Late nights have always been my time. I am not sure how the genetics fit in, but my
father worked nights for years and seemed to thrive. My brother Gary was a night owl from birth,
and the stories told of my parents trying to keep him in bed as a toddler are
legendary. When our daughter was tiny
and my husband worked nights, one could find me vacuuming the house at midnight
– a probable cause for the fact that my offspring can sleep through anything
short of an earthquake. Night time is “my
time.”
Tonight, however, is different. I sit in my father-in-law’s recliner under
the soft glow of the computer screen.
Beyond the partition the oxygen tank hums rhythmically in harmony with
the labored breathing of one who will soon shed his mortal body and be transposed
into eternity. It has been a long wait –
and may be longer still. Only God knows
the time that is perfect for Dad’s entrance to Heaven. Until then, we wait in peace.
We wait, and I wonder.
I wonder so many things. For a
believer, death is not the enemy. It is,
they say, not death, but the dying that is the struggle. But is it?
On this side of the partition, I hear the struggle for breath and long
to provide relief. Is it so for Dad? We observe no responsiveness and have not for
days. Is he listening to his own
breathing as well? Does he hear us as we
sit by his bedside and fill him in on the day’s happenings? Does he recognize our voices? Did he hear his wife tell him that it is okay
to go? Perhaps so. But I wonder as well, as this man of God
stands on the very edge of eternity, is he listening to other voices. Are our voices distant? Is he listening instead to the sounds of the
angels crying “Holy, Holy, Holy” on the other side of the gates of pearl and
gold?
Who knows how long this final act will play. Experience tells me it could be hours or it
could be days. Our lives on this earth,
however, are but “a hand’s breadth in eternity” so does it really matter? As long as God chooses, Dad will remain on
the edge. I choose to believe that this
time for Dad is spent in joyous
anticipation of the final realization of Heaven, much like a child revels in
the anticipation of Christmas morning, only 1000 fold!
And so I sit, bathed in the light of the computer screen,
listening to the duet of oxygen pump and breathing, and strain to hear what Dad
hears – that Angel Chorus that is calling him finally home.
