Living with Dying

I've blogged once or twice before about my former roommate, Angela, who is battling cancer. A few weeks ago, she was a guest blogger on the Intentional Journey, and if you want to read what she wrote, you can do so here.

I don't like death. I don't suppose most people do, actually.

But Angela has been one of the best examples of living with dying...I've ever seen. She doesn't shy away from the topic, as you can see in the blog post, and she's being so intentional about these days that very possibly could be her last.

Saturday morning, I was enjoying a good sleep-in, waking up at the crack of 11, actually. About a half hour later, Braeya was still trying to coax me out of bed, when the doorbell rang. I scurried to get door-answering presentable and peeked out the window to see who was there.

Angela. Holding a box.

She came in, graciously overlooked my bedhead, smeary mascara, and questionable attire, and told me she was going through her things, choosing some of her favorites to take to her friends because she'd rather have them go to people she loved than be sold in a sale sometime after her death.

(Yeah. I was trying not to cry, too.)

I opened the box and found half a dozen Isabel Bloom Christmas figurines. When Angela lived here, she had tons of Isabel Bloom stuff, and I always called her (Isabel) "the cement lady." Isabel's creations found their way around our home, and at Christmas, we even had the official nativity set.

Angela looked at me and said, "I know you love Christmas and you decorate with a tree in every room, so I knew you'd understand these..."

She stayed for a couple of hours, and we talked about things like her memorial service and the ups and downs of her life journey.

I wish with all my heart that she'd get well, but the reality is...it's unlikely. And as we sat in my living room eating pumpkin bread and reminiscing, this thought came to me, though I wished it would leave, This might be the last time you ever sit and talk to her like this.

She hugged me before she left and that thought pushed its way back in, univited, This might be the last time you ever share a hug with her.

I hate death. I hate loss. And yetI know she's in pain. I know the treatments tear at her body and though she fights valiantly and without a complaint, I know she's tired. She looked me straight in the eye and said she's ready to go home early. To get her wings. 35 year olds shouldn't have to say things like that.

My mind is too much of a mess to make much sense of it all yet, but I am aware, as I sit here and look at the box that holds her gift to me, what a much bigger gift I was given. The gift of a friend who put up with a lot while she lived here. A friend who has embraced her own mortality and invites me to embrace it with her, even though I'd rather hide my eyes from its truth.

Everything about her is God's grace in action. I have so much to learn.