Paul Moore, 36, of Farmington, Utah, sits across from me on an oversized couch with his head resting against a pillow.
“We all have two stories to tell,” he says, stealing a glance at his wife, Joni. “I choose to tell mine in the best way possible — with grace.”
I observe closely and take notes on my laptop, balanced on an ottoman near him.
Moore’s face is thin, but his eyes are wise. He has a large lump at the middle and top of his chest that’s visible through his lightweight, pull-over sweatshirt. His arms are wiry and his legs are tired.
I type the words:
Paul Moore is dying. But his spirit and faith? They couldn’t be more alive.
In February, at the insistence of a close friend and neighbor, Moore and his wife visited the emergency room with questions about what they thought were cysts and pulled muscles in his shoulder and neck. He’d been working long hours renovating a spare room in their home and suspected he’d simply overdone it.
Tests revealed something much more serious. Doctors discovered approximately 40 tumors of various shapes and sizes, including some on his skull.