In Memoriam

That Christmas morning began differently, but only because of our age. We slept in, chatted in the bathroom with my sisters-in-law, and told Christmas eve tales. Our celebration with the Holmes clan was full of singing, food, twinkling lights, and the spinning of memories. And while gifts are not usually defining to these holidays for me, my grandfather's offerings of some cherished family relics, bequeathed to the newly-weds in Arizona and California, left a feeling of tradition and of blessed connection with the generations in my mind. Our family service that night was full of old strains. Lyrics and chords that out-dated the men beside us who had stolen our hearts and replaced our last names. Grandpa chimed in across the room, resonant bass notes joining with those of my 6'2” little brother. We sang, we worshiped, we laughed. We proclaimed glory to the newborn king, born again in our hearts, a fresh reminder of the Peace he brought between God and man for all eternity.

Peace, peace, bearer of peace
Men of goodwill receive Him
Holiest of nights, oh most wondrous of days
Shepherds and kings lift their voices in praise
Join in the chorus His praises sing
Glory to God, to the newly born King

It's a cruel thing for a Christmas celebration to be interrupted before it begins by your husband's deep eyes and solemn tone with a phone in his hands. “Let's go sit down” never implies coming peace. The heart races a bit as you take in the words, having difficulty comprehending their meanings. “At the hospital with Grandpa.” “Went for a walk...” “Unconscious...” “heart is beating on its own again.” We chew on delicious cinnamon rolls and attempt to direct the conversation away from the hospital for a half hour, but soon realize that there is no hope of a normal day. We climb in the car somewhat resistant, as if arriving on the scene would make the situation real. The roads pass slowly, the hallways are long, and the faces are tear stained as we enter. The doctors speak with compassion, even pain behind their eyes. “I'm just so sorry, we are going to do everything we can.”

The next few days are a blur. There is a strange thing that happens to time in the ICU waiting room. You sit and stare at the wall through every agonizing minute, making small talk with cousins and munching on food brought by thoughtful friends, and yet the hours speed by. And you discover the great mercy that worry and tears seem to flow fluidly into memories and gentle teasing, which give way again to silence. There seems to be no emotion which fails to express what we feel, for each in it's own way is true...and necessary.

Gradually, the pieces fall together. Grandpa had gone for his daily 2 mile walk that morning and never come home. When a jogger spotted him she ran for the nearest house and called paramedics, who revived his pulse-less body on the scene. Every test was run, every scan performed, history questions came in waves every few minutes. No stroke. No heart attack. No blood clots. In fact, his only true physical irregularities seemed to be residual. 8 fractured ribs, 2 displaced fractures of his c-spine, and a low potassium level. For 36 hours the doctors tried to keep his body cool enough to lessen or reverse the spinal damage, while attempting to control blood pressure and pulse rates. We took shifts watching his bedside, speaking to his body, squeezing his strong but limp hands, watching Grandma attempt to perceive this shocking reality, and listening to her quote to him the scripture she repeats every night before she falls asleep.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
He makes me to lie down in green pastures
He leads me beside quiet waters
He restores my soul.
He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.
You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies
My cup runs over
Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life
and afterward I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

As the hours stretched into days, the doctors confirmed what we already knew. Seizures and posturing showed evidence of irreversible damage, EEG's showed no normal brain waves. Mercy shown again as all test results conclusively gave us answers. There was to be no playing God, for the sovereign decision had already been made. That morning, we gathered around his bed, closed the door to his room, and sang every old hymn we could think of. Tears flowed, generations locked arms, eyes met and locked and fell again. There were no need for words to describe the significance of this moment, even to it's youngest member. To see the end, to glimpse the portal that spans time and eternity, to worship in relatively miniscule sonar as the number in the heavenly chorus grows...this is what man was made for. This is the presence of holiness. This pain is the passageway to completion. What we left behind us that day was mere flesh. Who he was is now a memory. What we are awaiting and striving for in this life has never been more clear.

This weekend, I found myself home again, 2 months to the day since Grandpa's home-going. I found my eyes often drawn out the window where the bike trail is silhouetted against the snowy ground. My mind returns to his joy while we sat and talked together in this very room, to his tears as he said the blessing before our evening meal, to his efforts to downplay one of the most beautiful gifts I have ever been given. I curl up in the bed where he spent his last night on earth, and closing my eyes, years of science experiments, twinkling eyes, and spiritual guidance come rushing back to me. And singing...there was always singing.

Family friends bequeathed my mom with the most lovely set of wind chimes, from which hangs an etched sign that reads “In loving memory of Robert James.” As the invisible breezes engage the instrument in dance, its tone haunts and illustrates both our grief and our joy. The soundtrack, it seems, should not settle so well into both stories. But life, both the living and the ending of it, houses the same truths universally and eternally. Mercy and pain are tools of equal value, and analogous purpose in the hands of a loving God.

Change will follow. As will new life, and true love, and tragedy. And death will find us again. What ebbs and flows in and out of this life is as unpredictable as it is beautiful. Without it, our time here has no meaning. May our eyes be more and more open as the Day approaches.

Peace, peace, wonderful peace
Peace to the world is given