Nineteen years

Nineteen years is a long time. Long enough for God to take a tiny egg and a tiny sperm and grow it into an adult. Long enough for a parent to become a grandparent. Long enough to be considered a long marriage. Long enough to spend in prison for murder, in many cases. For me, nineteen years was long enough to experience the divorce of my parents, the death of my mother, multiple types of abuse, estrangement from my father, at least 20 different homes, seven different schools, the death of all four of my grandparents, too many romantic relationships, graduating as valedictorian from my high school, and all the normal developmental milestones of walking, talking, reading, writing, driving. Nineteen years was also long enough for me to buy my first brand-new car, get pregnant, and learn the hard way why alcohol is not my friend.

Nineteen years is a long time. And yet, somehow, it's not long enough to erase my memory of the day that began the worst week of my life. The pain has dulled, and God has pulled me back from the depths I dropped myself into after that week, but the memories still remain.

It was a Sunday morning, and I had spent the night on Grandma's bed, praying, dozing, and crying out to God for her healing. I had sent Papa to bed after he sat me down and showed me the lockbox with all their important documents and given me instructions for dividing up the possessions in their home. I only half listened, wondering why he would be showing me all those things when Grandma was the one on the brink of death and he was fine. When I heard from the family members who had gathered there to pray that Papa was up, I left Grandma's side to go say good morning and make sure he got breakfast.

As I walked into the living room, I saw my aunt poised by the phone and Papa standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He was clutching his arm and trying to fish his wallet out of his pants, telling my aunt that the ambulance phone number was in his wallet and something was wrong. I told her to call 911 (I was probably too loud and a bit rude) and immediately rushed to Papa's side. I took his arm and began to help him walk across the room to his chair, still dazed by the events I didn't expect. After two steps, he fell, and I knew. The man I loved, the only man who had been in my life for all of my 16 years on this earth, was gone. When the ambulance arrived and the paramedics began their work, I just wanted them to stop. I knew it was over, and when we got the call from the hospital telling us the inevitable, they confirmed what I knew. His heart had burst, and there was no way he could have survived that regardless of what they did.

Two days later, on Wednesday, Grandma followed him to heaven. Friday, we had a funeral for them both. That was nineteen years ago.

Nineteen years is a long time. Sometimes, I wish it was long enough to make me forget. Other times, I'm glad I remember, because I can't imagine living my life without being able to close my eyes and see his smile, hear his voice, feel his love for me.

Today as I remember the man I lost so long ago, I am comforted by the words of 1 Thessalonians 4:13-14:

And now, dear brothers and sisters, we want you to know what will happen to the believers who have died so you will not grieve like people who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and was raised to life again, we also believe that when Jesus returns, God will bring back with him the believers who have died.