Category Archives: Saying Goodbye

Remembering the good… and the bad.

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Tick tock, tick tock, time is passing. In one sense that’s good. My widow friends tell me time will be a healing instrument. Today I view it as my enemy, because it’s dragging me away from the living, breathing Nate. Many times every day I yearn to look back, because when I do, there’s a holding on to him for a bit longer.

At the moment of death one month ago, Nate and I were physically touching. I sat close as those wispy last breaths moved from his mouth into the room and then dissipated. While the kids and I looked back and forth from his face to his chest searching for any tiny movement that might indicate he was still living, I continued to stroke his arm and hold his hand. His skin slowly grew cold and his fingers became stiff in mine as death shouted, “I won! I took him!”

I stayed in literal touch with Nate’s body for a few more minutes, even though I knew it was foolish. He couldn’t feel my tender caresses. We’d all known death was close and saw it hovering at the edges of his face, ready to pounce. But until it actually did, he was still a present husband and father. He was still ours. Once he died, he belonged not to us but to eternity. And to Christ.

Nurse Gina, Sky, Nate, me

When Nate was living a human life like the rest of us still are, he belonged to Christ then, too, but we somehow shared him. After he died, we no longer had our share. He was only ours in used-to-be. This was definitely second best, but I’ve tried to remind myself today, on the one month anniversary, that second best is still high on the list.

One big blessing is our many happy memories and 196 photo albums that prove them true. My sister and I have said, “Looking at the old photos, you’d think life was nothing but parties and vacations.” Of course we know better. Neither of us took pictures of children having temper tantrums in the store or doctors sewing stitches in the emergency room. Our recollections of Nate are much like the photo albums. Gradually memories of stress, failure or disappointment, even just ordinary moments, will fade like old photographs left in the sun. Even now, during the first month, we talk only of the positives.

In one sense, wicked death did have its way and “took him” on that November evening. But the full truth is that death was merely the gateway into a different (and much better) life. Does a resident of heaven make new memories? If he does, then we’re not part of them. Maybe, because heavenly living is out of time and space, we’ll be able to fit into those memories when we get there, as if we’d always been there, too.

In the mean time, our selective memory of Nate’s past is protective and caring, and we’ll try to keep him from moving from humanity to near-divinity. Could memories of our regular husband and father morph into something akin to perfection? I hope not. I long to remember the real man, not a fictional version. Of course it’s good to be positive, but we also know God uses the hard stuff of life, the stuff not in the photo albums, the stuff we shy away from remembering, to produce what’s best and most valuable in every life. So if we find ourselves remembering any bad days, that’s good, too!

“We are pressed on every side by troubles, but we are not crushed. We are perplexed, but not driven to despair. We are hunted down, but never abandoned by God. We get knocked down, but we are not destroyed. Through suffering, our bodies continue to share in the death of Jesus so that the life of Jesus may also be seen in our bodies.” (2 Corinthians 4:8-10)

Not On Call

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Lars has struck a deal with AT&T. He’s persuaded them to shut down Nate’s cell phone without a fee, even though he wasn’t at the end of the contract. Their willingness was, of course, because of Nate’s death. Where he is, he doesn’t need a phone. I realize that’s a good thing for him, but it’s not so good for us, because we can no longer call him. The 12 of us in his family are the people nearest and dearest to him in all the world, and it feels strange that none of us has any access to him. The problem lies in that phrase, “in all the world.” He’s out of our world and into another, and that’s the hard, cold truth we are struggling to accept.

Now Nate’s phone can’t make any more calls, but it still turns on, so today I decided to check his messages and texts to be sure there was nothing we needed to know. That felt like an invasion of privacy. Nate and I always trusted each other. We never opened each other’s mail and didn’t butt in on each other when the bathroom door was closed. Cell phones were also private. I didn’t check who he called or who called him. I never listened to his messages or read his texts, and he respected my phone privileges in the same manner. But today I plunged ahead, starting with the voice mails.phone small

One after another, callers expressed shock at his cancer diagnosis and offered to help “in any way.” There were people from church, from the office, from the neighborhood and calls from relatives. Nate had touched lives in many categories.

Two months ago when he was listening to his messages, he found great encouragement in them, and today they were a comfort to me. I heard many “I love you’s” among the recordings. Even toward the end of his life, when he could no longer push the right phone buttons to release his messages, I would connect to voice mail for him, then put the phone to his ear. These callers will never know how valuable their support was to Nate.

After listening to the voice mail messages, I moved on to the texts. This was more difficult. Seeing the words on that tiny screen did something to me, and I started to weep.

“I’m thinking of you today and am sending my love.”
“I’m here to talk whenever you want.”
“I love you!”
“I’m praying for you, today and always.”
“You’re always in our thoughts.”
“We miss you very much and hope you can come back to work.”
“I hear things are pretty rough for you and am praying you will get relief from your pain.”
“Just a note that you got extra prayers said for you today.”
“I just want to tell you again how very much your friendship is appreciated.”
“I understand you have a lot going on, but I am here to help you in any way, with anything.”
“I appreciate you so much for all you do and for how gracious you are.”
“Please hang in there! We are praying very hard for you.”

Suddenly I longed to send a message to Nate as these people had, just a short one to connect one more time. But of course that wasn’t possible. A big part of the sadness after a loved one dies is the inability to communicate with that person again. Death brings complete separation.

We know very few details about what someone is experiencing after he dies, which makes the disconnect even more painful. I can’t ask a single question of Nate or get a quick glimpse at his new home in heaven. We can learn nothing more about him or what he’s doing right now. All communication has ended.

The last text on his phone, sent on November 3, says, “Sending best wishes and prayers your way, and hoping you have a good day.” November 3 did turn out to be a good day for Nate, since he took up residence in heaven before the end of it. And if I could communicate with him one more time I’d say, “Even though you’re gone, I still love you.”

“If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!” (2 Corinthians 5:17)

A Sharp Surprise

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It was sad and tearful saying goodbye to our Florida family this morning, which included little Skylar Grace, our 16 month old, high-intensity granddaughter. They have been with us for two months, and their departure left a big void. Louisa and Birgitta also left this morning, heading back to Chicago to work, more goodbyes. Every time I turned around, I was crying again. Since Nate’s death, all goodbyes seem heartrending. By noon, though, it was time to get out of my PJs and do something.

I spent the better part of the day putting our house back in order. Hosting a big dinner always leaves things in disarray, even after the dishes have been done. The big pots and roasters have to be taken back to the basement. The 50-cup coffee maker goes down there, too, along with the 30-cup cider-brewer. Tablecloths have to be laundered, along with a massive bundle of dirty, wet dish towels and cloths. Fall decorations need to be gathered and boxed up until next year, and everyone is eager to pull out the Christmas boxes.

As part of cleaning the kitchen, I tried to return the many displaced items to their original storage places. It’s been a big treat having others maintain the kitchen for me on a steady basis over the last two months, but in the process, I lost track of quite a few items. I knew they were somewhere in the kitchen but couldn’t put my hands on them when needed.

One item in particular had slipped away without my noticing, and I missed it terribly. It was a small knife I’d taken from Mom’s kitchen utensil drawer after she died. We were cleaning out her cabinets and drawers when I came across her favorite knife. “It was my mother’s,” she’d told me one day, as she cored a tomato. “It’s as sharp as a razor and fits nicely in my hand.”

Somewhere along the way, the wooden handle had broken and been repaired by a Depression-Era husband. Its tiny nut and bolt stuck out like a wart on a beautiful face, but I absolutely loved that knife and used it constantly. It was still as sharp as a razor and cut well. I loved it most, though, because it was Mom’s and because she’d loved that it was her Mom’s. Every time I sliced an onion or peeled a potato I missed that knife.

In my heart I just knew someone had thrown it away. After all, it looked like a hunk of junk with its discolored blade and beat up handle. Although I’d asked every one of our kids, no one remembered using it or seeing it.

Grandma's knife small

But… I was in for a sharp surprise. While rummaging through the knife drawer, I ran into a few big blades pushed so far back, they’d gotten stuck poking through the back of the drawer. While getting them unstuck with great difficulty, out popped my precious knife! It, too, had been stuck in the back. Seeing it again was like being reunited with a good friend. I squealed with delight (Linnea stared at me) and washed it carefully, removing it from the kitchen and nestling it into my dresser drawer until the day when I will operate solo in the kitchen. Although everything has changed as a result of Nate’s death, some things just need to stay the same.

“Suppose a woman has ten silver coins [or knives] and loses one. Does she not light a lamp, sweep the house, [dig in the drawers] and search carefully until she finds it? And when she finds it, she calls her friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost coin [knife]’.” (Luke 15:8-9)