See ya

With a few key strokes I deleted his name from the list today. It was a short list and his name was at the top: Uncle Gordie, Miriam, Heather, Terry, Aliya, Andrea. I stared at the place his name had been... Not the space where it had been, because the delete button leaves no such gap. At least with paper and pencil  there would have been a messy eraser mark or scribble or line through his name, but my iPhone had no memory of it. His name was simply no longer on the list.

I cried. I wept for the loss, for the finality of it, for the space that wasn't there but that gnawed at my stomach and filled my chest and throat with ache.

I have trouble staying awake when I pray. Sitting, kneeling, standing or walking I either slide into sleep or drift into distraction. So I started to write in a notebook while I prayed. When I got my new phone I realized that I could just list the people I wanted to pray for, write it all down once, and then I wouldn't forget anyone. I typed in the names of everyone I want to pray for, and each day the list would grow as more names came to mind or as I met new people. But there's a separate list at the very top, a list of people I love who are battling cancer.

By the time I was 20, cancer had taken Andrew's dad,  my mom, my aunt, and then Andrew's best friend. So I pretty much assumed cancer was the end. Always.

But then people started surviving. Kim, Laura, Janet, MaryAnn, Lisa... I started to believe that healing was possible and that's what I prayed for. In earnest.

In the last month little taps on the shoulder reminded me that sometimes, though, healing doesn't come. My dear friend and encourager, Bruce, started to talk to me about it. I heard a song on the radio about it. 3 times. The daily bread reading one morning laid it all out for me. I heard the words "palliative care" more and more. And then I went to visit Miriam one afternoon at the hospital and they redirected me to the hospital where my mom had died. To the same floor. Two doors down. I took a deep breath and headed on in and visited my very alive, inspiring, beautiful friend.

As I walked from the hospital to my car I realized something. My name's on somebody's list (at least I hope it is), and someday they'll have to take me off it. None of us gets out alive, I've heard it said.

I am an eternal being, though, designed and created by the everlasting God. Heaven waits for me.  So even as my name is scratched off of or deleted from someone's list here, it's already on another list there. THAT's what you call blessed assurance.

So when I took Uncle Gordie's name off my little list tonight, as painful as that was, and as much as I'm devastated by the loss of one of the best men I've ever known, my dear uncle, my friend, my tease and tormentor, I am reminded that his name is written in the book of life, God's list. And there's no delete button.

When I tried to teach my first daughter to say goodbye, I was always disappointed that she just made some unintelligible sound, waving her hand like mad at her own sweet face. But one day, as I encouraged her to say goodbye, heard the usual babbling, shrugged apologetically at Marce and called out my usual "See ya", I suddenly heard Gaelle very clearly say what she'd been saying for weeks: "seee-ah! Seeee-ah".

See ya, uncle Gordie. I miss you. I love you. I mourn for you. But I'll see ya.

And for those of us left behind:"So do not fear for I am with you. Do not be dismayed for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will uphold you with my righteous right hand"-Isaiah 41:10