100 days.

It's been 100 days since I have heard your voice. 

It's been 100 days since I have seen your eyes looking at me.

May 25, 2020–100 days ago

I sat on the front porch steps watching the EMTs move you to the ambulance because you were in so much pain that you couldn't walk. Tears rolled down my face as I sat and thought of the things that could be happening...willing my mind to throw away the thoughts of fear. 

I walked into the house and curled up on the couch. Going to my room felt too far away. Within an hour we got the call. The call that changed everything. The call that said to come with absolute urgency. I rolled into the pillow, screamed and cried and then quickly got up to leave. We rushed to the emergency room back to where you were...already hooked up to so many machines, getting scans...scans that you probably should have had days before.

We stood, tears running with no regard for any boundary, and listened to the news that seemed to be unfathomable. Where was it supposed to go? Where did it fit in this narrative of life? How does it fit with the sovereignty of God?

I paced the small room we were in, constantly pulling my mask off my face to find any fresh air. 

We waited.

Finally, we were able to see you. 

The first time I saw you in a hospital I was a freshman in high school. You had your bypass surgery. I was so mad that I had to wait to see you. And when we could come, I promptly passed out. This time was different.

You didn't respond, but we told you how much we love you and prayed and cried. Mom started singing the chorus:

"Nothing is too difficult for Thee
Nothing is too difficult for Thee
Great and mighty God
Great in counsel and mighty in deed 
Nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing

Nothing is too difficult for Thee"

The song running through my head among the barrage of thoughts was "We Bring the Sacrifice of Praise". Not exactly the song I would have picked, but there it was with out invitation. We prayed over you, and to be honest, I don't even know what they all were. So many times the words were jumbled and chaotic. Shock took up so much of the space. 

The ambulance came and took you to Greenville. We jumped in the car and followed..not knowing what was actually going to happen. We arrived at the hospital and were met by a chaplain. She ushered us to another small room where we waited for the surgeon. He came in and gave us news that truly gutted us and left us speechless. With a quick decision made, we sent the surgeon back to you but not before praying with him.

I paced that tiny room...wishing that I could punch a wall, punch someone, rewind the last 72 hours..anything...anything to not be here, in this moment. Jamie played "In the Presence of Jehovah". And with such gentleness and grace the Lord flooded into that room. I can't explain it, but I know He was there.

We waited.

We sat in another waiting room. Alone. I paced and moved from seat to seat. It was at least an hour and half before your surgeon came to give us an update. The surgery went well...but the injury was profound. There was no way to know what any true outcome would be until you could wake up. The trauma of the accident caused the bleeding to move your brain two and half centimeters. Again, we were gutted. We were ushered out of the hospital.

We waited.

For twelve days we waited. 

We face-timed with you daily. We took calls from your doctors and made calls in the evening to check on you. We were finally able to see you 8 days after the surgery. As Jamie and I walked through the hospital to see you, our voices were quiet and steps rushed. Rushed to see reality face to face. 

We walked in to see you hooked up to machines. And you'll be pleased to know that I didn't faint this time. I struggled to push words out over the tears. The words I could utter felt weak and useless. What was the point? None of them would be a magic word to wake you up. I felt like I was facing life and death at the same time. And I had absolutely no power over the outcome. 

I think I knew in that moment what the outcome would be. I wrestled with faith and reality for the next four days. Mom wrestled with the hospital to get all us back in together to see you again. 

On Friday, June 5, you were moved from the ICU to a palliative care room. Jamie, Joey and I left the house about 9:30pm to see you. We took turns alone to sit with you. Again, I struggled to push words through tears. I held your swollen hand telling you how much I love you, how much I am going to miss you, how much this hurts. I promised to finish your book. And I will. 

On Saturday, June 6, we gathered together in your room. We rubbed your feet, held your hands, held each other and cried. We spent about an hour and a half with you. Around 3:30pm we left your room...knowing that we were probably seeing you this side of eternity for the last time.

Just a few hours later, you crossed into eternity. I don't think I cried when I heard the news, but I've been making up for it these days.

It feels like yesterday and like a lifetime ago. The world has continued to spin madly. My feet have felt preserved in concrete. Life is bitter and sweet. I continue to wrestle with faith and reality.

And I wait.

I wait for the day when I see you again. I wait through waves of pain and heartache for joy to return. I wait for broken pieces to be placed back together. I wait with tears. I wait with hope.

He has made everything beautiful and appropriate in its time. He has also planted eternity [a sense of divine purpose] in the human heart [a mysterious longing which nothing under the sun can satisfy, except God]—yet man cannot find out (comprehend, grasp) what God has done (His overall plan) from the beginning to the end. Ecclesiastes 3:11 AMP