The Past–It’s Good to Remember

We were sitting on the sofa, in front of a cozy fire this morning. As usual, I had our prayer journal in front of us. Out of habit, I write down the date, what the weather’s like, and what we will pray for that particular day.

“You know what day it is today?” I turned to my husband, Jim, taking a sip of coffee.

“Yes, I think I do,” he said, “Isn’t it the day Bill died?”

“Yes. It’s even the same day of the week, a Friday. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that day.” I sighed.

Jim reached over and stroked my arm in sympathy. “What was it like?”

This wasn’t the first time I’d re-lived one of the hardest days of my life. In fact, the first time Jim and I met in that Starbucks on our first coffee date, we each shared our grief stories.

We both have been through many losses and that’s one of the reasons we connected so quickly with each other. We understood the terrible loss of a mate. In my case it was two mates. We both understood the loss of a child. In his case, it was his 31 year old daughter. In mine, a still-born daughter. That’s also why we feel so compelled to help others going through loss. We wade through others’ pain with them as they tell and re-tell their stories.

When I recount my losses it’s usually quite matter-of-fact, I’ve repeated my story so many times. I like how I told the story in my book:

“Your husband’s situation is grave,” the physician in
charge told me. Family and friends quickly gathered, including
Todd, who had reached Kansas only to jump back on a plane to
Portland. The neurosurgeon from Kaiser looked at the CT scans.
Her news was not good.

“I am so sorry. There’s been a lot of hemorrhaging. I’m afraid there is extensive brain damage.”

We waited. We hoped. Our church elders circled us. I prayed, “Please heal him. Or take him. Don’t let me have to choose life or death for him. Please.”
“Go home and get some rest,” directed the ICU physician. “Your husband is running a fever and we are making him comfortable.” He went on to tell us, “The tests have revealed there isn’t as much brain damage as we earlier thought.”

At home it was scrambled eggs, French bread, and salad for me, Erika, Trent, baby Emily, and Todd.

At midnight, I was awakened. I began to pray for Bill, a voice in my head reciting Psalm 23. This time it flowed perfectly, as though someone were reciting it to me. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the 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; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me. Thou prepares a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. (Psalm 23 KJV)

I dropped back to sleep until the phone woke me up at 1:30 A.M. It was Bill’s ICU nurse. We needed to come quickly.

He lay there in the dim light with his eyes closed, a tube in his mouth snaking down his windpipe taped securely to his face. I hated that I couldn’t kiss his lips. The only sounds were the hiss, sigh, hiss, sigh, of the ventilator. The beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor. Michael, Bill’s nurse, hovered in the background. I sat down beside Bill’s bed, feeling the weight of forty years of memories: happy, sad, beautiful, terrible. “I remember the first time I met you,” I told him softly. “You seemed so confident, so old. After all, you were three years older than me and out of high school. Every time I saw you, my heart would beat a little faster. You were my man!”

I heard Michael chuckle in the background. I went on. “You were always my love. Yes, we had our troubles, but we made it work.” I smiled at Bill, squeezing his hand. I searched my heart for scripture, doing all I could to ease fear in Bill’s heart. I began quoting Bible verses, infusing my voice with every drop of love and comfort that I could. The nurse had said that the sense of hearing was the last to go. I wanted Bill to hear me now and be comforted.
Distracted by the beeps, I looked up at the monitors, the ever present numbers. “Oh no! Look!” I gasped.

“Don’t look at those,” Todd gently said in a low voice.
Erika was on the other side of the bed. She choked, “Dad, I
love you very much. Thank you for being such a good dad and
grandpa. It was so evident you loved my kids. You did it right.”

She and Todd traded places. “I’m right here, Dad. I love you….”

Somehow we knew it would be the last time we would talk to him this side of heaven. I glanced around the room, and there was Paul, our pastor. Who called him? I wondered. He nodded to me. I kept my concentration on my dying husband and sang: “Fear not, for I am with you; do not be afraid (see Isa. 41:10). Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me.”

At 3:00 A.M., I looked at his dear face, strangely gray. Erika noticed it too. And then Michael said, “He’s gone.” And the family he loved so much had to fi gure out how to live without his commanding presence.

I don’t know how we got home. The world was strange, different, cold. We pulled into the garage, and I drew in a breath sharply. There in the shadows I saw the form of my husband, standing in the corner. I took a second glance. It was only Bill’s waders—that wrinkled pair of fi shing pants right where they’d been left after a duck hunting expedition one year earlier. He’ll never wear those waders again, I thought.

“Erika,” Todd said, “would you sleep with Mom so she doesn’t have to be alone?” He pointed and rattled off instructions. “I’ll sleep on the couch and Trent can have the guest bed.” I blinked in amazement. He was now the family leader.

I fell asleep, chastising myself in my dreams. How can I fall asleep when such a terrible thing has happened? After a few hours, I awoke and heard a robin singing. The robins are coming back. And then, it came crushingly back. Bill was gone, never to return. The tears flowed unendingly.

from Second Chances At Life, and Love, With Hope, copyright 2012

https://redemption-press.com/shop/product/21986

Jim got out the DVD with the photo slide show we had at Bill’s memorial service, and we watched it together this morning. The background music was a jazzy version of “The Old Rugged Cross.” As the photographs slid slowly on the screen, starting at the beginning of Bill’s life when he was a toddler, they changed as he grew. There was our wedding day, our first baby, then second baby. Our grandchildren. Bill loved his children and his grands. He loved his dog. He was proud of his accomplishments.

There were many photos of him holding them when they were babies, and a few when they were older. Unfortunately, they were all quite young when he died. There was only one photo of his youngest grand-girl, Emily, and I can’t find it today.

Bill loved life. He was a journeyman machinist, manufacturing engineer, pilot. He rode motorcycles, was a commercial fisherman and loved hunting big game and ducks. He raced cars, a hiker and mountain climber–dozens of them–and taught others to climb. He trained dogs and competed in hunt tests. He was the consummate student. When he learned one thing, he’d go on to the next, learn it well–and often share his knowledge with others.

Though I’ve worked my way on the road of grief to the other side, there are still tears of sadness at times. Like when I see the photo of him measuring something. He was always very accurate in measuring and cutting.

My throat thickens when I see the photo of him flying an airplane. We flew many miles in the Hot-to-Go together. He in the front of the tandem style airplane, me in the rear. I snapped a photo once when I sat in the back and when I see that photo now, it brings back wonderful memories, but also the realization I’ll never see the back of his head again–this side of eternity.

I believe Bill would  mostly want to be remembered for his faith in his Savior, Jesus Christ. In the last six months of his life, he was in such pain, he could only think and pray and I know his relationship with God became very strong during those long difficult days where he waited to be healed. He has now experienced the ultimate healing–he’s in Heaven with his Heavenly Father–and that’s what’s most important.

I’m so grateful for Bill and the life he lived. I’m sorry his younger grands don’t remember much about him, but I know they will see him again one day, and have plenty of time to catch up. Bill is whole and healthy and happy.

I’m so glad I married you, Bill Rudberg. We had a good life. And we’ll see each again.

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