Dan came home from South Baldwin Hospital on the Friday night before he met Jesus on a Thursday. 

He arrived by ambulance because he required continuous oxygen, an IV, and wasn’t strong enough to maneuver, let alone walk. He just wanted to be home. For the weekend. And return Monday to the hospital for surgery to break up the plural effusion of his lungs. 

To say I was scared shitless doesn’t begin to scratch the surface of my emotions. In the span of very few hours I learned to run an IV, monitor the flow of oxygen, get the correct drugs on the pole at the right schedule (three of them around the clock)… while a dear friend ran around getting additional oral prescriptions filled (because, of course, not one pharmacy stocked all of them at the same time).

Why am I here, in my mind, tonight? 

I don’t know. 

Maybe because the anniversary approaches. Maybe because other events sometimes break your heart open and the beauty you locked away comes spilling out. 

Whatever the case, I’m remembering the events of those days and the sheer impossibility of my having walked them in my own power. I did not. 

I’m remembering the complete relaxation and utter relief in Dan Granger’s entire being once he was, simply… home. And my uncomfortable understanding that he’d most likely come home to die… even though he wasn’t aware. 

For two days, he tried to get out of that hospital bed. He couldn’t lift either leg by strength, but he’d scoot them by inches to the edge to hook them around the side for leverage in getting up. He couldn’t coherently communicate anymore. Slept most of each day. I remember being baffled, but tickled, by his determination. 

It hit me early on the third day. I realized what he was doing.

Inside, he remembered needing – wanting – to return to the hospital for surgery. He didn’t know surgery was no longer an option because of how he’d deteriorated. He didn’t know he was now on hospice care. 

The realization and sudden weight of what I had to tell him felt both like a divine gift and a sucker punch. I sat as closely as I could. I leaned in. I softly touched his arm and quietly, “Baby… they can’t do the surgery.”

That’s all I said.

I remember not even being sure he’d heard or understood me. Honestly, I don’t remember what happened next… how long I stayed… how many sad, silent tears fell… how much I nuzzled his neck… or anything else I whispered. I’m sure I just tried to share the moment – however impossible – taking any portion possible of the pain and heartbreak from a dying man who doesn’t want to go. 

And, Dan Granger? He didn’t once try to get out of bed again. All our messes, our frustrations, fears, and failures vanished. Our love, laughter, joy, commitment, and learning …he just honored. 

And, trusted. Trusted me. Holy cow. Trusted the full meaning, the full weight, and every nuance of my silly words telling him the struggle was over. “Baby… they can’t do the surgery.”

I’d tell you of the humility, awe and wonder my soul forever gained from that moment if I could put it into words. Instead, I stumble around here, kind of ineptly, giving the Lord’s handiwork a little – but insufficient – justice. 

To be the bearer of another’s memory, their worldly legacy, and chief enactor of all their hopes and dreams… brings out the best in me. At least, I sure hope it does. I try to let it. 

I certainly don’t recommend the experience, but I do wish every eye could see what I see from this vantage: the Goodness, Faithfulness, Enduring Love of a Father whose Romans 8:28 promise never fails. We may not feel it, see it, hear it during the dark nights of the soul. And, very possibly, we may get side-tracked wallowing in our pain and heartache instead of embracing the plurality of existence. But it is there. I’ve walked in it since March 17, 2017. 

There is no beauty without ugly, no life without death, no joy without sadness, no good without bad, no divine without evil, no happy without sadness, and on and on and on. It’s a glorious thing. Worthy of our attention.