I thought I was going to die.
So I sat in my white rocker on the grey front porch of our 105-year-old ancestral cottage home -- because I could. And I loved every minute of it. Every sight, every sound, every smell. The touch of the breeze whistling through the two tall pines as the sun shone through them, leaving shadowed candy-cane stripes on the green lawn. The zooming of the traffic traveling to and from Walter’s Pharmacy on the other side of our hand-carved white picket fence. The faint fruity fragrance from the pink Belinda’s dream roses in my garden that Ian had recently resurrected from neglect. For that one life-exploding moment, I was overwhelmed with the vibrant, energizing, grateful feeling of being fully alive, luxuriating and delighting in the gift of life. Because I could.
Life with its noise and clamor and clatter, but also its stillness. The hush. The silence. The sweet sound of tranquility surrounding me. And the peaceful beauty of listening in the quiet for the soft whisper of God in my softened heart. Not hearing him, but knowing he was there. His touch on my soul more powerful than any sight or smell or sound. His grip on my life more comforting than any daily permanence around.
Birth and death are two absolutes for us all, but for me the powerful days between a CAT scan and scopes and suspicious areas in my throat and then surgery and a surgeon’s smile and a sigh when hearing the benign report, I lived a full, grateful, blessed life.
I remember sitting with Ian the Sunday before my surgery and listening to Pastor Stutes as he described the servants’ reaction when they realized Jesus had turned the water to wine before their very eyes. Their only reaction to what Jesus could do was amazement! And I was amazed, too, as the Bible verse “stand in awe of God” crossed my heart as He spoke to me in the church pew just as He had on my front porch. And I joined the servants, amazed at what God can do because of who He is. And grateful for the gift of the day, a thankful time to “stand in awe” as God orchestrates the world, yet keeps a profound grip on each one of our lives. Really, really amazing, our God.
And I remember singing the lovely hymns I had grown up singing – “Lead on, Oh King Eternal” and “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms,” two songs which once seemed ancient, but now seemingly sung just to me, and I thought, “If you’re leading me home, Lord, continue to fill me each day with an expectant amazement of what I’m going to see -- excitement about seeing Jesus face to face, the throne which will defy my earthly imagination, the thrill of seeing Daddy after 45 years, the delight of a life that will surpass the wonderful one I’ve already known, and your own unfathomable love for me.” God, who sets “eternity in the human heart,” gives gifts that “will endure forever.” And I worshiped through song. Because I could.
Yet in the midst of my peace, I also remember emotionally scribbling a note to Ian -- “I’m scared” -- and my strong husband immediately inserting “not” in the middle of those two words. My husband’s strength is another gift for which I’m grateful. I love that we were friends before we married, and I love that we still are. I love that he holds my hand even after 33 years and opens my door almost every time we get in a car. I love that we were wild and crazy when we were younger and now firmly committed to God in our later years. I made a lot of mistakes in my youth, but Ian Edward Bader was not one of them, and I appreciate many things about him. A man who avoids idle chit-chat, he said exactly the right word to me that day: one small word which was another way God brought me deep peace. And I remember thanking God for the gift of Ian, who would continue to hold my hand through the worst of whatever might come.
I prayed and pondered during those powerful days before my surgical procedure, and God answered my prayers. And as the days drew closer to the operating room, I kept imagining Jesus and all those angels. Defies imagination, really. God filled me with the excitement of expectation and kept the fear of pain at bay. Dying doesn’t scare me; pain does. And I wanted to do it right, and I remember praying that prayer, too: “Lord, if this is it, help me to do it right. To bring glory to you.” That was the legacy I wanted to leave behind for my kids. And I also prayed passionately for Ian and Reid and Will and Melissa and those I love so much. I didn’t want to waste time regretting what I might miss, but spend my time praying for those who would miss me. Somehow, God is able to keep us from missing out on what we think we’ll miss. I don’t know how, but I know He can do it. And we’ll be amazed, just like the servants, when we arrive in His Presence and see for ourselves. So I prayed a lot. Because I could.
And for a woman who doesn’t sleep, I slept. And dreamed contentedly. So maybe a little of that was the prescribed Valium, but I slept! Because I could.
When a specialist tells you there are areas that need to be biopsied because they are suspicious, you get suspicious about what he is not saying. You keep a stiff upper lift, but also a stiff upper back, refusing to slouch, refusing to give in to a heaviness that threatens to weigh you down. But you wonder and worry and wait, and you pretend you’re not doing any of those things. But I learned that you also pray like you’ve never prayed before – not simply for healing, but because you can. And you ask others to pray for you, too, because God gifts us with the presence of each other. Because He can.
With God’s gracious gift of benign results, I’ve stopped pouring Tide in the Clorox dispenser and putting on two bras at the same time! I’ve stopped leaving the dog on the front porch instead of in his pen, and I’ve quit talking about putting the dishes in my electric rollers. The preoccupation I was carrying around has faded somewhat even though my normal crazy behavior remains. But my changed prayers continue.
I pray that I’ll be more sensitive to worried faces and moist eyes and bitten lips. That I’ll watch for quivering chins and avoided glances and distracted friends, and that I’ll stop rushing by others without touching a shoulder or patting a back or smiling from my heart. That I’ll also respond with sincerity to a face book posting or an email prayer request. I pray I’ll be more aware of those who are struggling to rejoice for the good fortune of friends when their own future looks distressingly glum. I pray to pay more attention. Because I can.
For a few days, I thought my time was up.
But with the strange melancholy that accompanied those days came a lovely and accepting peace. With the flood of memories, an inundation of gratefulness. With the fullness of the moment, a reminder that we have a specific number of days to accomplish what God would have us do on this earth. And those days are a gift – a time to learn what peace can be, a time to trust God more than our own emotions, a time to live better and more appreciatively. A time to stay utterly enchanted with God and the worlds he created – the one now and the one to come.
I’m going to die. Maybe not today or tomorrow or next week, but I will die eventually. And I pray that I live my remaining years firmly facing forward in the direction of God’s grace more than I ever have before. More grateful for the moment, making the most of the gift of each day. Loving and praying and celebrating life the way God meant for it to be lived. Because I can.
The Belinda’s dream rose petals are fluttering through the garden right now, scattered by the wind which will always remind me of that morning I rocked on my front porch simply glad to be alive.
Because I could.
God has set eternity in our hearts.
(Ecclesiastes 3:11).