on my sister's wall of the blossoms that did thrive after all, the ones she lived to see and appreciate all the more deeply.

For me, it's a reminder that no matter what is happening in our lives, prayer, and what we can offer to each other, are the most precious resources, not because they make the problems go away, but because they change our experience and our perceptions within them. And they bring the more important answers, even though those may not be the ones we think we're looking for.

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Phyllis Edgerly Ring, mother of two, is a writer and editor. Her current book project addresses how adults can recognize and nurture children's spiritual nature. She is a former program director at Green Acre Baha'i School in Eliot, Maine, and has been a member of the Baha'i Faith for more than 30 years. Email her at {email columns@bahai.us}columns@bahai.us{/email}. See the website of the Baha'is of the United States for more information. © Copyright 2008 by Phyllis Edgerly Ring.