Hannah opened the passenger door and waited for her to sink into the front seat. “You okay?” Hannah asked.
“Yes.”
“Watch your fingers.”
Meg moved her hand into her lap, the wooden cross molded into her fist. Hannah shut the door.
“Becca called my phone while I was getting the car,” Hannah said as she pulled out of the patient loading zone. “Your battery must be dead. I told her you’d be home in about twenty minutes, and she’ll call back then.”
“Okay.”
“She said she’s working with her professors to get time off and thinks she can be here next week. She’s so happy about coming home to see you, said everyone is being very kind, very understanding.” Hannah’s voice cracked as she spoke the words, revealing what she had been unable to say out loud. Though Hannah had continued to speak about faith and God’s ability to heal, Meg knew her friend was struggling to embrace the likelihood of a different outcome.
The discharge visit with the doctor had been bleak. They would continue to monitor her, make sure she was comfortable, do everything they could to ease her pain. They had talked with her about options for hospice care if she needed it. She would probably need it.
“I need to ask you something, Hannah, and I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable. I just need to know, need to be sure I get everything in order.”
Hannah looked like she knew what was coming next.
“I’m going to meet with an attorney on Monday, make sure my will is up to date, do a medical directive. I don’t want any heroics, Hannah. And I need someone I trust to make sure everything is taken care of. Can I give you power of attorney? Over everything?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve already told Becca I don’t want her dropping out of school. We’ll have our visit together, and then I want her to finish her semester. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for her to study in London. I don’t want my illness to interfere with that.” She wouldn’t mind Becca scrapping her plans to spend the summer in Paris with Simon though. In light of everything going on, maybe Becca would be willing to come straight home when her semester finished the end of April. “The same goes for you, Hannah, with your plans. Your honeymoon, your Holy Land trip, everything. I don’t want you changing anything for me.”
Hannah did not reply.
“Promise me, Hannah.”
Still nothing.
“I’ve got lots of people offering to help, more than I know what to do with. This is important to me, Hannah. So promise me. Please.”
“I promise,” Hannah murmured, eyes fixed on the road.
Meg soldiered on. “I’m going to talk with Pastor Dave about a service, just something small at my church. Not a big group, no viewing or reception or anything. Just a short service with some of my favorite verses and hymns. I don’t want you to have the burden of planning it, okay? I’ll take care of it with Dave.”
Hannah nodded.
“And I’m going shopping with you for a dress, Hannah. You’re going to be the most beautiful bride.”
Shoulders heaving, Hannah drove into a nearby church parking lot, where the two of them sat and wept over endings and beginnings.
There. She’d done it. It had taken several drafts, but Meg had finally managed to compose an email to all the parents of her students, conveying her prognosis and expressing her sorrow over being unable to continue her work as a piano teacher. After wrestling with it for several days, she had decided she didn’t want her little ones to watch her deteriorate. Better to stop the lessons now. It has been an honor to share music with your children. They have brought me so much joy. Please communicate my news to them in whatever way seems best to you. And please tell them I’m so proud of them. I hope they continue to explore the riches of music with one of the fine teachers I’ve named below. My heartfelt thanks for giving me the privilege of working with them.
Meg closed her laptop and readjusted Mara’s prayer shawl around her shoulders as Hannah entered the room carrying both amaryllis pots, the flowers in robust bloom. “Our flowers in winter,” Hannah said, setting them down on the table beside Meg.
Meg fingered the smooth green stalk. “They look like pinwheels, don’t they?” she commented.
“You’re right—they do! I’m surprised I didn’t see that before. I’ll have to tell Nate.” Hannah stroked the petals on her red flowers. “What can I bring you?”
Meg reached for her Bible. “Nothing. I’m just going to read for a while.”
Hannah gently squeezed her shoulder. “Then I’ll go make some more phone calls.”
On one of her several visits to the hospital, Katherine had suggested that Meg spend time meditating on Jesus’ last days. “Use your wonderful, vivid imagination and place yourself right there as one of his dear friends at the foot of the cross,” Katherine had said. “And see what comes to life.”
Meg had never spent much time reading the stories of Jesus’ death. Too sad. Too cruel. Too gruesome. Too disturbing. She preferred skipping ahead to the stories of Easter. To resurrection. But maybe Katherine was right: maybe pondering the death of Jesus would give Meg hope and courage as she rounded the final laps of life. “Watch for his love,” Katherine had said.
Watch for his love.
Whispering a prayer for courage, Meg opened her Bible to the end of John’s Gospel. She would keep watch with some of Jesus’ dearest friends. And try not to flinch.
When the soldiers had crucified Jesus, they took his clothes and divided them into four parts, one for each soldier. They also took his tunic; now the tunic was seamless, woven in one piece from the top. So they said to one another, “Let us not tear it, but cast lots for it to see who will get it.” This was to fulfill what the scripture says, “They divided my clothes among themselves, and for my clothing they cast lots.” And that is what the soldiers did.
Meanwhile, standing near the cross of Jesus were his mother, and his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her, he said to his mother, “Woman, here is your son.” Then he said to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home (John 19:23-27).
How dare they?
How dare they laugh and mock and tell their crude jokes while he hung there bleeding, gasping for breath? How dare the soldiers play their game and divide up his clothes while he hung stripped, bruised, and pierced? Was a garment more precious than a man’s life?
Was it? Meg shouted at the soldiers.
They laughed harder. The winner of the lot snatched the undergarment, stood, and modeled it for his cronies, who applauded and cat-called. One of the women standing at the foot of the cross turned, her face etched with unspeakable sorrow. When she saw Meg, she beckoned her to come closer. “Can no one do anything to stop this?” Meg asked.
“Keep watch with us,” the woman said, and wrapped her arm around Meg’s waist.
Meg looked up. His body was lacerated and covered with welts. He bled from his hands, his feet, his head. His breath was labored, his eyes closed.
Jesus.
He looked down. His eyes lit up with recognition, and his lips curled into the softest smile, as if to say, “I knew you would come.”
Oh, Jesus.
Meg clutched his pierced feet in her hands and bathed them with her tears.
eleven
Hannah
Hannah stared at the open Bible on Meg’s lap. Maybe she should spend some time praying with the crucifixion narratives as well.
“Jesus had the power to stop it,” Meg was saying. “That’s what I saw. He had the power to stop it, but he didn’t. He let them take everything away from him—everything! His clothes, his dignity, his life. He didn’t cling to anything. Nothing. And when he spoke to his mom—” Meg placed her hand against her heart. “There he was, struggling to breathe, agonizing in pain, and he took time to care for his mom, to mak
e sure she would be okay. I wept at that. And then it was like I was Mary, feeling a mother’s pain . . . how unbearable it must have been for her. It was powerful, Hannah. So powerful. Just like Katherine said. I saw the love. I saw the depth of his love. And I don’t have words to describe how beautiful it is. No words.”
She reached for another tissue and gently blew her nose.
“It got me thinking about Becca,” Meg went on. “About wanting to entrust her to someone who will care for her. I know I don’t have any control over what she does while I’m here or after I’m gone. And I need to keep turning her over to God. I know that. But I was wondering”—she reached for Hannah’s hand—“I was wondering if I could ask you to watch over her, whether it’s just praying for her or being available if she ever needs anything. I don’t know if she’d ever be open to it, but just in case . . .”
“Yes,” Hannah said. “Of course I will.”
Meg nodded her thanks and closed her eyes.
When her chest began to rise and fall in a gentle rhythm of sleep, Hannah tiptoed to the kitchen, filled the kettle, and tried to quiet and calm her soul. Unbeknownst to Meg, Becca had called Hannah again while Meg was praying, and Hannah wasn’t yet sure how to handle it.
“Simon has offered to come with me,” Becca had said.
It had taken every ounce of pastoral restraint not to scream her disbelief into the phone.
“He’s always wanted to see Chicago, so he said he could fly to Kingsbury with me on Tuesday, make sure I get there safely and everything, and then take a train down to Chicago for a few days while I’m with Mom.”
“Becca, you know how your mom feels about him, and I don’t think—”
“She doesn’t even have to see him! He’s just coming to support me, to make sure I’m okay.”
How nice of him.
“We don’t even have to tell her he’s anywhere in America,” Becca had said, an edge to her voice.
Hannah had no control over what a grown man did with his money and his time, and if the two of them already knew Simon would not be welcome anywhere near Meg, then what could she do to prevent them from coming together?
Lord, help.
The water boiled, and Hannah poured it into her mug, watching the tea bag swell. She shouldn’t keep it from Meg, should she? Meg knew Becca and Simon were together; in some odd way perhaps she would be comforted to know that someone would be traveling with her daughter. Especially for the return trip back to London after the intense emotion of—
Hannah couldn’t speak the words even to herself. She stirred the bag around and around, the spoon clinking against the ceramic.
Was she living in denial or faith? Sometimes it was very hard to tell the difference between the two. In the past few days Meg had moved toward a place of peace and equanimity. Yes, she had her sorrow and fear, which she freely expressed, but for the most part she was confronting her prognosis head-on, with a desire to seek God’s face in the midst of the tears and terror. She was being brave, so brave about—
Hannah wiped her eyes.
—saying goodbye.
Friday, February 13
5 p.m.
Meg took the news about Simon better than I expected. Maybe she wasn’t surprised. She said she just wants to focus her energy on making some happy memories with Becca. Lord, prepare both of them for their time together. Let it be everything you desire it to be. Please.
Nate and I met with Katherine today to plan our wedding service. Katherine encouraged us to speak openly to one another about fears and struggles, to name the deaths honestly so that we can also name the points of resurrection and new life. She talked about the disequilibrium of that process as we die to old things and live into the new, how it takes time to adjust and that even good and beautiful changes involve grieving what’s left behind. For Nate and Jake, it’s their life together, just the two of them. For me, it’s my independence and my ministry and my own place to belong. A good, honest conversation. Nate understands my sense of loss, even as I’m rejoicing in our life together.
We’ve asked her to preach a short homily on the wedding at Cana, the very text that pushed me over the edge last fall and helped me own my disappointment and anger with God. Talk about a redeeming work of the Spirit. So grateful, Lord. Amazing to think that we’ll have a chance to visit Cana, now as husband and wife. I can’t take it all in, Lord. So much happening right now.
After we finished planning the service, I stayed for spiritual direction. Always such a fruitful time to prayerfully process what God is doing in my life. When I told Katherine how I’m struggling with endings right now, she suggested I pray with some of the scenes of Jesus saying goodbye to his friends. So I’ve been reading those stories the past few hours and noticing how Jesus, knowing his time was near, took time to be with his friends, to impart last words, to share meals, to help them remember him by giving them tangible ways to practice his presence and love in community. I’ve been seeing with fresh eyes that Jesus wasn’t stoic about his pain. He was able to speak about his soul being troubled. He invited his close circle of friends to keep watch and pray with him, to keep him company in his intimate sorrow as he poured out his agonized prayers to the Father, as he sweat blood in the garden, begging God for another way.
But the story that most caught my attention this afternoon and caused me to weep wasn’t the crucifixion, but the ascension. A story of letting go and living into a new reality. As I read the last verses of Luke’s Gospel, I was right there with the disciples, saying goodbye: “Then he led them out as far as Bethany, and, lifting up his hands, he blessed them. While he was blessing them, he withdrew from them and was carried up into heaven.”
What struck me is that while he is still blessing them, he rises and disappears. I don’t think I could have let him go in that moment. I think I would have tried to cling to him. Tried to hold him and keep him longer. I think I would have wanted one more word, one more gift, one more explanation about who he is and what it all means.
Could I have received your benediction and let you go, Lord, even while you were still speaking the words of blessing? I don’t know.
And when the time comes—if the time comes—will I be able to let Meg go and trust your resurrection?
And when I return to Chicago to pack up my house and my office, will I be able to let go and say goodbye with hope?
I think of Mary Magdalene, recognizing the risen Jesus in the garden once he spoke her name. Jesus told her “not to cling to him.” Maybe that’s an Easter word for me: Do not cling. If we don’t let go of what has been, there can be no ascension to new life. So, do not cling to what has been or even to what is, but always be willing to let it go.
I’ll need to pray some more with that, Lord.
I told Katherine about hearing the verse “Behold, the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world” and how I wished it said something else. She noticed the word “behold,” a word that has been important for me the past few months. She suggested I find ways to behold the cross as the deepest evidence of God’s love and then to practice beholding an empty tomb. To slow down and really take it all to heart as I walk this road with Meg. With Nate. With Westminster. Lord, let all of the dying enlarge me to receive the fullness and joy and wonder of your life and resurrection, even in the midst of the tears.
Hineni, Lord. Here I am, beholding you. Behold me.
Mara
Mara strolled through the house, admiring Jeremy’s work. The hardwood floor was polished to a sheen. “And he did a lot of the painting too,” Charissa said, motioning to the deep aqua blue walls in the family room. No smudges on the baseboards or ceilings.
“I could sit in here and just stare at the color,” Mara said, “and it would be like a Caribbean vacation.”
Charissa smiled. “I’m usually more of a black-and-white or beige girl, but John persuaded me to be adventurous. And it’s growing on me.”
“It’s beautiful,” Mara said. “Thank you so much
for giving Jeremy some work to do. I know he and Abby appreciate it.”
“Wait until you see the kitchen! Jeremy convinced us that the cabinets were in really good condition and just needed a face-lift, and he did an amazing job, saved us a lot of money. We’re really grateful. It looks like an entirely different space! And he and John are best buds now. You should hear them talk about the next projects they could do. I keep reminding John we’re on a budget, but I don’t think he’s listening.” Charissa glanced out the front window. “Oh! Here’s the truck.”
Mara followed her gaze to the U-Haul backing into the driveway. “What can I do to help?” she asked. “You need to make sure you’re not lifting stuff.”
“No, I know. I promised John I wouldn’t. My back’s been killing me all week.”
Beneath Charissa’s T-shirt a slight bump was visible. With her height, she would hardly look pregnant even at nine months. Mara, on the other hand, had felt like a beluga whale for each of her pregnancies, and Tom hadn’t helped, constantly mocking her size. Jeremy’s father had been kinder. Marginally.
“As soon as they bring a chair in here,” Mara said, “you need to sit down and tell people where to go.”
Charissa laughed. “I’m pretty good at that.”
The front door opened. “Hey, Mara!” John said with a wave. “Riss, you want us to start unloading stuff, or do you have a particular strategy?”
“Just start bringing in the big pieces,” she said, “and we’ll get those in place first. I think the rest of the boxes are labeled.” Giving her a mock salute, John bounded down the front steps and started directing a squad of friends who had come to help. Mara wondered who beside Jeremy would come to help if she and the boys needed to move. Nathan and Hannah probably. And maybe some people from church. She often saw notices in the bulletin for service projects.
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