Thousands fill the great arena, clapping, smiling, dancing, cheering for the entertainer. He works the crowd into a frenzy of pleasure and joy, his fans delighting in every well-loved song....

But in Section 118, Row 17, I sit in a different world.

As the man on the stage sings and struts, as the crowd roars its approval, the beautiful girl in seat 5 can only sit in stillness, pain and fear.

Shivering beneath a pile of coats, she is a woman, she is a child, she is a mother.

And it seems clear that when the test results are in, perhaps later this week, the doctors will inform her that she has cancer.

From two seats and a generation away, I watch her. My heart breaks, for the path ahead of her will be so hard, and I am so completely, utterly powerless...even if she wanted my hugs, I cannot hug away the disease or kiss away the pain.

The girl's mother, in the seat between us, weeps. My best friend and the strongest person I know, she turns to me, turns to me to hide her tears, turns to me looking for strength. I am her rock, that's what she had said to me.

I look into her moist eyes, as she grips my arm and mouths the words, "this is so hard," and I realize that she has already given me my job description, and it is a simple one.

I am to be her rock.

I will show her strength, when she is weary, so she can help her daughter be strong.

I will show her, always, the face of faith and of hope, the quiet assurance that God is with us.

And I will constantly fill her tank of love, so she can love her daughter through this ordeal.

The concert is almost over, now. No longer shivering under a pile of coats, the girl has found a burst of energy, and is on her feet dancing, smiling. Her mother rises from her seat, and joins in the dance. It is a celebration of family, of unity.

For a few minutes, I watch and smile, until their strength and joy draws me to my feet and we all dance together, the dance of faith, hope, and love...the dance of life.