We stepped out of the hospice facility at every bit of 11:30 PM on that Thursday night.
As we gazed at the lights shining from the nearest towering hotel, my sister and I noted that the breeze felt like a memory with which we were well acquainted; reminiscent of nights from family beach trips in what could only be described as another lifetime, some thirteen odd years ago.
That's where some of our fondest memories of her would always rest--quietly sitting next to the pool wearing a smile and watching her nieces and nephews in waterplay shenanigans, reclined in a chair on the sand, relaxing, reading, drinking white wine of the chilled variety.
As we parted ways that night, we didn't think we would encounter Aunt Dana again...not this side of heaven, anyway. But her nurse let me know early the next morning she had made it through the night. Blair and I headed back to the parking lot we'd left less than twelve hours prior.
We talked to her peacefully resting frame, fielded questions from nurses and family members, and stood as vessels of telephone farewells from those who knew and loved her most.
As early afternoon began making its way toward evening, and after verifying that she was resting comfortably, we stepped away to grab a bite. We ate; we laughed. I dogged Blair for spilling ketchup on her shirt. We finished up and made the trek back assuming we were in for hours of more sitting and waiting.
Aunt Dana always did her own thing, so I guess I shouldn't have been as surprised as I was when I barely stepped into the room and could tell she was no longer there. Her body was, of course, but not her spirit. The room was not filled the same way it was when we left. Even the air was different. That's how remarkable she was. We called everyone who needed called, stuck around for logistical purposes, and then eventually parted ways again as the day drew to a close. I will never know why she left when she did that day--during the 15 minutes we were away from her--but I suspect it had everything to do with not wanting us to witness it, her exit from this life and entry into the next. After all, she never did want to upset or inconvenience anyone.
Flash forward 3 months, and I find myself on the other side of a non-goodbye--this time to one of my dearly beloved parishioners. Interestingly enough, Ms May reminded me a lot of my maternal grandmother, Dana's mom. Because of this similarity, I had a soft spot in my heart for her from the moment we met. She'd been wrought with a myriad of health issues in the past year or so. Her body just couldn't take any more. When they felt confident she had begun the process of transitioning, I called the hospital to see if I'd be allowed inside to see her. "I'm sorry, we're not allowing in visitors," the person on the other end of the phone replied. I hung up feeling stuck, grieved before she'd ever left for her eternal home. I could not do the one thing I was supposed to: be with her. After all the times she'd been there for me--to welcome me into her home, to tell me her stories, to send me a card in the mail, to give a thoughtful gift to my son, to make me laugh, to let me know time and time again how loved I was by her. I can only hope she knew that truth in my heart for her as well. Less than twenty four hours later, I received the call letting me know she was gone.
I don't typically struggle with death--at least not in an all-consuming way. I hold a firm hope in that the end of our earthly life is not the end of our life in its entirety. I have hope that God restores us in full and that we will see each other again. But not being able to say goodbye puts just a bit of that sting back into death, which God's triumph over the grave in Jesus Christ removed.
I guess I share all this to say that--especially in light of this season wrought with illness and grief, of meanness and spite--I hope we will treasure and care for the lives of the living among us. Both of our loved ones and of strangers alike. Will we take the time to show them all our appreciation? Will we make the effort to be kind? Will we do whatever we possibly can to show our love to everyone and hopefully in doing so show, too, the love of the One who made us all?
That Love that permeates and endures and perseveres over all suffering, both now and eventually...
With God's help, I sure hope and pray it will be so. Love all y'all.
Peace,
Pastor Mary Kate
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