"Please don't freak out Honey."

My husband's spirit is "passing away" and I can do nothing. I want to roll back the clock and I cannot. For us, time is immutable, no time traveling, just linear moments on a circular clock. (That's really odd.)  Not so, of course, with God. He is the master of the sabbath, the seventh day. He separated the seventh day and made it holy. He divided that day from all others by dedicating it to Himself as a memorial. And so too, he can stop time and make the sun stand still. But we cannot. 

I remember last year after his chemo treatments were finished, his beard had fallen out, his hair and eyebrows too. He was wearing the death mask. Fear rushed through me like the torrents of Niagara. Those feelings are unlike anything I have ever experienced—the composite of every horror movie you have ever seen. Frequently these feelings would come upon me.  As desperate as a drowning man is for air,  I imagined myself even gluing plant moss or brown paper bags on his face to restore him back to "old Hans" so that I could breathe again. That is when I began to suspect that Hans had a more fundamental role in my life than I had imagined. What does God do anyway when He makes us one? It is understanding this separation process deeply that has helped me to understand what the death of His son must have been like for God the Father. Our separation pain is commensurate with the love we shared and our love was so flawed. One can only imagine what perfect love must have experienced at the Cross. Oh my God, how I wish I could comfort You now. 

Hans had a troubled night last night. A new symptom has appeared. I felt that same fear come upon me. This time I was able to say, "This next phase is expected." The disease plateaus and then descends. Plateaus and descends. It is helpful to me to know this. I am prepared, I think! (How ridiculous is that statement?) There are expected stages, the last of course is his mind, silence and then eternal quiet. 

His confusion is increasing and he cannot deeply rest. He must be having visions or memories. He talks, plans and builds in his dreams. But it leaves him worried and confused about the state of his mind. The nurses are bringing more medication for him. Soon he will sleeping all the time. Each one of these sedatives puts him to sleep. He can no longer raise himself to go to the bathroom. It was only a few days of urinals, bedpans, but now we are nearing the next phase. He does not go at all. All systems are preparing for take off. 

The hospital bed came, along with the dream team, to take down his full sized sleigh bed. We moved rugs and tables and lamps, and you oh so know that I was making it beautiful so as to be conducive to healing. I believe in beauty and symmetry. Flowers and fragrances are essential to life, especially if ever, at the end of life. But what impressed me was that everyone was full of joy. Several visitors came while we were rearranging his room, hospice was silently working as always. Later Patty and Michelle sang over Hans. I am astounded at how often people sing over Hans. My sister came with the most beautiful song from the Sunday service and sang with me and Jules. The room, though beautiful, has that same look that appeared in Dr. McGavran's living room that day so many years ago. Hans actually looks like Dr. M who actually looks like Dr. Francis Schaeffer.  The hospital bed has been a blessing in so many ways. It has opened up access to H. on all sides and we can all pester him with our love at any time. But the troubling part of the hospital bed is that is waist high, narrow and usually draped in white. It reminds me of an altar, which reminds me of ....

The day is half over and we are in the midst of living. It is good too...because we are not alone.