Hallway

Sunday was the 6th anniversary of my Dad's death. I keep thinking, it can't be that long ago...it really does feel like just yesterday sometimes. He died early in the morning with his beloved right by his side singing hymns to him. He battled the cancer, but ultimately God decided that it was his time to go. I remember Mom coming into the room my sister and I shared and telling us Dad was gone. Just the night before we had all sat around his hospital bed in my parents room and talked, we even laughed a bit.

It is hard even 6 years later. I wish he had been able to meet my husband, I wish that he had been there to meet his first grandson, I wish he had been there for our hard time with dear Simeon. But now I envy him, he doesn't have any more pain or suffering or loss (and he gets to be with Simeon!).

One of my favorite hymns is God's Own Child. The 4th verse starts out "Death you cannot end my gladness, I am baptized into Christ." In the hymn it is talking about the person who is dying (or will die), but I also like to think of it as those who are left behind...even the death of a father, spouse, or child cannot "end our gladness"!
Praise be to Christ for His victory over death!

My Mom just shared this piece that she had written when they found out Dad's cancer was terminal. It is a beautiful piece and makes me admire my Mom even more for how strong she has been and continues to be.

Hallway

As a child, I would look down the hallway of life and I couldn’t see the end of the hall

But the hall was bright with colors and doorways and windows and excitement.

As an adult, sometimes the hallway looked dim, the colors were grayed, doors were shut and windows were shuttered. Other times the hallway would take an unexpected turn, and where the passage way had seemed to go forward, there was a wall, and you were forced to turn aside; soon though, you could see that the turn brought you back to a brightly lit, open hall with doors and windows on all the sides.

You start to hang pictures in your hallway. Behind you, you hang pictures of memories. You can look back at the hallway and see the pictures of your life. In the hall ahead, you hang your dreams and plans. You can look ahead and say, when I get to that spot, this is what I am going to do. Sometimes you have to change the pictures, once in a while, you have to repaint them. Lots of times, you add dabs of color as if to say, I am going to do this also!

In my hallway, I walk with my hand in my husband’s hand, when we got married our hallways merged together looking forward and it is funny, but the longer we are married, the more our hallway of the past is merged. The pictures we hang as we walk along are shared memories of the past and shared dreams of the future.

The day we were told he had cancer, it seemed as if the hallway just stopped. No noise, no color, no doors, no pictures. My husband and I stood still, hand in hand, looking at one another. We slowly began to walk forward again, but all of the pictures ahead of us were gone. All of the doorways were gone, there were no windows, no turns, just a long hallway ahead of us. We walked along slowly and painfully, going forward, getting nowhere.

We are still walking. I run ahead and hang up the pictures of our future, telling my husband, “see, look there, we are going to do that…” He smiles softly and carefully removes the picture and props it against the wall. He won’t take the picture away, but he won’t allow me to leave it hanging either. He gently takes me by the hand and points to the end of the hallway and tells me what he sees there, a doorway, different from the others because it is at the end of the hallway. He explains that he is not afraid to go through the door because he knows that when he gets to it, the One who will be opening it for him is his Friend.

I cannot see the end of the hallway. When I look where he is pointing, I see a long hall, white, no color, no music, no joy, lonely. I don’t want to walk that hallway.

Today, we are waiting to see what the doctor says, we are not walking, we are standing together, shuffling our feet. Not looking at the future or the past. Just waiting.

A few weeks later we are slowly, agonizingly shuffling along the hallway. I am holding my husband up. He does not like to lean on me, but for now, he must.

We talk about letting go. He has been on 4 rounds of medication to beat the monster within him. The medication makes him weak and sick and he dislikes this intensely. He tells me I am selfish to want to keep him here like this, he is only half kidding. It hurts so much to watch him, but I don’t want him to go. He tells me he is only going home, how can I not want him to go home? He tells me it will only be a moment and I will go home too. But moments here last a lifetime.

I pray that God will give me the knowledge to let go when it is time and the strength to do it. I won’t let go a second sooner though.

The hallway is blank and dark ahead. I will walk with you. I will carry you. I will help you through and when it is time, I will let you go and watch with love as you walk through the door. (Gary walked through the door, letting go of my hand and going into the arms of Jesus on 7/31/2005, early in the morning)

I know that it is God who works the light switch at both ends of the hallway. When I was born, He turned on the light and pointed the way down the hall and said, I will be watching over you as you go down the hall. I will be waiting at the other end. Don’t worry, I can see you all the way.

When I get to the end of my hallway, I know that it will be He who opens the door at the end, tells me I have arrived and turns out the light in the hall, and gently closes the door after leading me through.