“I’m dying”

We had a wonderful day yesterday. Steve loves to be surrounded by the people that he loves, and if you know him you are probably included in that list. To each person who came to see him yesterday and asked, “How are you?” he gave the same quiet response, “I’m dying.”

Steve is grappling with the reality that he is dying. We all are. Every morning I go to Psalm 90 and I contemplate what it means to worship an eternal God when you are a transient human. “Before the mountains were born, before You gave birth to the earth and the world, from eternity to eternity, You are God” (Psalm 90:2) I reach for Steve and feel the warmth of his touch and my heart aches within me because I know that our lives are, “like yesterday that passes by, like a few hours of the night” (Psalm 90:4). I know that the day is fast approaching when I’ll reach for him and he’ll be gone.

“I’m dying.” Steve speaks these words as the truth of what it means to be a mortal man is being revealed to him. “You end their life; they sleep. They are like grass that grows in the morning it sprouts and grows; by evening it withers and dried up” (Psalm 90:5,6).

“We end our years like a sigh. Our years last seventy years or, if we are strong, eighty years. Even the best of them are struggle and sorrow; indeed, they pass quickly and we fly away” (Psalm 90:7-10). Steve turned seventy this year. We sit close together holding hands and reminiscing about the years we’ve spent together. Each of us is amazed at how fast the time has gone.

Recently a health care provider confronted Steve with the reality that he was dying. Then she asked, “Are you afraid?” He was quiet for a few moments then replied, “No, that’s been taken care of.” This is Holy Week. This is the week we celebrate the faithful love of God who gave His only begotten Son so that anyone who believes in Him might not perish but have eternal life. In Jesus Christ death was swallowed up in victory. Yes, Steve is dying, but death will not be the end. That was taken care of when Jesus conquered the grave.

The Storm Rages But The Anchor Holds

Looking back over the last few days I am amazed at how quickly things can change. Steve wanted to take me away for my birthday. He couldn’t decide if we should rent a cabin in the mountains or take our little camper and go to the beach. Before he could make up his mind he was in the hospital.

We had anticipated being together and watching the sun set over the mountains, or perhaps watching the sun rise and cast its light on the waters. The last week of February had begun with questions about where to celebrate a birthday. That same week ended with my calling my son in Lithuania and telling him to come home because we didn’t know how long his father had to live.

During this month we have been in and out of the hospital, without answers but with the understanding that something terribly wrong was happening. This morning I was looking through the pages where I record my days. On Monday of one week I found the hopeful entry that a well-respected doctor had told me that at last we would get to the bottom of this mystery. On Friday of that same week I was told that Steve only had a short time to live.

At first I felt that one doctor had given me hope and the next doctor had taken it away. Then I paused, took a deep breath and remembered the first time that I had begun to understand hope. It was at a funeral. The preacher said, “ Hope is a confident expectation of good. Hope is based on the Person and promises God.”

My hope isn’t something that circumstances can  give or take away, otherwise I would be at the mercy of the storm that we are in right now. Instead, my hope is an anchor that grips a solid rock. The storm is raging all around me. Life is changing so fast that sometimes it’s hard to breath. But I’m not at the mercies of the storm, and my confidence is in an Almighty God.

Hallways

We took Steve to the emergency room unsure if they would keep him or send him home. Faith, Elisabeth and I had all gone with him. Because of COVID restrictions, only one person could be with him in the hospital.  I asked Faith to be that person while Elisabeth stayed with me in the car waiting. By 3 am I was exhausted and asked if Elisabeth would take me home. When I woke in the morning I looked for Steve but found a note instead, “Mom, Dad’s okay, but they wanted to admit him for observation.” I inhaled deeply, got dressed, and drove to the hospital.

The room was dimly lit by the light streaming in from the window. Faith filled me in on what had been happening during the night. She told me about the tests that had been done and those that had been scheduled. Then we traded places. She went home, and I took my place beside the hospital bed. Steve slept. He didn’t wake to eat or drink.

The neurologist came to check on him and then asked if I would come out into the hallway where we could talk. She paused for a moment and then said, “I want you to know that this is very serious.” She paused again and said, “This is very serious, but we don’t know what it is.” As I stood there trying to absorb the impact of her words, her phone rang. An expression of pain crossed her face and she said, “I’m so sorry. Someone has had a stroke in the ER and I have to go.” I was alone in the hallway with her ominous words echoing in my mind. 

Hallways are not a destination. When you are in a hallway you are in between where you’ve been and where you’re going. Standing in the hospital hallway alone with the words of the neurologist ringing in my ear, I began to realize that Steve's and my life together was entering into a transition.

Slowly I began to see the different doors in the passageway. Steve and I were about to enter a hallway that would take us in different directions. As my eyes began to sting with tears, in my heart I heard these comforting word, “Blessed are those whose strength is in you, whose hearts are set on pilgrimage. As they pass through the Valley of Weeping, they make it a place of springs; the autumn rains also cover it with pools. They go from strength to strength, till each appears before God in Zion” (Psalm 84:5-7). For 48 years Steve and I have been on this pilgrimage together. It appears that for a time we will be separated, but just as hallways lead from one place to another, so do pilgrimages.

Learning to Measure Time

How do you measure time?

I remember waiting for the day that I would marry Steve. Each day seemed that it would last forever. Every night I would kiss his picture and put the picture frame under my pillow so that I could dream of the days to come. Finally, the day came and we made our vows to God that we would love each other in sickness and health, in poverty and with wealth. We vowed to love each other until death would part us.

He took my hand, looked into my eyes and whispered, “I love you Mrs. Jones.” Time stood still. I thought my heart would melt. We walked down the aisle hand in hand. 

Some years went by slowly, some went by so fast that they took my breath away. But he was always beside me holding my hand. Sometimes we fought, sometimes we laughed, sometimes we cried because that’s how it is when you choose to love.

I have loved Steve for 48 years. Our time together now feels like a calendar that was left out in a windstorm. The wind seems to be blowing so hard that it’s causing time to blur and move to fast. I want to savor each moment, and to simply stare into the face that I have loved for so long.

I want time to stop, but I know an eternal truth. “As for man, his days are like grass—he blooms like a flower of the field; when the wind passes over it, it vanishes, and its place is no longer known. But from eternity to eternity the Lord’s faithful love is toward those who fear Him, and His righteousness toward the grandchildren of those who keep His covenant, who remember to observe His instruction” (Psalm 103:15-18). Too soon the day will come when Steve will not be there to hold my hand. 

I am learning to measure time through the lens of eternity.