MARCH 2016 - At the same time that a brash, crass celebrity megalomaniacal narcissist was getting more air time and votes than anybody in the early presidential primaries, a quiet, supremely talented mountain of a man cared for his dying wife and wrote tenderly about their love.
Joey Feek died Friday, March 4. Her husband, Rory, has chronicled her journey — their journey — in his blog, thislifeilive.com. His well-chosen words are woven into a beautiful, moving story of strength and frailty, friendship and love, life and living. They bear the kind of wisdom and insight that comes only when you live it and earn it.
Joey’s death and Rory’s words are hard. Not cold or without emotion, but difficult. Read in the context of good friends who are watching loved ones suffer and saying their own goodbyes, they dredge up memories, and the emotions that go with them, from almost 18 years ago when I watched my dad die. He had an aneurysm that flooded his brain with blood two days after Father’s Day, 1998, two days after I failed to give him the electric razor I planned to buy for him, thinking I had time.
I don’t dwell on that fact, but I do think of it every time I pass by electric razors in a store, and I think it has made me more conscious of the time I spend with the people I love. I am more deliberate about saying the things that need to be said to the people who need to hear them, and that is the advice I am giving right now to the hurting people in my life: Don’t leave anything undone.
My mom died 10 years ago. Where my dad’s death was sudden, hers was slow. Congestive heart failure slowly and painfully made breathing increasingly more difficult over the course of a few years. She spent the better part of her last three months in the hospital and those last few days with a bi-pap machine forcing oxygen into her lungs. She hated it, and told me so.
On more than one occasion, she took the mask off her face and stopped breathing. God looked after us in a special way during those long, painful days. My mom was on the fifth floor of the hospital where I worked. Her nurse at night, when her restless breathing was hardest, was my oldest childhood friend. A familiar, caring face that my mom recognized and trusted. There could not have been a better nurse for her. Ever.
I vowed to myself that I would not have regrets with my mom. I spent many days and many nights by her side. I talked to her, brought family to see her, brought her treats and, in the end, honored her wishes. One night, when we were alone, we talked about what would happen if she removed the bi-pap mask again. She told me she understood. So, I asked the questions that were really important: Are you sure you’re ready? Is your heart right with Jesus? Are you harboring any unforgiveness? Are you sure heaven is your future?
She assured me she was ready, and with that, I climbed into her hospital bed with her and sang. My mama always wanted me to sing and play her favorite hymns for her on our piano at home. I often found excuses not to. I would not have that regret now. And, so, I sang.
Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.
Because He lives, all fear is gone.
Because I know He holds the future, And life is worth the living just because He lives.
Within a few hours she was gone, and I had no regrets.
That is the advice I give to those who are walking in the valley of the shadow of death. Follow Rory’s example. Learn from my experiences. Say what you need to say. Do what you need to do. Do it now. There will be time for the other stuff, but right now, make time for the people you love. Buy the gift. Sing the song. Ask the question. Have no regrets.
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