I dug into the purse in my lap looking for the parking ticket. The downside to an oversized purse is the eternal abyss that it becomes when looking for something elusive as a small piece of paper. I knew it was in there because it dropped it the parking deck and I stepped on it nearly missing it laying there on the concrete in the shuffling of all of my bags while trying to read the signs and navigate the maze that this hospital is all while trying to rush to make the start of visiting hours.
I leaned back in the chair in the lobby wondering what to do when you lose your parking ticket. I focused on the small group of people huddled in the corner of the lobby. They were all crying and hugging and saying things like, "I knew she'd pull through" and "She's so strong!" and "Prayer really does work!"
I dove back into that purse with renewed determination. I needed out of that lobby. Just when I was ready to give up, I spotted the ticket. I snatched it out, read the directions on the parking payment machine, retrieved the newly stamped ticket and pushed my way into the blinding sunlight.
The day was absolutely gorgeous. Clear and bright-cheerful and green. Promising.
The antithesis of pathetic fallacy: weeping rain would have been appropriate.
I was determined not to cry until I was in the safety of the van. I saw him walking towards me long before he saw me. He smiled into each face that passed him: deliberate kindness. His collar was starched stiff and perfectly white. His kind eyes found mine and it was all I could do not to burst into tears. I smiled and hurried faster.
Across the sidewalk, up an elevator, down a long hall, more elevators and finally my quiet vehicle.
I opened every window and let the cold wind whip. Where to go? I wasn't ready to be with my sweet people yet. I drove, made a U turn and headed to the only other place I could imagine being.
Don't cry yet
I wasn't ready to let it out.
I remember the night we became friends. We waited tables together. She was bent over the ice, filling a pitcher, fighting tears. I took the pitcher from her, went to the table that had been giving her fits, poured some sticky sweet Southern charm along with the sweet tea and sent them on their way. She grabbed my hands and said, "thank you..."
We bonded over the trauma of a table full of people completely dissatisfied with the quality of their steak.
I remember the night she got engaged. I remember the day she got married. I got married. She had a son. I got pregnant. She taught me everything I know about pregnancy, childbirth, and how to care for and nurse a baby. How to cosleep. She was who I fled to when I had been dilated four centimeters for two weeks and was afraid to leave the house yet was completely stir crazy. She helped me labor with Laney. Helped me get her here. She's the one who called me to tell me that a plane had crashed into a building on a day in September 2011. We would watch"Trading Spaces" at the same time and talk to each other on the phone while I held a newborn and cried. Her husband worked as much as mine did. She understood. She made me beautiful jewelry. She listened to me. She sat with me. She helped me find work I could do with a small baby. She gave me hand me downs. She fed me, taught me, listened to me and loved me just like I always imagined a (slightly) older sister would.
She knew me at my worst. Those long years where I had stepped away from most everything good in my life, she had loved me and cared for me.
I held her hand today. The ventilator breathed for her. The sound was almost deafening in my ears.
I was walking with my sister around a small lake, later, when her brother called me.
She's terminal
I kept looking at the sun dancing on the water, like diamonds sprinkled thickly on the surface. The beauty was in stark contrast to the words that assaulted me through the phone.
"I think it's actually a large pond..." my sister remarked. She walked beside me. I was so thankful she was there. Comforting.
I need to Google what in fact makes a body of water a lake or a pond.
I actually thought those words.
I held her hand, swollen and unrecognizable, and fought back tears. I told her I was sorry. Sorry that she was friends with the person that wasn't the real me. The crazy me. The sin sick me. I told her I was sorry I hadn't been there for her. Sorry that she didn't get to spend time with the person that was rescued. Rescued from the life that could have killed me. Sorry that I escaped and didn't force her to come with me. Sorry for all that had happened to her. Sorry we had drifted apart.
I told her I was saved by Christ and that He had rescued me again. I asked her to trust me. The person that loved her. I asked her to listen to me tell her about the One who was real. The One who saved me from me. Who made me able to live this life. I told her we had to think about heaven and hell, but what I really wanted her to know was that He died in part so she could live this life. This hard, hard life.
The nurse shyly and apologetically asked me to leave. They had graciously allowed me to overstay my visit.
I looked back at her. I have to go...
I sat in the waiting room, not knowing what to do.
I noticed a puddle on the floor of the waiting room. The coffee had been brewed incorrectly and had overflowed into the floor.
The hospital had a coffee disaster too.
He was neatly dressed. Red cap, plaid shirt buttoned all the way up, black belt cinching his blue jeans that ended just above his white leather shoes. He clutched the phone to his ear.
I just needed to tell someone that my wife is in the hospital...
Was he calling a church? No, a doctor's office I decided. I heard the voice over the phone. A female. Hurried. Busy. "Do you need anything else?" I suppose she thought she was being kind. "No, I guess not," he said. He pressed a button a sat, still.
That's next. I saw my future. Suddenly my world seemed a bit easier. The noise the van was making. The dog knocking my ipad off the chair and cracking the screen. (Another score for the nonanimal lovers out there) The kids and school and the laundry and the house and the shower that is slow to drain, the emails that need answering, the friends struggling, the crushing weight of all that God asks of me and the never ending to do list...
That all got lost in view of the look on that man's face.
These are the good days.
I saw his face go by the door. I flew to the nurse's station and stood next to him. The words tumbled out: "Hey, I'm Amy and I'm your wife Julie's friend and I go to church with you guys and I am here visiting my friend in the SICU and the coffee overflowed in the waiting room and there's a puddle on the floor and I'm afraid the man in there is going to slip and fall and I know we're in a hospital and he wouldn't have to go far if he got hurt but can I have some paper towels so I can clean it up?"
His kindness was palpable.
"I'm sorry about your friend." I could tell he really was. He paused. "I'll clean up the coffee."
I didn't want him to have to do that but he did. I'll never forget that.
I sat there until I talked to her mom on the phone. Her voice was so tired and so sad that I thought my heart would split open.
I made my way to the church. I held back the tears and fought the memories until I sat on the floor in front of the steps that I called an alter and I sobbed and sobbed, asking God to save her. I sat and breathed the quiet. I'm not sure I have ever been that weary. Of it all.
Soon I was walking around a small lake, or a large pond, and her brother was saying that she was going to die. I told him my story with the gospel in it too.
I yelled at my sister, "People keep dying. If you get within 5 feet of me, I'm going to tell you my story about how Jesus saved me. I'm tired of this. I'm tired of people dying."
My husband has lost three friends lately, two to drug overdoses. A friend of mine's father is clinging to life in a hospital even now. Death seems to be winning.
So I ran this morning. After I begged the Word to help me do this day. I felt it whispered in my soul
...He was acquainted with grief...
and that same second a raven flew just in front of me. Luke 12~ These birds were unclean and nearly worthless, yet God cared for them. How much more will He care for me? And those I love?
I'm not sure how to stop the flood of memories or how to trust Him completely in this or how to wake up tomorrow and check my phone to see if she lived through the night or how reassure those that I love that is really is going. to. be. okay. even when I'm not totally sure it is.
I do know how to pour it all out to Him. And I am thanking Him that as I contact other friends from this era that He saved several of us. Married, parents, Christ followers. We emerged. Rescued by Him more than once. I'm praying for her mom, her brother, and especially her two children-13 and 15 years old. The younger a girl that I simply cannot stop thinking about. I hope to make my way to her very soon. I'm praying she'll let me in. I'm praying. Praying. Praying.
It was a week ago this morning. I was awake but still in bed when the text came through,
You awake?
I responded that I was and she said that her mom had found her dad unresponsive on the bathroom floor and they were taking him to the hospital. I immediately began to pray and made my way downstairs, reassuring her all the way that things would be fine.
We chatted back and forth for a bit, but soon she said,
I'm going home.
I sat in the middle of the kitchen floor and said, "Oh no, Lord. Not Brian. Please, not Brian..."
My sweet friend is from Dallas, and she stayed here after college to pursue a graduate degree. We met through a friend and developed a precious relationship that gradually resulted in us claiming her as a member of our family.
She was headed back to Dallas to be with her Daddy.
We prayed fervently for God's will to be done throughout the weekend and prayed fervently for healing - a miracle.
The text came quietly
It's bad and getting worse.
My prayers changed at that point.
I headed out that night under the stars and poured it all out before the Lord.
Not Brian. Why Brian?
I had only met him once, early last September. We had lunch with my friend, her family and another friend and family. Brian and I sat across from each other, and I was struck by his kindness, his wanting to know about me and the sweet way he engaged me in conversation. There was a lot going on during that lunch, but he was intentional in his conversation. My favorite part of the lunch was his showing me multiple pictures of his beloved cat on his phone. My friend eventually said, slightly embarrassed, "Dad, that's enough!" but we continued to look at pictures and talk about that sweet cat.
I just fell in love with him.
I was blessed by that brief encounter and thought about it a lot. I stayed amazed at the attentive care I saw Brian give to his daughter. He would drive to meet her at the airport when she had a layover near him. He would buy and send her care packages of things she casually mentioned she was interested in. They talked on the phone nearly every day. She had a constant stream of stories about the way he cared for her, her mom and brother. Things he said. Ways he encouraged. I can't count how many times she would laugh her sweet laugh and start a story with, "My dad..." Often when I did something for her she said, "That's like something my dad would do..."
I thought about these things and more as I pounded the pavement that hot, dark night.
Why?
He was the most amazing father and husband. I knew this for a fact. A Godly man who was literally the ideal father and husband. I knew he devoted his life to teaching others what the Lord had so graciously taught him.
Brian passed away Monday, July 23rd at 12:14pm.
We were getting ready to celebrate my youngest child's sixth birthday.
My daughter stood in the bathroom with me, so incredibly sad for her friend.
"Mom. It's Zane's birthday," she said.
I know, sweetie.
She was quiet for a minute.
"Life and death, all on the same day. I guess that's how life is."
She walked sadly out of the bathroom, and I choked back tears.
I guess it is.
Soon I was on a plane.
It was easy to talk about him to everyone I met. I told the lady on the plane that sat next to me all about him.
I told her that he went to bed Friday night perfectly fine, making plans for the next day, and his wife never talked to him again.
That doesn't seem to make sense to me.
I arrived in Dallas and my friend called me while I stood in the lobby of the airport.
I'm on top of the parking deck and I can't figure out how to get to the bottom to get to you...
"Stay there," I told her. "I'll come to you."
When I got to the top she said, "My dad would have known how to get you with no problem. He always knew stuff like that. He always knew everything..."
But you figured it out, I said. You will always be able to figure it out. It will be hard and sad, but you will be able to always figure it out.
I was mad, though. That she had to.
Family started arriving literally from all over the country.
Proving that we really do live in a small world, or perhaps through divine providence, I knew some of Brian's family. My former youth minister is married to Brian's sister. His other sister and parents attended the church I also attended. There are even pictures of my friend playing with my sisters when they were all young.
It was sweet and hard to see them again this way.
The house filled with people, and soon we were carried along by the sheer volume of people, chatter and motion.
It was surreal.
We ran errands, meeting people along the way that loved Brian dearly.
The more stories I heard, the more my heart ached.
This man touched so many lives. How? "How did he do it?" I kept wondering.
Everyone had story upon story about Brian and how he loved them and cared for them.
He bought groceries for his wife at Walmart each Friday morning. He knew each employee and what was going on in their lives. The manager told each Friday morning employee that Brian had passed away. They grieved together.
The produce man at Walmart sobbed when he heard the news. Brian was his friend.
The busboy at the bagel shop where Brian went every Thursday morning broke down and wept when his boss told him. Brian was his friend.
The janitors at the church where Brian was on staff. The widow of his close friend that died a few years ago. The pastor and staff at Brian's church. Neighbors that saw Brian walking in the mornings. Everyone was grieving that he was gone. Everywhere we went there were stories of Brian and how he loved and served.
I started to see the depth and width of a life lived in devotion to serving others.
I was overwhelmed.
Bits of conversation swirled around me constantly.
They are expecting close to 2,000 people at his memorial service...
I sat back in my chair.
He loved well.
Brian's son walked in the house. I had heard my friend talk about him for a long time. I loved him already. I knew to expect that he would look exactly like his father. What I didn't expect was to see was how broken he was. He stood next to me, and I prayed wildly for him. I clicked into what my friend calls "bossy big sister" mode. I tried to feed him. Found him on the back patio and sat near, watching, just to see if I could do anything, but not wanting to disturb him. I kept thinking about Isaiah 59:1 - Surely the arm of the LORD is not too short to save, nor his ear too dull to hear. And though this verse has its own context, I prayed it over this brother, that the Lord would save him from harm in his grief. That he wouldn't drown in his grief. That he would be able to grieve with peace and hope. His grief was deep and complex. It came from a different place. He was also a son who looked just like his dad. More pressure. I kept praying, "Lord, have a plan for him. I Trust you. You have a plan. This is part of his journey. Your arm is not too short to hold him in his grief..." These words came over and over again, as I annoyed this sweet guy, making him put tissues in his pocket and hovering near.
The morning of the funeral. Mrs. Norma said, "I think Ben is here." She found him in his old room. I heard my friend's voice call me from the bathroom. I leaned against the door frame and she said, "Talk to me..." I recited to her everything that had happened in the last hour and she started breathing normally again. Anxiety and grief are so often one. Her mom walked into the bathroom already in her dress, no shoes and rollers in her hair. Though grief had colored her features, she was still so beautiful. She was holding a piece of paper. "Listen to this," she commanded in her soft voice. She began to read:
My father was the greatest father, husband, friend anyone could ask for. He loved all people and put everyone before himself or belongings or money. He always has told me, “If anything ever happens to me know that I love you and am so proud of you.” I am very lucky to have that. Yesterday my mom pulled me aside into her bedroom and to my dad’s closet. She handed me the pair of shoes I am wearing today and told me my dad had just bought them and didn’t even get the chance to wear them and she thought I should because I have big shoes to fill. I also would like to thank everyone for all their love and support. While in the hospital I was thinking a lot about a line from a song “I’m not sure if I’m ready yet to find out the hard way how strong I am. What I’m made of. I’m not sure if I’m ready yet to walk through the fire. I’m not sure I can handle it.” But in the next song on the album there’s a line that says “No one should ever have to walk through the fire alone. No one should ever have to brave that storm. No, Everybody needs someone or something.” And we haven’t. We have all seen so much love and support from friends and family dropping everything to fly or drive out here or bringing by food. We all really appreciate everything you all have done.
(lyrics from the band La Dispute on their album "Wildfire.")
I pressed my shoulder hard into the door frame, willing it to hold me up. I panicked trying to get the tears off my face before anyone could see. My friend and her mom looked at each other. There were no words. We were speechless.
Her brother had written that the night before. My heart thanked the Lord.
That boy was going to be okay.
"The way is long, and difficult the road..." Dante's words fit perfectly. This journey of grief.
The rest of the day every time I looked at those shoes I would repeat to myself, "Your arm is not too short to save."
Soon we were driving through Dallas. The heat threatened to creep in the cracks of the long black car. The cold air blasted, cooling my skin. I breathed deeply to keep the tears locked behind my eyes. I sat next to Mrs. Norma, Brian's mother-in-law. She fidgeted. The diamond on her finger kept winking at me, catching rays of sun through the window. 56 years of marriage. She brushed imaginary lint off the arm of her husband's suit. He clutched the key that I had given him to lock the door of the house behind us. He wouldn't put it in his pocket. He sat on the other side of his wife. Brian wouldn't get to 56 years of marriage. I swallowed hard. I blinked against the tears and studied the Dallas skyline. Texas is flat. Patty Griffin kept singing in my head. I pretended we were going somewhere else. Perfect peace, perfect peace. You keep in perfect peace him whose mind is stayed on You...
The church. The pastor greeting the family, forcing words through his choked back tears.
Brian was his best friend.
The priests and rectors from her mom's church, straight and strong in their collars, clutching Bibles, solemn and eyes glassy.
A Baptist and an Anglican service.
Fitting for Brian.
The doors opened to an enormous church. It was so beautiful that I lost my breath for a second. I wanted to take pictures of it. A million images rushed me. The choir members wiping tears away. The packed sanctuary. Brian's picture at the front. A constant prayer for the family. Lord, help them do this... The beauty and elegance of the Anglican ministers' procession down the aisle, quoting Scripture chosen by the family. Singing "Great is Thy Faithfulness" from a Baptist Hymnal, feeling the familiar weight of the book in my hand, wanting so hard to fully believe what I was singing. Praying for a sweet, beautiful lady who would miss an arm around her shoulders for the rest of her life.
I blinked upward. The tribute spoken by Brian's best friend was perfect. Poignant, funny and touching. I saw so much of his precious daughter in it. Each pastor spoke. Each was Brian's best friend.One asked that we pause, turn to someone next to them and share a story about Brian. I sat and listened to the beautiful roar of a sea of voices all sharing a story. I heard laughter. I heard weeping. An amazing tribute to a life dedicated to service. Nancy sang "We Shall Behold Him." Nancy had been secluded in west Texas without cell service and was flown in the morning of the funeral. This was fortunate since for years Brian had told her she would sing at his funeral. The gospel was preached sweetly, gently and firmly. Clearly. My heart rejoiced and begged the Lord to bring people to Christ through those words. We recited The Apostles' Creed. I forced myself to form each word. I would not cry. The choir started to sing "The Majesty and the Glory." I blinked hard and stared upward at the beautiful architecture of the church.
Hallelujah...
Hallelujah...
Hallelujah...
Allyson is Brian's sister. The oldest of five siblings. I adored her when I was in her husband's youth group. I loved her laugh. I loved her warmth. I loved everything about her. I wanted to be like her.
We had marveled at her this week. She was a constant blur. She had a clipboard attached permanently to her arm. She single-handedly took care of everything. She knew every answer to every question. She organized and directed and laughed and cried and hugged and welcomed and served.
So much like Brian. The family had always said she was a female Brian. And I saw that.
We had to meet one of the doctors who had cared for Brian in order to have some insurance forms filled out. They were in her clipboard. He sat with us, talking about Brian. Saying how sorry he was. Saying how inexplicable it was. Allyson said God knew. The doctor didn't respond. She pointed to "discharge date" on the form. "I mean aren't you discharged when you die? When you die, aren't you discharged then?" Rachel and I simultaneously burst into laughter. She didn't miss a beat, pointed at us and said, "You two can go wait in the car!" before she laughed her famous laugh. We couldn't stop laughing. "He was discharged into Heaven! He was discharged to Jesus!" We all laughed and thankfully the doctor didn't commit all three of us then and there.
Oh Brian, you are with Jesus.
The choir sang this beautiful hymn. "The Majesty and the Glory." One of Brian's favorite. It quotes King David in Psalm 8, "Oh what is man that You are mindful of him?" I continued to battle the war with my tears. The choir was full. Each paused their Thursday to be there. To sing. Did they rehearse for this? How much time did they all take to do this? To sing one of Brian's favorite songs? We would never know how many people paused their lives to pay tribute to this man. We would never know how many people worked and all each did.
But You know, Lord.
Bless them.
The majesty and glory of Your name...
Hallelujah...
Allyson stood to her feet.
Hallelujah...
Her husband stood next to her, one arm lifted high.
The blinking couldn't stop the tears.
One by one, each family member stood.
I bent my head and wept. And wept.
We sang the Doxology and I could only mouth the words, tears flowing freely down my face.
We walked what had been described as the 400 yard hallway to the reception hall.
Brian had recently planned his funeral. It's a long story, but in short the family believes that God was preparing him to leave this world.
He loved a Dallas specialty, Stein's Bakery, and their cake. He had one each year on his birthday. One wish was to have Stein's cake and chilled glasses of milk at his funeral.
Another of Brian's best friends owned a restaurant in town. They catered the food for the reception. I slipped into a side room to sit for a moment and pray, something out of the window caught my eye...
Sweet people out in that Texas heat cooking the food there at the church so it would be just perfect.
How many people are serving Brian today? my heart cried out. They served with such joy, glad to have a chance to serve him for a change.
The family greeted guests for three hours. I simply prayed for strength, perseverance and endurance for them. My sweet friend and her mama changed into flats we had brought for them. They greeted, hugged, smiled and even comforted their guests. As people waited in line they watched, with smiling and teary faces upturned, the video slide show of Brian's life.
Then we were tucked back into the shiny black car sliding along the hot Dallas interstate once again. I peered through the flowers that sat in the passenger seat. The Lord had been so faithful. That was done. What lay ahead couldn't be thought about yet. We were working hard to stay in the moment. No thinking. No processing.
The day spun into a blend of family and food. It grew late. Finally it was quiet. She came into her old room and snuggled into a chair. Her eyes were quiet and sad. We talked about the day. Her dad.
It was perfect. He would have loved it.
I awoke the next morning to the same cat Brian and I had bonded over standing next to the bed. He slept there now, and was more than a little bothered to find me there. I patted the bed and happy to have found a friend, he snuggled in next to me. I stroked his soft fur and thought about how much this cat was loved. I am sure he was missing his owner.
She brought me coffee in bed when she woke up - a servant like her father. When I saw the coffee cup, I smiled.
I chose it on purpose, she said.
"I'm sure you did," I responded.
I was fighting here to have faith in this, God's plan for this family.
My weakness-my lack of faith, visiting me here again.
We talked for awhile. I changed the sheets, did some laundry, cleaned the kitchen. I do best when I can putter.
But her mom needed to talk. We sat, gathered, as she recounted detail by detail the events of the last days. The room was dark. We were still. My heart ached for her. Prayed for her. Constantly.
Family arrived. They left to go visit her mom's church where she is the women's minister. I was flying out before they got back. Each family member hugged me goodbye. I hugged Mrs. Norma and she didn't let go immediately. I fought more tears. We bonded, Mrs. Norma and I. She had interrupted me as we talked the night I met her. She touched my necklace. Elephants. She collects elephants. We laughed over a shared love of elephants. She told me about her collection. What will they do with it? she asked me, laughing. Nobody wants those elephants. Her eyes brightened. I'll tell them to give them to you. You'd love them. Yes, I laughed. Yes, I would love them. I loved her too. She and Mr. Bob had stayed with Brian after everyone had left. Right to the end. Just them. That touched my heart.
I sat beside my friend now, holding her hand. I had to leave her there. Far away. I knew her mom needed her and I knew the Lord would care for her, but I didn't want to leave. I didn't know for sure that she would come back here to stay. Everything changed that morning. So much changed.
I can't stop thinking about Brian. The lives he touched. I have literally never seen a man who touched so many lives. I have never seen anyone who did so much for so many people. Someone said, and it's true, it will take an entire community to do for others what this one man did.
I think about a quote that I read not too long ago. A man touched a baby and said to his mother,
Teach him to deny himself
Deny yourself...
I had already thought about this a lot, but to see it in motion. To see what a life full of devoted service to others can do. What He can do through us when we deny ourselves.
I worried a bit. See a lot of people who serve this way do it out of a deep dysfunction. They step over their own families and serve for a myriad of wrong reasons. Incorrect motivations. I see this. I see the impending disaster that is forthcoming. I see it in myself. I see it with my kids and my husband. I have been made more aware of it even recently. I asked her with a heavy heart because I needed to know;
Did he care for you and your family first?
She nodded silently and I believed her. I knew it already, but I had to be sure. I needed to know that after countless stories of how he served others that the family wasn't resentful. But they weren't. He served them first. He never stepped over them to serve others.
It was a ripple effect of his relationship with the Lord, but the first ripple was his family.
It was hard fought for, though. He did previously serve out of deep, hard dysfunction and the Lord healed and was continually healing him from this. His service to others now flowed out of gratitude to Christ for His salvation and thanks for the way the Lord had healed him. But he worked hard to get there and hard to stay there. He worked hard.
And served with joy.
He left a gaping hole that will not be filled. Thanks be to our Lord that He can allow those that love Brian to carry on. He is the strength that they need. He lost His Son and walked this road that seems so impossible to traverse. One thing I kept saying to her over and over again was that He walked before us. He knew this way. He approved it before we got here and we will walk it in faith and trust, fighting to believe His great love for us and His good plan for our lives.
We can already see how God is using Brian and his life and his death.
The pain is also indescribable.
But God...
He is and will be faithful.
Pray for this sweet family and their faith families and community.
She would keep vigil at her graveside for the day.
We gathered at a friend's house to keep each other company. We would take turns going to sit with her while our kids played together at the house.
It was a subdued day.
I watched another friend, her head bent over her adoption paperwork.
That was a familiar ache, but there was no time for my aches today. Today was about her.
Another friend took the first turn. I saw the sadness in her eyes, but there was a tiny bit of fear too. To watch someone you love grieve is one of the most helpless and horrible feelings ever.
She brushed that aside and said, "I'm going to take her some food. She'll be hungry. Maybe."
I agreed.
She headed out and I set out to clean her kitchen. I needed to stay busy and my love of cleaning her kitchen always made us laugh.
Well, other days it did. I didn't feel much like laughing today.
I busied myself with the cleaning and taking care for the kids. The house full of voices and laughter was comforting. I texted her to check on things.
She's okay.
I was thankful for that. I scrubbed and prayed. More.
Soon she texted, "I'm on the way home. Your turn."
I prayed more.
As the van approached the cemetery, the tears spilled. The memories of the week a year ago flashed like a slide show. I flicked away the tears in frustration. I didn't need to be weepy. That wouldn't help.
My phone sounded and I looked down at the text.
Take an umbrella. She's getting sunburned.
I laughed with tears still on my cheeks. An umbrella? That sounded funny on this cloudless day. But I smiled at the consideration.
So sweet.
I climbed out of the van bumping the umbrella on the door frame. The sight of her sitting by the grave made me catch my breath. No mother should ever ever have to sit by her child's grave. The anger welled in me. Sin. Death.
I raged at it all as I walked towards her.
I sat down and looked at her. Her smile was sweet and sad.
I looked at the new head stone. It was beautiful. There were balloons that said "Happy Birthday" dancing in the wind. She was two years old for only a couple of days. We celebrated her third birthday without her.
I breathed deep and turned back.
"Did you eat?"
She nodded yes.
We sat for a bit, not talking. It's easy to do that with her and I love it.
I looked up and her mom was walking across the grass. She sat and we allowed her some quiet time to soak it all in. Soon another friend came. We all sat.
I thought of Job and his friends. Before they started talking and ruined everything, they sat with him for seven days in complete silence. That had to feel good. Comforting.
Is that an umbrella?
A giggle escaped me before I could stop it.
"Well, she told me to bring it. She said you would get sunburned sitting out here."
I opened it over my friend, and she said, "That does feel better."
We talked and conversation flowed. We actually laughed and talked. The knot of fear loosened in me. She was comforted. Hurting, sad and forever missing her girl, but comforted.
As laughter floated across the wind, I turned to look across all the head stones.
You comforted her. You took her through it all. And You will carry her more. You did it. You were faithful. You provided. You were sovereign over every step of the way. You never let her falter. She's still here-a testimony to Your grace. Your sustaining power...
I didn't want to say the words aloud. Not right then. But the praise soared in me. I saw her a year ago. I saw the horror and fear and panic.
Today I saw longing mixed with comfort.
I think his bright blonde hair caught my attention first. It was bright in the sunshine. I had seen him out of the corner of my eye on the lawn mower as he tended to the grass. Now he was purposefully walking towards us. He shyly but intentionally walked up to us. It was only as he got to us that I saw four bottles of water in his hands. They were cold and the water from the condensation dripped onto the grass.
"I thought you might need these," he said with the same shyness he had approached us with.
They said thank you but I only choked back tears. The sweetness of the gesture caught my words in my throat. This sweet young man spent his day with death, yet the sight of grief still moved him to kind action. He wasn't hardened by it.
I still think of him and hope he's still not hardened, if he's still there.
The icy water was refreshing and comforting. I rubbed my finger along the bottle watching the drips running along my finger.
You are tangible. You care for us this way. With these gestures. Let me always see them as being from You...
We laughed more. Talked about her. And other things. Silly things. Some theology, as per our usual. We sat quietly. We took turns holding the umbrella.
I went, got my kids and came back. Her kids came. We sat more. My kids paused by the grave. The girl kid longer than the boys. They took off again, as kids do. They played hide and seek among the head stones. Part of me wanted to tell them not to. To be respectful.
But then I thought how beautiful. How normal. Death, as much a part of life as birth. To see it as a normal part of life. To know that one day it will be conquered. Until then to see it as something to live with. They ran and chased and rolled down the hill and laughed, their cheeks flushed red by the sun and their movement. As their voices bounced off the hard stone monuments to lives lived and monuments to memories of cherished loved ones, I resolved to love them more. Treasure them more.
To take nothing for granted.
Her husband arrived after work. I gave them some time as I wandered through the head stones, reading and praying.
Then it was time to go.
The van drove toward home. We were all quiet, the kids tired from a day with friends, me reflecting on the events of the day. It was much easier than I had anticipated.
Oh, You were here. You came before us. It was all You...
I couldn't stop thanking Him for is provision. I couldn't stop thanking Him for taking care of her. For caring for all of them.
Later. It occurred to me that He was tangible in so many ways that day.
I called her. I didn't usually. Neither of us like to talk on the phone.
"Did you notice how He cared for you?" I asked. "You got there with nothing. He brought everything you needed. A blanket. Food. Water. Friends. Laughter. And even a stinking umbrella to keep off the sun..."
Her laugh. She agreed.
Me? I prepare for everything. I pack an arsenal. Prepared for every circumstance. Water, snacks, a change of clothes...
Had it been me that day, I would have had a cooler filled with snacks and water and anything else I would have needed for the day.
She stepped out with nothing.
And He provided.
It was little. Small details. Not a big deal. But to me, it spoke volumes.
I so prepare for any situation that I sometimes rob myself of the value of seeing Him provide.
She agreed. She said she used to be that way, but the five kids had removed some of that ability to over prepare for everything. You have to go with the flow more with five kids, she said.
I think of that day often. As I seek to trust Him more to provide for me and those I love, He calls me to remember all the ways I've seen Him provide in the past. I think of the umbrella. I think of the sweet man with water. I think of the food and blanket and laughter.
He will provide. And maybe He provides most when we step outside of trying to provide for ourselves - when we step out stripped of anything we could do for ourselves and ask Him to provide. Perhaps He's waiting for us to stop trying to provide for ourselves and waiting on us to collapse at His feet and say through muffled tears,
You do it. You care for me.
And He will. I've seen it. More times than I could ever recount. He will.
I laughed and asked what the plans were. It seemed a day worth celebrating, especially if you love numbers the way I do.
My favorite text came from this same friend, literally minutes after the New Year had been rung in.
Um, is this the year we turn 40?
I really did laugh aloud for a bit. It seems that in trying to forget how old we are, we truly forgot how old we are.
Forty
It just doesn't seem possible.
I blame my mother, partially. She was young when she had me, so my perception of age has always been a little skewed. She was forty when I got married. It really seems as if I should be further along on the path of life at this point.
I've been preparing myself for some time, saying at every opportunity, "Well, I'm almost 40..." to which my friends have replied, "You are not." (I've done this for a couple of years.)
It has helped. I can say the word "forty" without hyperventilating.
Sort of.
A magazine yelled at me from the checkout line that "50 is the new 30" which of course means that 40 is the new 20. Except I don't want to be 20 again. I was a disaster in my 20's.
And because I am who I am and I do what I do, I've been full of introspect about this impending birthday.
Because truly, no matter how you gloss it over, dress it up, or package it, my life is half over.
My life is half over.
The life expectancy is 80 for women in this country.
See? Half over.
That's a lot to take in.
It's taken a bit of effort to understand exactly why this has me in a pinch.
It could be simple vanity. Things aren't exactly how or where they were when I was 20. There are wrinkles and (lots and lots) of gray hair. I've been forced to recognize that perhaps I put more stock in my appearance than I'd like to admit. I never thought I'd be one of those women who refused to age gracefully, but I'm sitting here slightly aggravated that my body seems much more acceptant of this impending birthday than my mind does.
How silly.
More than this, though, is the constant ticker that runs in my mind, keeping an invisible yet incredibly tangible list of ways that I have failed God in my life.
I keep wondering, "What if my life ended now?"
I don't feel like I have half of a life's worth of gifts to offer Him.
It's not that I don't want to look in His face. I do. I just sort of feel like I'd be showing up at someone's house for dinner with an inadequate hostess gift.
Not to reduce heaven to going to a friend's house for dinner.
But that's what it feels like.
What do I have to offer Him? And why do I feel like I'm begging Him for more time to do more stuff to offer Him? And why now? Why does this birthday bring this to light in me?
Because it's HALF WAY OVER and I've only lived one solid good decade for Him?
This is when I hear a well meaning friend say, "Honestly, Amy, why do you wear yourself out with all this overthinking? Don't you get tired of it?"
Or I see my sweet friend in the midst of her cleaning the kitchen paused, with dish cloth in hand, looking at me and saying, "Amy, you are intense."
I blinked hard after that one.
I wasn't even doing anything other than quietly sweeping the floor. I guess she meant in general.
Intense? I don't feel intense. I thought I kept that bottled up pretty well.
Obviously not.
I hear the accusations, "You need to lighten up."
Think less. Chill out. Go with the flow.
Especially now. With this huge impending birthday coming up.
Maybe it's wrong to pause and take inventory, but it feels necessary. How did I mess up the first forty years? What would I like to do differently in the next forty? What would I change?
It feels like a fresh start in some ways. A change to get it all right and keep it right.
I don't want to mess up again. I don't want to live through another day of debauchery, much less another decade.
I feel resolve welling up in me. I just want to do this half right.
I read through Jonathan Edwards' Resolutions and find myself yelling, "YES!!!"
Resolved, that I will live so as I shall wish I had done when I come to die.
Maybe I should care less what people think. Maybe I should take intense as a compliment.
Maybe being forty is the decade in which you get to stop doing what you've done your whole life so that people will like you. Maybe this is the decade in which I do what makes me like myself.
Maybe being forty makes you care less because half your life is over and you realize you don't have that much more time to do what really matters - what really lasts, and you're done fooling around with the stuff that won't last.
Maybe I'll stop apologizing for thinking so much. Maybe I'll stop apologizing for being an introvert. Maybe I'll stop apologizing for wanting to study my Bible more than playing on the internet. Maybe I'll stop apologizing for being intense. Maybe I'll stop feeling guilty for saying "no" and for limiting abuse and not caring what people think. Maybe I'll start saying, "You know, that's not okay with me. You can't say that. Or do that. You need to stop." instead letting people do what they want and then feeling the effects of their actions.
I went to your third birthday celebration, but it was really weird, because you weren't there. Not only was it weird, it was wrong. And hard...
I've written this letter in my head for the last hours, and I thought finishing it here would help. I can't though, because it's too hard.
And I can't stop thinking about death.
I was putting Zane to bed when my phone rang. I noticed that my friend Kathy had called, which was strange for a Sunday night. As I picked up the phone, I heard Jennifer's voice. It was a whisper.
"Are you sitting down?"
What? I was so confused.
"Abigail's dead..."
My brain switched off. I clicked into practical mode.
Where are they? What did Kathy want? Where is Brandy?
I was putting my clothes on while I talked to her. I grabbed my keys and jumped into the van. The five minute ride to the hospital I prayed desperately.
I got to the hospital and waded through the people waiting in the hallway until I found Kathy. We leaned against each other. I was smack dab in the middle of a television show. None of it was real.
When Brandy walked out of the room where Abigail was, my heart ripped in two. I'll never forget the look on her face. She walked toward me, and I gripped on to her. Her sobs ripped through both of us. I pulled back and said the only thing I knew to say.
Can I pray for you?
She nodded yes, and I folded her hands into mine.
Praise the Lord for Matthew 10 {...for it will be given you in that hour what you are to say. For it is not you who speak, but it is the Spirit of your Father who speaks in you.} I have no idea what I said, but I remember imploring God as a Father who had also lost a child to comfort Brandy in the way that only He could.
We spun through that next week together. The whole band of girls and their kids. We cleaned, shopped for necessities, made food, cried buckets of tears, talked, laughed and at times, sat without saying a word.
We somehow got through it.
The next year was an amazing show of God's goodness and grace.
And it was the hardest year in my friendship life. Hard to watch someone I love grieve in a way that defies words.
And I've thought about death way more than I ever wanted to.
I heard my precious friend Kathy Leigh yelling at me through the phone "AMY!" in that way that she did.
I'm standing in Times Square, right now! WHERE ARE YOU???
We would plot how we would live in New York together. Preferably SoHo. We would laugh, heads bent together over the stacks of shirts we were folding. It was a silly out of this world plan. I had a husband, she had a daughter. But in our little world, we'd live there, in an artistic nirvana.
But see, she was in New York to go to Sloan Kettering for a last ditch effort at curing her recurring breast cancer.
She was calling, from the middle of Times Square, to say
I'm not really fighting cancer. We're here, living in SoHo. Happy, silly, laughing, spinning through New York in our safe, make believe world. But where are you? You aren't here!
There were over 1,000 people at her memorial service. The last words from Kathy Leigh were unintelligible words scratched out on a piece of paper. It took her brother nearly a day to decipher them. But as he gripped the podium in front of those 1,000 people, he grinned her grin and said, "I figured out what she said...
I can see Heaven
I thought about my Aunt Ann, who, by the odd spin of the genetic wheel, I was the spitting image of. Not just in looks, but in walk, laugh, wit and insanity... nearly her perfect doppelganger. So much so her children still find it hard to be around me at times.
She lost her life in a car accident.
I still hear her {our} laugh. I see her understanding eyes on me. She did understand me like no one else. When she left, I felt a little more alone in the world. Purely selfish.
As I pondered this thing called death, I felt the need to get to the core of it. Again. Or maybe for the first time. When Abigail died. I needed to think about it a lot. I needed to steep myself in it. I needed to swim in the dark depths of it. Touch the reality of it.
And I came to the same age old conclusions.
It's real.
It's inevitable.
It's natural.
It's normal.
It's God's plan.
So how do we not despair? How do we not lose our lives to death?
Hope.
But our hope does not lie in the seen. It's lies in the unseen. In God. The Creator of the universe who's plan is complete. And perfect.
And through His immeasurable love for humankind offered His Son as a sacrifice to pay for the sin we all commit. Allowed Jesus to be tortured and murdered on a cross, so that our sins would be forgiven. Jesus took God's wrath due us because of our sin. And as we believe and put our faith and trust in this Perfect Gift, we are rescued and ransomed from the penalty of death. By Jesus and Jesus alone we are then allowed to spend eternity worshiping the God who by His grace and mercy saved us.
That's hope.
Death is not the end for us. It's the door by which we step into Christ's presence.
It's the way we get to look Him in His face and tell Him
thank you
as if that would suffice.
But it's all I have.
That and my life.
Which I freely offer to Him.
So these thoughts swirled around in my head as I stood in the dining room where streamers and balloons were hung in honor of a 3rd birthday celebration where the guest of honor was so obviously absent.
I had stood in another dining room a year ago, looking up at balloons and streamers with the number 2 on them. How strange that life and death were so closely spaced. A 2 year old birthday party and then 2 days later, death.
I cried more at the birthday celebration than I did the entire week she died. It was grief backed up by a year's worth of grieving. There were 365 days of sadness built up.
{and true to form, we laughed too. My friend Erica said, "I can't move. My feel are cemented to the floor." I said, though tears, "It's okay, Erica. I'm here. I'll help you..." And she said, "No really. My feet and legs are asleep from sitting cross legged too long. I can't feel anything. I can't move." Laughter through tears. My favorite}
It seems like making it through a year without your daughter should afford you the prize of getting your daughter back.
But it doesn't work that way.
So He continues to sustain. And provide in ways that no one can understand.
And as I think about death now, it's simply a natural end to life that God gives so graciously. And it's another way to honor and glorify Him through such indescribable pain.
And the simple fact that we will dance with Abigail in Heaven gives me such peace.
I will hug Kathy Leigh again. I will feel Ann's hand smooth my hair again. I will see and love each person that trusted in Christ that I loved and lost.
And it spurns on this fire to spread this precious Gospel. Not just as a means of avoiding a very real and a very eternal hell, but also as a way to come to know a most precious Savior. To live with peace and passion in Him. To know and be known. To love and be loved.
Oh, I love you, Lord. Thank you for your Son. Thank you for comfort.
