Looking At What I Didn't Want To See

This morning I am thinking about the last days I spent with my big brother, Andy.  I had a routine, in which I’d head over to his house every day as soon as I got off work.  I guess I fancied myself as some kind of sentry whose duty was to stay until at least midnight, even if he’d fallen asleep long before that.  Some days he’d be waiting for me, sitting in the leather rocker he loved so much.  We’d talk, laugh, watch TV, or pray together, agreeing for things we each wanted and needed. Sometimes he’d become overwhelmed by fatigue, so we’d move to his room, where I would sit cross-legged on the side of his bed until he fell asleep.  On other days, I’d find him already sleeping soundly.  So, I’d sit in his leather rocker myself, working on assignments for school.  I realize now that he was so tired, but I really didn’t want to think about it then.  I distinctly remember one day when I walked into his house, there was a great sense of heaviness.  It was eerily quiet, the blinds were closed, and the house seemed especially dark.  In a panic, I flew into his room, where he was lying in bed.  He greeted me with a weak “Hey” and a smile.  Like a maniac, I started opening blinds and turning on lights.  I walked through the house, going from room to room, praying loudly.  I made bold declarations for life and light and joy and peace.  I ended my prayer back in his bedroom, declaring that he would be raised up, stronger than ever, with a testimony of God’s power to heal.  With tears rolling down his face, all he said was, “Lord, thank You for being so good to me.”  I realize now that he was so weak and in so much pain, but I really didn’t want to dwell on it then.  On July 1, 2012 I was once again sitting at his bedside.  This time, it was in his hospital room, and he was drifting in and out of sleep.  I found it impossible to focus on whatever assignment I was supposed to be completing.  I just kept looking at him.  During one of his waking moments, our mother called.  “It’s Mom,” I told him.  “She wants to know how you’re feeling.”  His response was, “Tell her I’m ready to come home.”  I realize now that was getting ready to die, but I simply refused to accept it then.  As he dozed off again, I began to pray desperately.  Pacing back and forth, I launched words of faith from my mouth, aimed at an invisible enemy that was weighty and unyielding.  After a while, I was exhausted.  I packed up my laptop, gathered my other belongings, and prepared to leave.  It was not yet midnight, but I kissed him goodbye and left him alone to rest.  I did not imagine that he would enter into eternal rest early the very next day.  One thing I’ve learned over the past year is that true faith is more than believing God for things to turn out the way I think or hope they should.  Faith also calls for an unwavering trust in the goodness of God’s heart, even when my own heart is broken.  So now, whenever I sit in that leather rocker, I think about Andy.  I remember his wisdom, laughter, kindness, and friendship.  And today, even through tears, I can imagine him giving me the biggest hug and saying, “Everything is going to be alright.  You will see.”