On life, and death

My husband's father passed into eternal life on February 16th.  That was the reason we had spent Christmas 1500 miles away: to be with him for a final holiday. We had the luxury, and the great blessing, of knowing his time was short.  He also was not a young man, but 86.  He had lived a good, full life.  The hardest part was that he was still so strong and vibrant when he was diagnosed back in October.  It still seemed like he was taken unnaturally soon.

But we were able to prepare our children, and ourselves.  Except, I now see, there is no preparing.  You have to live it out, the loss, one step at a time.  

My husband had flown down 8 days before his death and was able to say goodbye.  We had daily updates, and my husband had a plane ticket purchased to go one more time.  That ticket was never used.  I was at ballet with my little girls when I got a text: "call me when you get a chance".  I thought  it was a family orchestration text, that I'd have to dash off to get the next kid to basketball.  I heard my husband's voice on the other line: "my dad died at 8:15 this morning."

You wouldn't think it would hit you like that.  Not when you knew it would happen.  But I was shocked.  And in the middle of a waiting room full of pink tulle and moms on phones.  I took deep breaths and tried to keep the tears in.

 My sister was due any day with her fourth baby, a boy, named for an angel: Rafael, "God heals".   She happens to have two-year-old twins, and I happen to love being 30 seconds down the road from their house, so I can be on call when she's in labor.  I had to leave to make a cross-country trek for a funeral instead.

 We found a friend to keep our dog this time (best decision ever!), but took Wilma, and headed out.

 The deep snow of the midwest gave way to the scape of the southwest, one more time.

I think that long drive was healing.  Long long hours to talk, to reflect, to process, to think.  To cry.

And then, then we walked into that home.  My in-laws home.

And it felt so. very.  empty.

But there was joy.  The death had been holy.  There had been a victory--the victory of a life well-lived triumphing over death in the hope of resurrection.  There was a woman of faith, made strong by grace.  My mother-in-law, bearing the loss of her husband with incredible strength, faith, hope.

We all talked, remembered, and cried together for two days.  Then there was the funeral, and the burial.  Family members flew in from across the country.  More tears, and long long hugs.  Abundant grace.

Then something of a let-down, and a quiet after the ceremonies passed.  Sadness.  A need to buoy each other up.  To remind one another of the graces received, of the gifts and the joy and the hope.  Newfound resolve, for the days do pass, and the world doesn't wait long for those who mourn.  And we found ourselves looking at the return, just a week after we had arrived.

Back home there were rumblings of impending labor.  As we drove, there were texts.  Hopeful texts, excited texts.  Hours away from home, that final 14-hour day of driving, we received the play-by-play.  Her husband was home, my mom was on-call from work.  Now they are off, my mom had the kids.  Waiting.  Driving.

The announcement: he is here!!  A beautiful, healthy nephew!  A new life to meet, precious and fresh.

A new soul, beginning it's journey home.

We are all journeying home.