My wife, Fern, died on January 15, 2001. She had consciously waited, on Saturday the thirteenth, for our elder daughter, Sharon, to arrive from California, the last of our four to gather round their mother. The others had previously expressed themselves to her, so for nearly two hours we all listened in as mother and daughter talked. The room was filled with hilarity and remembrances of years. Fern suddenly turned to me, requesting to be put to bed. Unhurriedly, I did as she bid.
Sunday morning I arose and prepared myself for a church speaking commitment. Sharon and Jody would wait with their mother while I carried through my duty. Ready to leave I attempted to arouse Fern. She was in a coma. I called one son, David, to fill my place at church, and took a chair by the bed. Mark, Jr. waited on my requests – as did the spouses, and the grandchildren who were present. The hours crept by. Family members stood by. I spoke aloud, I love you. Her lips formed the words without sound, I love you. It proved to be our last exchange. On the next morning, at 10:40 am, she simply stopped breathing. At the end we were alone, together, exactly as she wanted it to be. I had released all the family members to freshen up at siblings’ homes. They quickly returned following my telephone calls.
I sat gazing at the unbreathing body. I had shared fifty seven years of marriage with her. She had given me four children. She had given me herself. There was an overpowering sense that there was no way back. There would be no recovery. The future would be entirely different than it had ever been since our marriage. I was now single, but did not feel single. My wife was gone, but not the love. I still loved her. If called to duty in some far off country and she remained alive in our home, I would say that I loved her. It would be real. Can I now say that departure from this life means that my love is ended? It is not ended. One of the satisfactions in persons who have shared faith is that the love they have known need never end. In the passing of time since her death, it seems that my love has not abated even a little. Love doesn’t die. We do. I wonder but if love has grown. I presume that some factors of immortality have already overtaken my spirit.
Abraham lived long with Sarah, longer than I lived with my wife. He mourned, and wept when she died. There must have been something special about her death in God’s context. Such a perception is based on the fact that one of the fifty chapters of Genesis, given to us by God, is dedicated to the rather ordinary task of arranging a burial place. The whole of Chapter 23 is the story of negotiations for the Cave of Machpelah where Abraham would inter the remains of his beloved Sarah. The sons of Heth had inherited the cave. They urged him to accept the choice location as a gift from them. He refused, and insisted on paying, through a representative, Ephron, the price of the field. He would purchase it, and no one could claim rights against his property, the place where his wife would rest, and they two would remain, until the day of resurrection. And, so it will be. Abraham’s last gift to his wife was a cave of burial. He knew he would later share that too. But, he knew that death was not the end. In related faith I bought cemetery lots for my family – my wife and mother are there, and so will I be, with my children and their mates. There is another shore. In the aftermath of this sorrow there occurred a new experience of presence without presence. Our children reflect her to me. I sometimes dream of her, and we are getting along well with no doubt about love – but I don’t see her. I wish I could. She implies to me that she is well, and that there is life awaiting – shared. *Mark W. Lee, Sr. — 2016, 2020