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Frank put me in a bind. After he brought his wife Christine home from the hospital that autumn day, he told me the prognosis. "It's terminal," he said. "They removed the tumor, but the cancer has spread. She's going to have chemotherapy to buy her some time, but she probably hasn't got more than a year."

"I'm so sorry," I said. "How is she taking the news?"

"We haven't told her. I think it's better for her not to know. So I have to ask you not to mention it either. I don't think she could take it."

"Are you sure, Frank? Often it's better that people know so that they have time to make their peace with things and say their goodbyes."

"Not in this case. I know Christine. With no hope, she'd just give up."

I knew Christine too. I'd been her pastor for more than four years. While I couldn't claim the years of acquaintance with her that Frank had, I suspected he failed to recognize the depth of stability in his wife. In her committee work at the church, I'd seen a rocklike steadiness in her.

But this was not the moment to tell a grieving man he might be misjudging his own wife. "All right, Frank. I won't bring it up ... How are you doing?"

"Awful. I don't know how I'll get along without her. But I can't be down in front of her. I've got to keep her spirits up."

I doubted that was the healthiest approach for either of them, but I saw that Frank wasn't ready to deal with his emotions yet, so I said only, "I'll pray for both of you."

"Thanks. Let me take you in to see her." After bringing Christine home from the hospital, he'd installed her on a rented hospital bed in their dining room. Their bedroom was on the second floor of the old farmhouse, but Christine was too weak to climb stairs. He'd placed the bed next to the dining room's large picture window, so Christine had a view of the farm she loved. "Preacher's come to see you, Dear," he said buoyantly as he led me into the room.

Christine, looking desperately pale and a lot older than her 46 years, smiled wanly from the bed. "Hello, Reverend Payton. It's nice of you to stop by."

"Not at all. I'm glad to see you home."

Frank pulled up a chair for me near the bed. "Have a seat, Reverend. I'll leave you two to talk for a while. Got some things to do in the barn." He made his exit.

"Poor Frank," Christine said. "This has all been so hard on him."

"It's pretty rough on both of you. You've been through a lot."

"Ah, well, into every life ..."

We talked on, and I assiduously avoided the forbidden topic. Eventually I inquired about their married daughter, Megan, and the child she was expecting in four months, which would be Frank and Christine's first grandchild.

"At least I should last long enough to see the baby," Christine said.

My face must have revealed something, for Christine added, "Frank said I didn't know, didn't he?"

"Uh ... yes. Yes, he did."

"He doesn't think I do. He certainly didn't tell me. But he was being way too evasive when I asked him what the doctor said, so I asked the doctor myself later. He said Frank had told him not to tell me, but since I asked, he thought I should know the truth."

"How do you feel about it, Christine?"

"Well, it knocked the wind out of me for a bit, but since I don't have a choice, I guess I'll get used to it. Actually, it's Frank I'm worried about. He's a wonderful man, but he's never been very good at expressing his feelings."

"Have you considered just telling him that you know?"

"I don't think he's ready to handle it. It would just make it harder on him right now. But maybe later."

"I think it is important, Christine. At some point, you'll both need to open up with each other. I think together you'll carry this thing better than you possibly can separately."

"You're probably right. But not today. Please don't tell him that I know."

"Of course I won't," I said. We talked a little longer, and then I prayed with Christine and left.

The surgery itself did bring Christine some improvement in the short term, and she stood the subsequent chemotherapy better than expected. None of that changed her overall prognosis, but at least she had a few months where she was able to be out of bed and live a somewhat normal life. She made it to church for the Christmas services and by the time the grandchild, a baby girl, was born in January, Christine was able to help her daughter care for the newborn. And a few weeks later, she was present in church -- wearing a wig to cover the hair loss from the chemo -- when I baptized the baby in front of the congregation.

Although we all knew the child's name, the baptism ritual specifies that after the pastor has taken the baby into his arms, he asks the child's name. So, holding the tiny girl close to my pastoral robes, I asked, "What name is given this child?"

"Christine Elizabeth," said Megan, holding her husband's hand.

I glanced over to where Christine was sitting with Frank, and noted that she was beaming.

Christine came to church again the next Sunday, but two days later, she became so weak she had to be taken to the hospital where she remained for a couple of days while receiving a transfusion. This reinvigorated her enough to return home, but no longer did she venture outside, for church or any other purpose. She spent most of her time in the rented bed sleeping or looking out the large window. Megan brought the baby over every few days, friends stopped by, and I made it a point to visit Christine frequently. To each visitor, Frank mentioned that "She doesn't know," and asked the visitor not to discuss Christine's terminal diagnosis with her. As he led me to her bedside, Christine, turning her gaze from the window, said, "Look, Frank, the buds are showing on the maple tree. Spring's coming early this year. I miss being outside."

"Don't worry, Dear," Frank responded brightly, "after you get through this rough stretch, you'll be able to go out all you want. Certainly by summer."

"Sure, Frank," Christine said.

After Frank had excused himself, I sat down near the bed and began talking quietly with the drawn-looking woman. On a previous visit we had discussed her spiritual readiness for the approaching end of her life, and as I'd expected, Christine was holding onto the confidence of her faith and, in humility, to a life well lived.

So now, we talked mainly about how she was feeling. Then she asked, "Is Frank still giving the 'She-doesn't-know' speech?"

"Yes."

"Bless him. He's a fine man. And he's taking really good care of me."

"That's wonderful."

"Yes. But it's wearing him out, what with keeping the farm going and everything."

"I'm sure it's important to him to be here when you need him, though."

"Yes, and I love him all the more for it."

Christine went quiet for moment, and then she said, "I don't think it's going to be much longer now."

"Christine," I said, "it's probably time to tell Frank, don't you think? So you can say what you want to say to each other freely while you still can. Would you like me to tell Frank that you know?"

"Oh, I don't think so. I don't want to burden him with that just now. I'll tell him myself when I think he's ready."

Afterward, I had a similar conversation with Frank. "Doctor says she hasn't got much longer," Frank said, wiping his eyes with a large bandana.

"Yes, she looks very weak. Maybe it's time to tell her the whole story so you can talk about it openly."

"Yeah, I guess I should, but I hate to crush her hope."

"I think Christine's stronger emotionally than you're giving her credit for."

"Do you? I'll give it some thought. Maybe I'll tell her tomorrow."

Christine died on the Tuesday after Easter. We had the funeral on Friday. The sky was bright blue and the air pleasantly warm as we drove in procession to the cemetery. After the graveside committal, mourners lingered in the sunshine. Frank came up and thanked me for the service. "I've had a wonderful life with Christine," he said. "I have a lot to be thankful for."

After he moved away, Megan, carrying the baby, came over and thanked me as well. I knew that Megan was in on both secrets, just as I had been, so I asked if her parents had ever shared that final bit of sad news.

"No, they never did," Megan said. "Mom was really bad Monday night and we didn't think she'd make it to morning. Dad sat by her bed all night, holding her hand. He told her several times how much he loved her and she said the same to him. But the last thing he told her was how he was looking forward to her helping him put in the garden in a few weeks."

"What'd she say to that?"

"Sure, Frank. I'm looking forward to it."

Frank never remarried, but he went on with the farm, fulfilling his roles as father and grandfather. He continued to be an active church member, and, as far as I could tell, handled his grief about as well as anyone does.

Everything I'd read and been taught in my pastoral care classes in seminary said it was a mistake for marriage partners not to confront the end of life for one together. According to the prevailing view, Frank should have at least had some regret that "they'd never said goodbye." But he didn't seem to. Somehow in his love for Christine, he'd seen it as an act of love to maintain the pretense that she was going to recover. And Christine, in the wisdom of her love for Frank, somehow knew that it was important to let him believe he was keeping up her hope.

Real life, I was finding out, didn't always conform to the definitions of my textbooks.