Yearly Archives: 2010

One Year Ago: A photo speaks.

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A picture is, indeed, worth a thousand words. I’ve been drawn back to the photographs from the days when Nate was sick, and the one I’ve posted here has disturbed me greatly. I’ve been tempted to delete it. But after a loved one has died and additional pictures are impossible, deleting in not easy.

Today I studied this frame for a long time, trying to define what disturbs me so. What would a stranger say about it? Would it be equally upsetting to someone who didn’t know us?

Two of the thousand words it would speak to anybody are, “Deathly ill.”

It also shows that this crisis is unfolding in a home where others are healthy, which might be what is so unsettling. Placing healthy so close to terminally ill might be the classic definition of life-is-unfair.

All of us come into life with a definition of fair and unfair, and we bristle at the picture of one person being singled out of many to suffer intensely. There were 13 of us living together at the time this photo was taken, and I don’t recall who had the camera. I only saw the picture for the first time many weeks after Nate had died. But I do remember that as the photo was being taken, I felt warmth and joy in holding onto a vibrant one year old, especially so because a life-and-death war was raging right behind me. So several more of the thousand words this picture could speak would be, “Death is taking, but life is still giving.”

Nate’s face is turned slightly toward Skylar and me. Although none of us saw him move voluntarily during these last days, and although he was sleeping deeply, no matter how we moved him, bathed him or adjusted his pillow, when we looked again, he was turned toward my “station” at the head of his bed.

So I choose to hear the picture say, “Nate is aware of you nearby and comforted by that.” I also hear, “The wait is almost over,” which applies most importantly to his.

There’s something else the photograph says. Because three of us are in the picture, it means ten family members are busy elsewhere. Although Nate didn’t beat his disease, cancer didn’t take the rest of us down, too, which is a credit to the Lord. The devil is all about disease and death, but Jesus always has the final say.

This picture was taken two days before Nate slipped away from the bondage of pain-ridden illness and entered a hale-and-hearty freedom the likes of which no photograph can describe. Although Skylar and I have continued to enjoy earthly health, Nate blew past us, achieving fitness and well-being beyond our understanding. And because of that, there’s one more word the picture says:

TRIUMPH!

“You have delivered me from all my troubles, and my eyes have looked in triumph on my foes.” (Psalm 54:7)

Marking a Grave

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During the year since Nate died, I’ve visited the cemetery four times. Today we went again, but this time it wasn’t just to stand and think, or even to talk about Nate. Our purpose was to decide on a grave marker. Not to have taken care of this important task in 12 months borders on neglect. The words “unmarked grave” hint that nobody cares, which is the opposite of reality. We care deeply.

Linnea, with 9 month old Micah Nathan, had come north from Florida to be with us this week as we pass Nate’s death date for the first time (November 3). The two of them, plus Nelson and I, drove the 95 miles to Rosehill Cemetery in Chicago and met with a monument representative to discuss the details. But first, the four of us went to Nate’s grave and stood next to the still-fresh-looking strip of sod on the spot where he’s buried.

In the many visits our extended family has made to this set of ten graves in past decades, important words have been spoken, sometimes on balmy spring days and other times into icy winter winds. Small talk and silly chatter have no place in cemeteries, and we’ve found that people either say something valuable or nothing at all. Today was no different.

While Micah crawled among the oak leaves, Nelson, Linnea and I talked about Nate, their “Papa”, and what a dynamic husband and father he was. He worked hard for our benefit and served us rather than himself, 100% of the time. Because of his debilitating back problems and the dreadful cancer coming on top of that, we acknowledged that God’s decision to remove him from this world was a first-rate one…. for Nate. For the rest of us, it was last choice, bringing a set of adjustments we’ll probably never stop making.

As we talked about headstone design, we studied other markers. Letters and numbers carved in stone told sad stories: a 20 year old wife, a two year old child, a new baby. Although our sorrow is great, it’s virtually universal.

Even on our family’s headstone, the marker that’s been there since 1911 and lists seven relatives including my parents, the dates reveal great pain: William, a baby who died of pneumonia at 20 months, and his mother, my grandmother, dying of TB about a year later, leaving three young children. Death touches us all.

Before we left, we all prayed, thanking God, through tears, for Nate and for the Lord’s tenderness toward us. I thought of Memorial Day next spring, when our whole family will return to these graves to honor those who’ve gone before us, including Nate. It was uplifting to think of children in future generations who may continue the tradition, coming to Rosehill to stand at the family plot and study the headstones. We prayed for them, too, that their hearts would turn toward the One who has the keys to life, death and eternity.

We decided Nate’s grave marker will match the Johnson stone already in place, and will have my name on it, too, as an indication that all ten graves are unified in one earthly family.

One day we’ll all be unified as a heavenly family, too, far from the cemetery, alive and well in our heavenly home.

“In keeping with [God’s] promise we are looking forward to a new heaven and a new earth, the home of righteousness.” (1 Peter 3:13)

One Year Ago: Nate’s Fear

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Last year on this date, Nate spoke the words, “I’m afraid.”

We didn’t realize he was only four days from his death, although all of us knew the cancer would claim his life in the not-too-distant future. Nate knew it, too, but he was still walking, talking and clinging to the semblance of a routine at our house. Forty-eight hours from that day he would climb into bed for the last time, but none of us thought we were that close.

My calendar says Nate took his daily walk down our quiet lane that day along with several of us and his cane, but none of us knew it would be his last outing. By the following day he could no longer support himself on his weakened legs without a son on each side, although he kept trying, cause for great concern among the rest if us.

It was late afternoon when Nate whispered to me in a raspy voice that he was afraid. He said it twice. I thought the reality of death approaching was what had put fear in his heart, but he said no, it was fear of the pain. He’d been in severe pain for so long, particularly those last few days, that he knew he couldn’t handle an increase.

At that point we both realized he needed better pain meds. Hospice nurses responded with morphine, and Nate’s body responded with relief. It was a relief for all of us. Earlier in the day, Nelson had told his father, “You know I’d do anything for you, Papa.” We all felt that way. The sad truth was we were out of options. Radiation had done what it could, and chemo wasn’t even on the table. A team of learned doctors had concluded their treatment, and Nate’s life would soon end. The only task left was to manage what seemed like pain run rampant, and the Hospice nurses said they would do that.

Death will come to 100% of us, and it will most likely be preceded by pain. We may not all suffer from cancer and may have less or more than 42 days of warning, but in the end, we’ll all die a physical death. Many of us worry about what that might be: an accident? a disease? an infection? These are question marks without answers until we get there.

Nate needn’t have worried. He had one more difficult day, after which the morphine overwhelmed his pain completely and brought peaceful sleep. But what about the rest of us? Our question marks remain, a test for how thoroughly we can trust God to set it up just right for us.

For now, though,  it’s better that we not know.

“God shall wipe away all tears….  and there shall be no more…. pain.” (Revelation 21:4)