Quickly, quietly, we slip out of the house. It is cold still and seems very dark. We’re wide awake now. It’s his weak heart, he’s forty one, they said he won’t make it.
Just six weeks ago we said goodbye to our oldest brother, fifty one, a logging accident. Gone in a moment. Now I feel as though I’m caught in some cruel nightmare. We just had a funeral, it can’t happen again, so soon, can it? Has he ever heard of it happening, two brothers dying, one right after another like this? I ask Dear Love. He hasn’t, but God knows, he says. Anything can happen.
We pray as we drive along in the dark, that there would be miracles, healing. Thirteen children, the youngest only six months old, are too many to leave behind. We pray for peace and comfort of the soul. We pray that if death is near, we would be there in time to help my brother die.
We arrive at the hospital and it’s like the emergency room is in the middle of the night, only it is my brother lying there, it is his older children there in the little room, looking scared and sad.
Somehow, I am no longer afraid, only filled with a desire to minister to the soul of my brother. We do what Christians do for one another. We pray, we reassure that sins are washed away and forgiven through Christ, we sing. We profess our love, we promise to be here for those left behind. We blindly trust in the giver and taker of life. There’s nothing else we can do.
The medical staff decides to transfer to another hospital, which is a couple hours away. A little hope flickers in our hearts. Maybe he’ll pull through after all. Miracles happen, right?
So we all make the journey there to wait and see. The hope is short lived. When I see him again, it seems as though his soul has already departed and its only his body there, running rhythmically on the machine. But how could I know?
Friends come. They bring food, prayers, love, the gift of their presence. We wait. All the news the doctors tell us is dismal. There’s not much hope to offer.
My heart is in rebellion. Over and over, it is crying, “No, God, don’t do this! Oh, look at little son here! How can this be right? No, God!”
I need to get away, so I go outside. The sun is weakly shining, offering little warmth. I call my mom, I need to hear her voice. My heart is breaking, I know across the quiet, her heart is breaking, too. I tell her what it’s like here. I try to communicate what it feels like here.
I don’t know if we say the words, but somehow this phone call helps me comprehend that God is sovereign. I sit on the curb in the cool sunshine with tears flowing down my face. Oh, Mom! I’m so sorry! You seemed so old and small last month at oldest brother’s death. I am so sorry that your already broken heart must be fragmented some more. But still I find comfort in my mother’s voice.
We end the call. My heart is submitted to God’s will. I am here and I am thankful. I feel as though I am representing all the women in my family, my mom, my sisters. The women that have loved him most besides his wife. Can all this feminine love and tenderness that is welling up in my heart flow through my hands, through my voice?
I go back to his room. I hold his hand and tell him I just talked to mom. I tell him that she wishes she were here. He may have heard, who could know?
Older brother is here too, of course, being pastor, brother, friend. I am so thankful for him, so glad he’s here. He is kind and strong, making sure everyone’s doing okay. It’s getting hard for him too, though, this long, long day.
Then there’s the waiting. It reminds me in a way of being at a birth. Just waiting for natural processes to happen. Having to allow things to go the way they’re going to go. I think of how a Christian death is something like a birth, for indeed, we pass from life unto life. Death is swallowed up in victory. The earthly tabernacle must fall away to release the soul.
There’s the weariness. For a time I long to run away. I want to go home, crawl into bed, forget all this. Older brother tells me, no, we have to stay until it’s finished. And so we wait.
Towards evening, things take a turn for the worse. His pressures are falling. They say they’ll try to keep things going until the rest of the children can be brought down. So this is it. We hope they hurry, but a two hour drive is a two hour drive. We watch the clock. We watch his wife, tender, loving him. Trying to squeeze the most out of the final moments of life. She climbs up beside him on the bed. She is so beautiful and still looks so young. Oh, dear sister-in-law! I’m so sorry! I see her stroke his arms, his side, his face, her tears flowing and I wonder what it must feel like to let go of the love of your life. They were married the same year as us. Oh, God! Oh, God! Our hearts are breaking! Please, God, come and hold together our broken hearts!
Then the children come and very soon he is gone. And, oh, the grief! Oh, the sorrow! The weeping. The room too small to contain the sound. I turn from Dear Love’s embrace, thinking, I must be strong, I must comfort these precious ones, but my heart is weighing down my body, my legs are turned to liquid. I look and see the saints of God, a few men and women from our church, holding the children and then I know, it’s okay for me to grieve as well. How beautiful are the hands and feet of Jesus! If He looks so lovely in these earthen vessels, imagine how glorious He must truly be!
My brother is gone. His number of days reached and his life over. Over and past, like a dream that is gone, like a tale that is told, like a flower of the field which today is and tomorrow is withered and gone. Like a vapor and hastened on to eternity.
Many times throughout the day I had thought of our last visit. We had gone there for Sunday dinner this same week. We had spent most of our time talking about our recant trip to New Hampshire for our oldest brother’s memorial service. The mouth speaks the abundance of the heart and it was as if God had used our oldest brother’s death to make this brother’s heart tender towards Him. He said a couple times, “You never know when the call’s going to come and the only important thing is that you’re ready to go.” On our way home that night, I had felt so bonded with my brother. I am so thankful for that visit.
So there’s nothing left to do but cry until you’re all cried out, say one last prayer, sing one last song, gather your things together and go home. Home to bed, babies, sad children.
Then there are calls to be made, arrangements, more waiting. Readying the house for company. Gatherings of sorrow. Grim faced greetings as the loved ones arrive. The “I’m so glad to see you but I wish it wasn’t for this reason”s. There’s the sons and friends building the casket. Gathering funeral clothes and shoes for all the children.
There’s the calling hours. Having to see him tucked away in a box. He has his cap in his hands, his cowboy boots on, the only thing missing is the toothpick.
Then there’s the funeral. Formal, paying our last respects. We stand as they move the casket to the front of the church. Paying our last respects to this man, my brother. They take the casket to the cemetery in a corn crib pulled by a John Deere. My brother was a farmer. We slowly go the long way round, due to flooding.
And then we’re here, the final resting place. We remember that from dust we were taken and that to dust we will once again return. We trust that one day the trump of God shall sound and the dead in Christ shall rise and forever be with the Lord.
The sun is warm today, like a warm compress on my aching heart. My parents move forward and place some rocks on the casket, my dad stoic, my mom sad. It is lowered into the earth. The family weeps.
My brothers, brother-in-law, and some of the children shovel in dirt. They work up a sweat, roll up their shirt sleeves. They shovel in a lot of dirt. I watch and begin to feel peace.
We will all come to this place one day, laid to rest by those we love, buried in hope. There’s peace here under the wide open South Dakota sky, here on the windy prairie, this place my brother loved.
Goodbye, my brother. It seems your life was too short, but I guess it wasn’t, after all. You lived out your allotted days. This was your life span, perfectly ordained by our Creator. Rest In Peace then, until we meet again on heaven’s fair shore.
Love, your sister, Emmy
“For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first:
Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord.”
1 Thessalonians 4:16 and 17
Many times throughout the day I had thought of our last visit. We had gone there for Sunday dinner this same week. We had spent most of our time talking about our recant trip to New Hampshire for our oldest brother’s memorial service. The mouth speaks the abundance of the heart and it was as if God had used our oldest brother’s death to make this brother’s heart tender towards Him. He said a couple times, “You never know when the call’s going to come and the only important thing is that you’re ready to go.” On our way home that night, I had felt so bonded with my brother. I am so thankful for that visit.
So there’s nothing left to do but cry until you’re all cried out, say one last prayer, sing one last song, gather your things together and go home. Home to bed, babies, sad children.
Then there are calls to be made, arrangements, more waiting. Readying the house for company. Gatherings of sorrow. Grim faced greetings as the loved ones arrive. The “I’m so glad to see you but I wish it wasn’t for this reason”s. There’s the sons and friends building the casket. Gathering funeral clothes and shoes for all the children.
There’s the calling hours. Having to see him tucked away in a box. He has his cap in his hands, his cowboy boots on, the only thing missing is the toothpick.
Then there’s the funeral. Formal, paying our last respects. We stand as they move the casket to the front of the church. Paying our last respects to this man, my brother. They take the casket to the cemetery in a corn crib pulled by a John Deere. My brother was a farmer. We slowly go the long way round, due to flooding.
And then we’re here, the final resting place. We remember that from dust we were taken and that to dust we will once again return. We trust that one day the trump of God shall sound and the dead in Christ shall rise and forever be with the Lord.
The sun is warm today, like a warm compress on my aching heart. My parents move forward and place some rocks on the casket, my dad stoic, my mom sad. It is lowered into the earth. The family weeps.
My brothers, brother-in-law, and some of the children shovel in dirt. They work up a sweat, roll up their shirt sleeves. They shovel in a lot of dirt. I watch and begin to feel peace.
We will all come to this place one day, laid to rest by those we love, buried in hope. There’s peace here under the wide open South Dakota sky, here on the windy prairie, this place my brother loved.
Goodbye, my brother. It seems your life was too short, but I guess it wasn’t, after all. You lived out your allotted days. This was your life span, perfectly ordained by our Creator. Rest In Peace then, until we meet again on heaven’s fair shore.
Love, your sister, Emmy
“For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first:
Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord.”
1 Thessalonians 4:16 and 17
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