When Katie was receiving her proton radiation therapy in Cincinnati, she and Daniel and I spent Monday through Thursday each week at a hotel suite. Chad drove out on Thursdays so Daniel and I could return home. Having just turned four years old, it was a practical decision to take Daniel with us because of childcare logistics, but I am so thankful that we made that choice. After her hour of radiation each day, the three of us would go shopping or visit the zoo or buy ice cream or swim at the pool or play Mario Kart or throw coins in the fountain. She called it, The Suite Life of Daniel and Katie. Sometimes we cooked dinner in the little hotel room kitchen while she did her school work, and sometimes we went out to a restaurant. Each night, after we watched Katie's favorite show (America's Got Talent), the three of us would snuggle into the king size bed together. As I watched him snuggle up next to her, I would pray, "God, please give him an amazing memory. I know he is so young, but somehow let him remember all of this." Nowadays, every once in a while, for no apparent reason, Daniel will say, "Remember when . . . " And God brings back the memories for him. I am so grateful for that.
Memories are incredible. I love memories of past moments and people and events. I love pictures and videos and stories told by others. I love all my memories - especially those of Katie. But I hate that Katie is only a memory now. In this world, she exists only in pictures, in videos, and in the minds of those who remember her. Sometimes, it even feels like she was never here. Like, maybe, she wasn't real. Because I cannot touch her face. Or smell her hair. Or listen to her laugh. She is only a memory. I hate that feeling. So I go up to her closet and open the chest where I have placed her things. Her glasses. Her papers from school. Her awards. Her blanket. The shirt she bought in Hawaii. The lounge pants she wore every day. The hat I placed on her head after I bathed her one last time. It is a chest of memories. And it makes her feel real again. And I want so badly for her to feel real again. Then one day I thought . . . What if . . . what if none of this is real? What if nothing in this world is what we would call "real?" What if one day we realize that this life was just one big, fat memory and that Heaven is what is real? Like really real. I am not trying to be all philosophical or existential here. I am not trying to say that this life isn't important. But, lately, I think a lot more about the next life, and I have come to believe that it will be so much different, so much better, so much like hi definition and surround sound on steroids that we will chuckle at ourselves, saying, "I can't believe I thought that life was good. I can't believe I thought that life was real. All of that is just a memory. Now this. This is real." I know Katie was real, and I love remembering that. And I know Katie is real, and I love thinking about that. I think a lot about what she is doing, how much she loves being with Jesus, and the excitement I feel about being with her. It might seem kind of weird to focus on something we can't touch or see or smell. It might be a completely different perspective. Maybe I am crazy. Or . . . maybe, just maybe, none of this is real. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. (2 Corinthians 4:18)
8 Comments
In a few weeks, our friends are moving to Malawi, a country in southeast Africa, where they will be living indefinitely. She will be a physician at a hospital in Blantyre and he will be building relationships with teenagers as they both endeavor to share God's love. Their daughter has much smaller goals: she is simply expecting to see an elephant awaiting their arrival. As I talked with my friend yesterday about both her and her family and friends' anticipation of their departure, I was struck by her response. She said, "It is always easier to be the person leaving for a grand adventure than it is to be the person being left behind."
When she said this, I took a long pause. For me, this represents a lot of how I view my separation from Katie. I have said a lot of things to God. I have talked, yelled, discussed, and questioned him many times. But I can honestly say that I have never asked God to send Katie back. I would not want her to leave her current position, the hope of everything she lived for on earth, the thrill of the presence of God . . . for me. Sure, I miss her something awful. I am sad for you and me, as we are the ones left behind, but I am over-the-moon happy for her. For lack of a better analogy, I have often said that what I feel now is an exaggerated version of what I feel when my kids go away to camp. I notice their absence every day while they are gone, in every little way, but I know they are having the best time, laughing and playing and learning and dancing and serving. Living to the fullest. I really want them to experience that - even though I hate that sometimes the best place for that experience is not in my presence. Jesus says, "I have come that they may have life and have it to the full" (John 10:10). Perhaps we get just a glimpse of that here on earth. A little glimpse of a life of beauty and exuberance. A little glimpse of joy and relationship. A little glimpse of a grand adventure. But the fullness of what Jesus promised isn't here; it awaits us in eternity. One day this past fall, as I walked around my neighborhood, I passed a boy around Katie's age shooting basketball in his driveway. Before I could stop myself, I said to God, It's not fair, God. It's just not fair. I would love to see Katie shooting basketball or setting a volleyball, picking out a dress for formal or taking her driver's exam, preparing for the ACT or cheering from the student section at a ballgame. Why do I have to watch her friends do these fun things while I mourn her absence in all of it? Then God responded to me . . . I'll tell you what's not fair. It's not fair that that boy has to live on a broken earth. He will deal with broken people and broken hearts and a torrent of ugly and evil for the rest of his life here. What Katie is experiencing is so much better than 'not fair.' She lives in life as I created it to be. Some days, as I think of my Katie, the ache in my heart takes my breath away. Every day I miss her laugh, her smile, her biscuits, her independence, her compassion, the way she rolled her eyes, the way she ate her pancakes, the way she loved her friends, the way she bridged our kids together. Every day is different without her here. Living this way isn't easy for me, but there is no way I would ask her to come back. No way would I take this from Katie. For Katie is on a grand adventure. And it is always easier to be the person on a grand adventure than it is to be the person left behind. |
Archives
March 2020
Categories |