Words of Expectant Hope

Almost 25 years ago, a couple knocked on our door—and the doors of our hearts—with a box of warm Kristy Kreme doughnuts and an announcement that we were going to be fast friends. Three days ago, I held this dear friend’s hand for the last time. I wasn't ready to say goodbye.

Our friendship over the years was complicated and complex... deep, and fierce, and fragile at times. We were like family. We loved, and served, and forgave each other, through much of life’s struggle and fear and joy and pain. At times, we hurt each other deeply. There was judgment, and misunderstanding, and betrayal, and anger. But there was also faithfulness, and commitment, and a steadfast clinging to the pursuit of unity in Christ. We grew up together. We matured together. We knew each other through every iteration of pride and judgment and arrogance, and yet we somehow made a way to find the best in each other and presume a heart of good will from each other. We served one another, at times selflessly and without thanks, and in the end we found that none was needed... not really.

Since that day many years ago when my friend shared with us that she may have found a lump in her breast, I have prayed for her body, and her family, and her spirit. When she needed to turn the chairs inward and fight this battle without me for a time, I prayed. And trusted. And served. And waited. Restoration and reconciliation—though incomplete this side of heaven—are beautiful to behold, and even more beautiful to live.

This valiant warrior was never more lovely to me than the day I took the clippers to her beautiful raven hair, watching it fall to the ground in waves, like my tears. She is the bravest woman I have ever known, battling this scourge that sought to defeat her body for so many long, painful, wearying years.

I have been preparing my heart for some time that she might be called to leave us some day way too early, even as I desperately hoped that our faithful God—whom I knew could—would choose to heal her. She knew it, too, and hoped it to the bitter end, even as she gave us all the strength to trust along with her that He does all things well.

Even on the day that He called her home to be with Him—her body struggling to breathe and her mind no longer able to grasp our presence with her—she called upon the name of her faithful God to help her. I want faith like that, like my dear friend Darla’s... faith that is so deeply woven into my very being that it clings to my soul and spirit, even as conscious thought and communication have failed... and that erupts from my lips in words of dependence and expectant hope and trust, when all other words have been said. "Help me. God, help me."

My dear friend, I am so grateful that I got to spend those several hours with you just before He called you home. It was a blessing—to me—to speak to you, even though I wasn't necessarily sure that you could hear me or know what I was saying. I do believe our human spirits perceive, in some sort of awareness and communion and fellowship... and that our heavenly spirits know and understand things that our conscious minds can no longer grasp. I'm so glad I got to tell you one last time what a good wife you were, what a good mom. To hold your hand and touch your arm and stroke your beautiful hair. To thank you for your faithful friendship. To assure you that we would take care of Ken and the kids. To tell you that it was safe for you to go. That you had fought such a brave, good fight... that you were almost home. To quote to you the 23rd Psalm... which would have seemed trite had the words not felt so perfectly right and true. Those are the words He gave me, so those are the words I gave you. The Lord is my Shepherd. Green pastures. Still waters. The valley of the shadow of death. I will not fear. Thou art with me. Guides my path. A table before me. Goodness and lovingkindness. I will dwell in the house of the Lord. Forever and ever.

It was a privilege and an honor to share those sacred moments alone with you, and then to witness your sweet Kathryn and your precious Ken as they reached out to hold your hand or touch your arm in your restlessness—"I'm here, my sweetheart. What do you need, my love? I'm right here"—and to see you settle down, comforted and quieted.

"This is part of the deal," Ken had told me. "This is what we sign up for, on our wedding day. 'Till death do us part.' It's hidden there, in plain sight, right in our wedding vows." I witnessed the most sacred of things in that room that day... the palpable love of a man for his wife—flawed and human, yes, but sacred and powerful and astonishing... wild, and fierce, and rearing its head to be sure it was known and perceived until the very last breath.

Well done, good and faithful one. So very well done!

I am so glad that you are now in heaven, dear Darla, where there is no pain or sorrow or cancer. I wish I could have loved you better. I wasn't ready to be finished learning to love you well. I miss you. The world is less beautiful without you in it. Your beautiful voice is missing as I worship. But I know that you are now “absent from the body and at home with the Lord,” and I can only imagine the glories in which you now live. And from which you now sing.

I look forward to our reunion in heaven, where there are no tears or pain or ability to misunderstand or hurt one another ever again. So go ride your horse in the horse corner of heaven, my sweet friend. I'll see you soon...