Last Saturday, my husband received a phone call asking if he could drive an hour to a hospital where a member of our local church, Susan, was ill. She was in need of a visit, of prayers and support. Could he help? Saturdays are valuable for Josh when it comes to spending time with the kids. He works long hours during the week, and cherishes his weekends when we can all be together. Not wanting to leave us all at home, we piled the kids in the car and went to the hospital together.
Ivy wasn't feeling well. We decided it was better not to overwhelm a very small hospital room with a lot of people, one of which was potentially contagious. Instead, I opted to stay in the car with the younger children while Josh went up to visit. After all, I had plans to return just a couple of days later and visit myself, when in town for a doctor's appointment. Josh stayed with Susan for nearly an hour. They talked. They prayed. Before leaving, he kissed her on the forehead and told her he loved her.
The next morning she passed away.
I don't write about it because all of you knew my friend Susan. I write because somehow, it feels wrong not to--not to mention her in someway. She was a remarkable woman - funny and spunky, gentle and so very loving. There was an ease about her that made her easy to talk to, easy to enjoy. Widowed early in life, Susan didn't have any children, or any family close by. In many ways, her friends and fellow church members were her family.
I've spent a lot of the past few days wondering if we did enough, and feeling sadness over the what if's and the whys that flood our hearts after sadness. Why didn't I just run up to see her while we were there? Did she know that we loved her? Did we do enough to show her how much we all cared? Susan was alone when she died - a thought that plagues me most of all. I have to remind myself that while I don't have a lot of experience with death, I've experienced enough to know that the veil is so very thin between this life and the next. Susan was surely surrounded and supported by heaven's angels.
When I tucked Lucy into bed last night, she said to me, "Mom, I don't like it that people have to die." I don't really like it either, but I'm grateful for the knowledge that I have that makes it easier to understand.
I know that Susan will be missed. Those of us she left behind are better for having known her. But I also know that heaven got a little brighter when she arrived. And that's the thought I'll carry with me.
