remembering

I remember the moment in a small sitting room at the Atlanta Hospice Center. I remember it with intricate detail; it is a moment I hope I never forget. I don't know that I've told many people this story. It was only a few days ago that I wrote it myself.

I had just gotten off the phone with a dear friend I have known for almost 20 years. My family knew Bebe's time was coming soon, so I was calling Ashley to tell her that. I needed a quiet place to talk to her, so I wandered the halls until I came to what was the chapel area. Chairs were lined up in rows, begging for some sort of service to commence, inviting one to hope. The room was bright--sunlight flooded the room through the double French doors at the back of the room. The stark white walls were contrasted by the rich mahogany pews that lined them. A chaplain came in, I assume because she heard the tremor in my voice as I relayed the latest update to Ashley, 1,000 miles away. She saw I was on the phone; she smiled and left. I hung up with Ashley a few minutes later, both of us in tears, with promises to talk again within the hour. I looked around the room. Open and bright, the room was created to lift spirits and instill some sort of hope. All I could feel was a deep darkness, a death in my heart almost. I had to get out of there, so I walked across the hall to a much smaller sitting room. A short, overstuffed couch sat diagonal from an armchair, and a small wooden table held a lamp in the corner. "Perfect," I thought. "I'll sit here and let my heart crumble just a bit more." I sat on the couch and let loose; the tears flowed as if they had been dammed up for years. My head in my hands, I thought I might drown in the flood. I couldn't find the words to name the depths of the pain. "Don't take her, please don't take her," was all I could muster. I begged with God, pleaded with him to intervene. "Don't take her," I cried over and over again. After what seemed like an eternity, all I heard was "I have to."

Bebe's story came to an end two days before Thanksgiving. What kind of end, though? Her physical death was one end, but I would argue that the ending of Bebe's story was much more beautiful than that. Dan Allender writes in "To Be Told:"

An ending can be either good or bad. There are excellent novels that held my attention and moved me for hundreds of pages, only to end in a way that made me regret reading the story. Sadly, the same can be said of many "good" lives. It is not enough to live well and serve humanity, care for your family, and lead an honest life. A good ending involves much more than making a moral point or teaching a lesson. And a good ending is more than the resolution of the tragedy and tension of an exciting plot. A good ending doesn't have to be safe or nice. It only has to bring the story to fullness.

For months, a part of me has been so angry at God for saying what he said to me. He could have stopped it, he could have healed her on the spot. But now, four months later, I can see that Bebe's story had come to a fullness of ending. I'd argue that the weekend of her 80th birthday celebration was the culmination of that. Yes, Bebe died a physical death her on earth, and the quickness of her physical decline has left most of our family reeling in confusion and sorrow. However, God is using her death to bring about hope, redemption, and beauty in my story in a way that might not have happened if she was still here with us. I'm wondering if he's doing the same with others in my family as well as her closest friends.

I still miss Bebe. I miss her every day. But somehow, I'm not so angry anymore.