Dying Grace
Over the past few weeks, I've had several chances to think about helping someone die well. No, I'm not talking about taking a life. I'm referring to walking alongside a dying person, caring for them, encouraging them, and finally rejoicing when they arrive safely home. I've never actually done this at close range, but I've been listening to people who have.
Brenda Weaver, speaking at Oasis Retreat for Women, described how, in her husband's final hours, she saw his eyes open wide several times, joy clearly evident there. She would lean over and whisper into his ear, "You've almost made it." She is a nurse and knows better than some of us how acute the sense of hearing can be after many other signs of life are gone.
I've been thinking about and writing about my deceased Miller grandparents. My grandmother died of cancer at age 58 when I was six years old. She had decided not to seek treatment after her diagnosis. I remember her lying in a hospital bed in front of the picture window in the little room just off the living room. It opened into the stairway to the upstairs bedrooms. Today I remembered my mother telling us, shortly before she died, that Grandma is saying "Please let me go." She was in a lot of pain.
Grandma died early on Easter morning. My parents went to the house and stayed until after the undertaker had come and taken away her body. When they got home, Mom said that seeing Grandma's empty bed reminded her of the empty tomb. I'm not sure what I made of it then, but now I marvel at the convergence of death and the celebration of resurrection on that day. I've never heard many details of Grandma's final hours, but I know that Aunt Lizzie took very good care of her while she was sick. I can imagine that the final stage of illness was hard to watch, and the empty bed symbolized both grief and joy for Aunt Lizzie and for Grandpa.
Today in church David Y. told us about the death of his nephew, Tim Weaver, whose funeral was yesterday in Missouri. After living in debauchery for about ten years, he became ill with cancer. At some point he came back to the Lord and, in his last months, anticipated deliverance and heaven. His mother, Anna, provided care for him over a six-month time period, leaving her home in Texas to care for him in Missouri. After her last act of mothering Tim was finished, she sounded almost jubilant when she talked to David about his death. For Tim to have made it safely home was the answer to many prayers on his behalf. Tim was 31.
For every single death, multiple people need and may receive dying grace. God is that big and that merciful. I love Him for it.
Brenda Weaver, speaking at Oasis Retreat for Women, described how, in her husband's final hours, she saw his eyes open wide several times, joy clearly evident there. She would lean over and whisper into his ear, "You've almost made it." She is a nurse and knows better than some of us how acute the sense of hearing can be after many other signs of life are gone.
I've been thinking about and writing about my deceased Miller grandparents. My grandmother died of cancer at age 58 when I was six years old. She had decided not to seek treatment after her diagnosis. I remember her lying in a hospital bed in front of the picture window in the little room just off the living room. It opened into the stairway to the upstairs bedrooms. Today I remembered my mother telling us, shortly before she died, that Grandma is saying "Please let me go." She was in a lot of pain.
Grandma died early on Easter morning. My parents went to the house and stayed until after the undertaker had come and taken away her body. When they got home, Mom said that seeing Grandma's empty bed reminded her of the empty tomb. I'm not sure what I made of it then, but now I marvel at the convergence of death and the celebration of resurrection on that day. I've never heard many details of Grandma's final hours, but I know that Aunt Lizzie took very good care of her while she was sick. I can imagine that the final stage of illness was hard to watch, and the empty bed symbolized both grief and joy for Aunt Lizzie and for Grandpa.
Today in church David Y. told us about the death of his nephew, Tim Weaver, whose funeral was yesterday in Missouri. After living in debauchery for about ten years, he became ill with cancer. At some point he came back to the Lord and, in his last months, anticipated deliverance and heaven. His mother, Anna, provided care for him over a six-month time period, leaving her home in Texas to care for him in Missouri. After her last act of mothering Tim was finished, she sounded almost jubilant when she talked to David about his death. For Tim to have made it safely home was the answer to many prayers on his behalf. Tim was 31.
For every single death, multiple people need and may receive dying grace. God is that big and that merciful. I love Him for it.
posted by Mrs. I (Miriam Iwashige) at
1:02 AM
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