Today played out not unlike the day for Mary the mother of Jesus, this gruesome Friday. Athough the scenes are different, the story is the same, the impending loss of a loved one in a way that is horrendous and inexplicable, yet with a sense that is irrevocable. The day for Mary began with the news that Jesus had been arrested the night before and in the wee hours of the morning He had been taken to both Caiaphas and Herod. By dawn He had arrived at Pilate's agency and by now the crowds had grown violent and unpredictable. Mary, powerlessness to be able to draw near to Jesus, became frantic with fear. She would catch glimpses of Him through the crowds, but circumstances kept Him just out of her reach. What she really wanted was to catch him up in her arms as she did when He was five and whisk Him away from harm. She wanted to rescue Him, to save Him. Her pain ran deep in my veins today.
Circumstances played out in such a way in my life today as well. I could not spend every moment with Hans. The times I did, were spent changing sheets or giving medications. My heart longed to just sit and die of grief alongside him. Today I could not be a Martha, I was Mary and every moment away from him left me yearning to be near him— to rescue him, to deliver him, to beg God once again to save Him and to save me too. Through the myriad of things that occurred today, all of them served as horrible instruments of torment, whipping me away from the love of my life. But so it was. Nothing could be done. The sword had pierced my heart as surely as it had pierced Mary's.
Then there were the moments that I had to change Hans' clothes. Laying naked before me, it surely looked like the body of Christ having been taken down from the cross, also naked, though severely beaten. Hans' lifeless legs a mere rack now for his skin to hang upon, a flat stomach and his privates shrunken in anticipation of death. Jesus must have looked like this to the women who attended his burial. Their hearts also must have been broken, it was a sacred moment...so awful and so full of awe.
Unless my heavenly bridgeroom comes soon, my husband shall surely die. My prayers are formed and designed to break God's heart and convince Him to have pity on us. How can he say no? Knowing that my embrace is faulty, I shamelessly say that I don't care if it is. This is not a peaceful death. There is no such thing as a peaceful death. This is death, it is cruel, savage, and immensely impersonal—life being sucked out of a living soul. It is disgraceful and monstrous.
I may never recover from this. Please don't tell me that I will either. I will see you as cruel, for I do not want to recover.
As I swab Hans' mouth with water I get pictures in my mind of Jesus on the Cross. "I thirst." I know what that sounded like. With a rough and swollen tongue it sounds like hell coming from within the bowels.
Even in a deep sleep Han's mouth turns eagerly for a drop of something which will remove the agony of dryness. I swab liquid on a huge block of hardened tissue which used to be a soft moist piece of flesh. Now it is dry and hard and I am reminded of the literature which describes the body after embalming. Dry. Brittle. I am told, "It lasts forever." This tongue will not last forever, it is already in a state of disintegration...dust to dust.
I swab the tongue, bringing it back to life drop by drop. I realized that Jesus could have used someone to bring him "sips" of water on a sponge from time to time. Instead he was given wine vinegar.
I am watching my husband waste away. He moans loudly now and then, sounding like a lion in pain. Yet he is in no pain. Yet everything hurts. I want to scoop him in my arms, but he is too big and too delusional to interpret my actions. I am devastated once again. I tell myself this is the natural process of life, but it is not. It is the abnormal, the cost of sin, the devastating consequence of disobedience.
I find myself silently praying, please God, please God, please God. What pleases You God? Whatever thy will...desires...let it be done.
Much later the thought occurred to me that Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, Joseph, Moses, Samuel, David, and Daniel died like this. Strangely it comforts me.
I hope no one who reads this book has been quite as miserable as Susan and Lucy were that night; but if you have been–if you’ve been up all night and cried till you have no more tears left in you–you will know that there comes in the end a sort of quietness. You feel as if nothing was ever going to happen again.
ReplyDelete–C.S. Lewis (1898-1963)
I am afraid of the night when I will cry like that. I may lose my mind and never come back. But I long for the aftermath, which surely will come. It is hard to believe that this agony is part of the normal human experience. No wonder the Jews ripped their garments. It is fitting. But joy does comes in the morning. . .
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