COME FORTH
Death arrived on an early morning in February. It was a deceptive morning. A bright sun gleamed through the curtains, and a cold breeze drifted through the opened window, but the birds chirped, as if they were not allowed to fly south, until they marked the Death Angel’s entrance. We ignored the melody of impending dread that fluttered through the window, we were busy making dinner arrangements. It was Valentine’s Day, February 14, a day celebrated by lovers across the world. Unbeknown to us, we were excluded from the festivities.
The Death Angel swooped into our window and put a stop to our plans. My love was pushed out of bed. With a loud thump, he landed on the floor and lost all movement on his right side. I rushed to where he’d fallen, helped him out of the corner and propped him up against the wall, so that he didn’t wobble over. It was then the handwriting came across the wall, but I put on rose-colored shades, blinded the red writing from sight. When he cast his round helpless on me and said, “Babe, it is finished.” I refused to listen. Instead I called the ambulance. “You’ll be just fine,” were the words I repeated over and over and like the men that carried the man with the palsy, I was determined to do everything in my power to get him to the place, where his life could be saved. I just knew the healthcare industry was going to assist in this feat. I thought the medical professionals held the balm of Gilead. They purported to possess the power to repair and restore. Surely, they would delivery him from this affliction. I just needed to get him to that place, even if it meant tearing the roof off the hospital’s foundation.
I never thought my fight was with the divine. I never once imagined that God would allow me to be plunged into a black cistern. The police and the paramedics came and after assessed the severity of the situation, they rushed the stretcher that held him out the front door. I followed behind, stepped outside into the sunshine. The great, big sky was bright and blue, the clouds where white and fluffy, they stared down on us as if they were rejoicing with the other angels. My mind registered darkness and pain. I was in the pit of despair unable to comprehend the magnitude of the situation. Unable to decipher reality.
I was stunned, shocked by what was happening, but tears failed me. I didn’t shed one. In those moments I put on my wife’s cloak. The cloak I’d hidden since the day we had taken that solemn oath, before God and the Minster: the promise to love one another in sickness and in health. I had fooled myself into believing I put that cloak on after I unfastened my white gown and removed the tiara from the top of my head. But that’s not how things work. We don’t dress for this role or assume position until the time comes to make decisions only a wife in battle could make. Decision of life or death. We say, “I love you in sickness and in health,” and we enjoy those years of health. Those years of being together on one accord, loving and laughing; we never realize this promise does not manifest until sickness strikes.
When he reached the hospital, the staff didn’t waste a single moment to prepare him for surgery. There was no time for small things, but we were afforded one final interaction, our last cognitive interaction. A brief second. While they prepped him for surgery, he repeated, “my wife—my wife.” When the nurse saw me enter the doors, she said, “she’s right here.” He turned his head and after he saw my face, he reached out his left hand and grabbed hold of mine. We stared at one another and dwelled in the space for one last moment in time. It ended when the nurse pushed him forward. He held on, my hand locked into his, until we lost reach.
There’s so much truth to the scripture, no man knows the day or the hour, I’m taking this out of context, because it’s true we really don’t know when Jesus will return, nor do we know when he’ll call us home. But I will say that when God dispatches his Angels to bring home another Angel, there is no mortal bad enough to reverse that mission, except for Christ Himself. The bible says when Martha told Christ that Lazarus died, that he wept. I always thought that was an odd scripture, but when my husband had his stroke on that faithful day, I was enlightened. Jesus wept because those who knew him, didn’t understand Lazarus rested with his Father. This grieved Jesus. Those who walked among him didn’t get that death had no power, so to shore up their foundation, to procure the faith of Mary, Martha, His disciples, and the world, Jesus called Lazarus forth.
It dawned on me, as I stood in the in the hall at the hospital and watched my husband’s hand disappear beyond the emergency surgery doors, that I was waiting for the same thing Mary, Martha and his disciples had waited for: Jesus. I waited for Jesus to call out, Lazarus--
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