The Abyss that Wasn’t

It was 2:00 in the morning on Oct. 2. Somehow I had fallen asleep in the hospital recliner while Kevin lay next to me, peacefully dying. That sounds so trite, and indeed that's how it felt. The weight of what was actually happening hadn't kicked in. But he lay there so peaceful, easy breaths coming every so often. I had been in such a deep sleep, and there was no sound around me, so I was amazed that I had even woken up. I would later know that Jesus had woken me up so that I could say goodbye one last time. At 2:20, Kevin took his last breath, and I watched the pulse in his neck slowly fade away until at last it was gone. Instantly, he looked 20 years younger. With his head bent toward me, his face was once again the man I married. I called his sister, Renee, in Georgia and let her know. She gave me this incredible picture:

Imagine standing on the shoreline of earth with a boat waiting to take you across to the opposite shoreline, heaven. Now imagine all of your family and friends on earth sadly waving goodbye and, as you start your journey across the sea, you hear them say, "There he goes!" Now imagine the opposite shoreline of heaven. Imagine all of the friends and family who have gone before standing on that shoreline. Their view is quite different! Off in the distance, they see a boat coming and you hear them shout, "Here he comes!"

This gave me so much comfort in that moment!! 

I hung up the phone and looked at my sweet husband. I kissed his forehead, stroked his hair, and whispered, "I'll love you forever." Now came the impossible task of walking out of the hospital room, knowing I was leaving him for the last time. All of the hospital stays before now, I always returned. Not this time. And I knew it. I walked out, then immediately walked back in. Standing beside him for a minute, I tried again. This time I told myself to "just take the next step." I made it to the nurse's station. Both nurses immediately stood up (I thought that was so incredibly respectful). I told them I was leaving, and this time I made it all the way out of the hospital. I thought, "Well, here we go. My worst fear came true. Now I'm standing on the edge of a huge abyss that I know is going to get really dark and ugly. He's dead, and in amazing bliss right now, and I'm here having to pick up the pieces with a shattered heart. Super." The sarcasm was a little surprising to me. I'm not normally one who deals with hard stuff with sarcasm, but it actually helped a little.

Over the next several weeks, I was actually pretty happy that Kevin was with Jesus. After 7 years of watching him suffer, I felt relief and joy for him, and for me. I had wanted his suffering to end. Not in the way it did, but I wanted it to end. I felt guilty for feeling happy that he had died. When I talked to a pastor friend about it, he said that was normal as I was just relieved the suffering was over. I felt this relief for quite a while. 

And then the abyss showed up. 

It showed up over several nights after I tucked the kids in bed. Sitting or laying in the silence without him, I suddenly realized that the amazing man I married...the one who proved to me over time that he was a man of integrity, the one who moved across the continent for me, the one who insisted on letting me off right in front of the McDonald's so he could make sure I was safe instead of parking further away, the one who worked hard to provide for us while enduring the side effects of chemo, the one who patiently watched while I stomped around the house rage-cleaning in order to keep some sort of order out of the chaos, the one who knew every truth about me and still adored me, the one I waited 37 years for...

....was gone.

I realized that there will never be another Kevin. Sure, he hadn't actually died. In fact, he was more alive now than he ever was here. But I don't get to experience him anymore until I go to heaven. I don't get to share our favorite inside jokes with him. I don't get to text him or receive his texts, I don't get to hug his neck the way only I could. I don't get to tell him "you're my 'me'" (which we had started years ago as a way of telling each other that we were one). My heart hit the bottom of the abyss. I remember sitting there thinking "Well, here I am. (Again, the sarcasm...weird). It doesn't get much worse than this. Here is where the horrid is. Here is where I have to face that the person I had the deepest connection to is no longer here...for the rest of my life." And the deep sobs came.

But you know what happened then?

As soon as I felt the bottom, the comfort of Jesus was there! Jesus is in the abyss! And it's not just his person...it's his comfort, his hope. I felt and knew that I was going to be ok. That no matter how many gut-wrenching, widow-sobbing times I found myself in the abyss, he would be right there with me, sitting in it, and actually turning it into something very good. It's the abyss that wasn't. And it reminds me that this is true for all of life, not just when we are in the pit. It's for ALL the hard stuff. I'm not for a second pretending that a life with Jesus is all bliss...as if the hard just melts away when we chose to trust him. Actually, the opposite is true. Life can actually get harder when we choose to live for Jesus. But in some amazing way, he makes it more than fine, and actually WAAAYYY better. And one day, when he calls us home, we will understand it all.

For now, I miss my guy. I miss his heart for Jesus. I miss his music. I miss his love for our kids. But the best is yet to come.