My finger's like a piece of pie

I put my wedding ring back on a week ago. I’m not double-minded, and I usually don’t waffle in my decisions. But grief has a way of leaving you untethered, adrift, without traction. I expect it’s all going to be sort of squishy before things settle down.

I had proper motives for putting my ring in safekeeping. Since Susan had gone to Heaven two months before, it was a tangible step for me to move on, to heal. It’s not that I want to close a door on the past, but I don’t want to be shackled by it. I gotta go forward. But its absence from my finger tripped me up. Not wearing it felt as unnatural as wearing it feels normal. I kept being startled when absent-mindedly touching my finger, as though I forgot to tell my hand that I removed my ring on purpose. 

But really, the blank space on my finger was too much of an exclamation point behind the constant, silently droning statement that Susan has died and that we’re to remain apart for the rest of this earthly life. That blank space underscored my longing for her.

Still ringless, I went to God with my desires. All of them. When you think about it, our lives in this flesh are all about desires – to have our fill of food for hunger, drink for thirst, sleep for rest, comfort for pain, money for peace of mind, applause for ego, sex for lust, domination for power, and on and on. Our flesh is a huge, gaping mouth that will never be filled or satisfied no matter how much you dump into it.

I thought about our tendency to substitute the flesh for the spirit. We’re willing to chase our desires and spend enormous amounts of time, money and energy on them and then, when finally surrounded with an abundant quantity of what we want, we find it tastes tinny. When we decide we really didn’t want that thing, we move on to capture the next one.

I thought about marriage, and how in it God gave us the greatest relationship we could ever choose. I thought about how a husband and wife are joined together in love to know and be known together more than with any other person. I thought about how God designed loving, committed marriage to show us a small but tangible example of the intimacy he created us to have with him. I thought about how easily we can substitute flesh for spirit in marriage and expect our mates to love us perfectly and completely, the way only God himself can.

Then I thought about God himself. I thought about all of our longings. I realized again how we so easily stuff everything imaginable into the mouth of desire, hoping it fits into the God-shaped space inside us, and how reluctant we are to actually put God himself in there.

So my ringless self sat there before God and admitted that wearing my ring would comfort me. I said that although wearing it would still remind me of my longing for Susan, it would also prompt a prayer that I might desire him even more. I’ve said that prayer a lot lately. I am under construction. And my finger’s like a piece of pie – it has meringue on it. 

* * *

I expect this will be my last post on this blog since Susan's brain tumor journey is complete. I have more to write, but differently, so there's a book and some other stuff percolating. I'll share details here when I have them.

Stepping through it

When should a widower remove his wedding ring? It’s a fair question, even if there’s no good answer. Technically, I’m no longer married, even though I did nothing to end it. It’s just a fact. I’m no longer married. I could have removed my ring the day Susan passed away. I didn’t. I could wait three or four or six months. I didn’t. I removed it last night, two months after July 18. It seemed like the right thing to do. I thought of going three months, but why? When is the right time? I guess I was ready.

For a guy who doesn’t wear jewelry, it took a while to get used to wearing my wedding ring. I remember staring at it while we were driving to Palm Springs for our honeymoon, 28½ years ago. The sun gleamed off of its polished gold finish and sparkled in its stones. It left me transfixed, not just because of its beauty, but because we were married. I liked that. I liked my ring. It was an up-front symbol of our joy together and the commitment we made in marriage before God. I knew I never wanted to lose it – what a horrible thought. When I removed it, it was rarely and briefly.

So nearly three decades after a non-jewelry guy got used to wearing it, my ring is in safekeeping. It will take a while to get used to again, but oppositely. I was transfixed again today in reverse. I must have unconsciously touched my ring often over the years; because I certainly touched my bare finger a lot today. Each time, I was horrified for a moment that I lost it, and then remembered it’s gone on purpose. Then I’d forget the next time. I was unnerved over and over again. Seeing my ring used to remind me of Susan and our life together. Now, feeling an empty finger and seeing a pale ring mark reminds me of her absence. So I grieve. It’s another step, another phase of it, and part of the deal. 

Recently, someone who’s bearing the burden of caring for a loved one with a long-term illness asked me, “How do you do it? How do you carry on?” That’s another fair question. I struggled a bit to answer. I know how Susan and I did it; and I wasn’t sure if that would be true for my friend. We trusted God. I know he enabled us to trust him, but I don’t think it was any more than he’s enabled anyone else. I’m so glad we were able to respond the way we did, moving to accept our circumstances early and not fight them.

I listened a few minutes to my friend and realized she’d needed to vent. I also caught glimpses of healthy responses to their circumstances. Gratitude – knowing God better due to their situation. Joy – recognizing his goodness at work. Trust – learning to accept things the way they are, without assurance of our desired outcome. When times are truly hard, those are precious and powerful responses.

I’ve been thinking this week about the Shema, that centerpiece of Hebrew scripture that begins, “Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is One” in Deuteronomy 6:4. This command follows: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength.”

Sometimes it takes all our strength to love the Lord our God. To love him, we first must know that he’s good – a fact he declares about himself and demonstrates continually. His very nature is goodness. To love him, it helps to know he loved us first. Without his original love, we wouldn’t have the capacity for it ourselves. To love him, it also helps to know as well as possible that his love for us comes at an unimaginable expense to him.

God’s goodness and his original, costly love are the source of his command for us to love him with all our heart, soul, and strength. Sometimes it’s hard to love him when our circumstances seem unbearable. Sometimes it takes all of our might. But it’s comforting to know that the avenue of love between God and us flows two-ways. He already loves us with all his might. Lovingly, God wants our response. He simply directs us to love him the way he loves us. My finger feels naked.

God's faithfulness

A few weeks ago I stood near Susan’s grave, and looking down at the browned, uneven sod outlining her plot, I found myself talking to her. I never thought I’d be one of those people who do that. I know she’s not there, just the body she left behind. Still, I spoke quietly for a few minutes, as though she needed to know what’s been going on, how the kids and I are doing, how much we miss her, all that stuff. I cried a bit and knew I was speaking for me and not for her.

The emptiness of losing someone so close to you is hollower than I thought it would be. It’s not just emptiness, which is deep, it’s persistent emptiness, which is also permanent. There’s no shaking off the reality that Susan isn’t here anymore. It’s tempting to nurture a desire for her to return, but there’s no sense in it – just more emptiness, plus unfulfilled longing. So that’s a door to close. That’s how it is. I know it will get easier in time; but I do miss Susan. And that’s how it is.

All the while, God’s faithfulness prevails. I think scarcely a day has passed for six weeks without at least one card arriving in the mail to encourage and cheer us. All of them stacked would reach about a foot tall. A loving group of friends still provides dinner weekly; and a relative of Adam’s girlfriend just gave him a 1985 Thunderbird with 50k miles. Is it crazier that there’s a 1985 anything with 50k miles, or that someone gave it to Adam? We’ve received such amazing generosity. Meanwhile, the UCLA Foundation has received over $1500 in donations in Susan’s honor to support brain tumor research. Those are lasting and meaningful gifts.

In Psalm 77, Asaph cried out to God from the anguish of his situation, but leaning in to trust him, he said, “My heart mused and my spirit inquired.” Then Asaph remembered the goodness of the Lord and certainty of his promises to be loving, compassionate, and merciful. Next, in Psalm 78, he considers his stubborn and rebellious forefathers “whose hearts were not loyal to God, whose spirits were not faithful to him.”

I’m becoming more aware of my utter need for God. I agree with the hymn writer: “Just as I am, without one plea – but that your blood was shed for me, and that you bid me come to thee. O Lamb of God, I come. I come.” I’m aware of the Lord’s hand of grace on us as he guides me and our family. I pray I will have a loyal heart and a faithful spirit that can be of use to him somehow. I pray he will reveal his specific will for us in this new chapter of our lives.

Giving thanks

Thank you, Lord, for this day. Thank you for the gift of life. Thank you for life on earth under the covering of your goodness and for life in Heaven with you that is beyond our imagination.

Thank you, Lord, that even though human sin caused us to live in a fallen world, you did not abandon us. Thank you that you entered into our brokenness and made a way for us to be restored to you. Thank you for restoring Susan to you in life when she believed in your Son and again in death when she passed into heaven.

Thank you for working through Susan's cancer so we could know you in a way that we could not have known you otherwise. Thank you for comforting us and allowing us to share that comfort with others. Thank you for giving us faith so others may believe and for giving us strength so they may be strong. Thank you for Jesus who came to conquer death for us and who said, “Because I live, you also will live.” Thank you upholding that promise along with every other one you made.

Thank you for Susan. Thank you for her simple and solid faith, for her gentle spirit, and for the way she trusted you constantly. That was a gift. Thank you that she was the sweetest person I know.

Thank you for allowing us to grow in faith together, first as she led me and then as I led her, until over 30 years went by on the path of growing in Christ with each other. Thank you for the people who shared life with us and helped us grow that way by their example, their encouragement and their prayers.

Thank you for our church where generations of family were baptized and married, where we worshiped and served you, and where we married and raised our own children. Thank you for the balcony where I first heard Susan sing “Great is Thy Faithfulness” with the congregation on a Sunday evening, for the desire I felt to know you who are so faithful, and for the doorway into your kingdom you opened for me. Thank you for wooden pews where Susan first dared to raise her hands in worship, for chairs she rearranged for drama rehearsals and for carpet where she surrendered to you on her knees in prayer.

Thank you for the home Susan decorated with some lovely things but really beautified with her presence. Thank you that I got to be with my best friend every day and for how happy that made me. Thank you for how she created a place of love and refuge for our family and for the way her life matched the sign she put over our fireplace that encourages everyone to live well, love much, and laugh often.

Thank you for showing me that Susan's two favorite love languages were time spent together and acts of service, and that even though I selfishly neglected them for too long, you provided the conditions for me to speak love into my wife by focusing on her for hours, weeks and years while serving her in just about every way a person can. Thank you for how that brought healing to our souls. Thank you for a good marriage that became a great marriage and for more intimacy and fulfillment together than we thought possible. Thank you that I had the privilege to return her to you in better condition than when you gave her to me.

Thank you for how you prepared us for Susan’s brain tumor journey in giving us a sense that first, we would be okay no matter what, and second, that you had a purpose for us in it. Thank you for such hope and confidence in you. Thank you for helping us move past asking “Why?” since that leads to frustration and bitterness, and for leading us to ask “What are you doing?” and “Who do you want us to be?” and “How shall we respond?” since that leads to faith and discovery.

Thank you that when a spirit of fear came upon me one night like a massive, black wall near our bed, you reminded me that your perfect love casts out fear and you helped me push it away. Thank you for your Spirit, a wondrous helper.

Thank you for first-class medical care. Thank you for a neurosurgeon in Long Beach who offered his best help if we wanted it but his encouragement to visit UCLA for another opinion. Thank you for a neuro-oncologist at UCLA who looked at Susan’s scans and said “We can do that,” who was a faithful guide through the brain tumor wilderness and who also became a caring friend. Thank you that she met high standards, spared no resources, and would usually return my calls within about 3 minutes.

Thank you for the oncology nurse who would greet us in the clinic waiting area for chemotherapy, have a recliner or a bed waiting, and serve us like we were the only people in the place. Thank you for so many caring professionals who treated us that way.

Thank you that Susan had the perfect disposition to be a long-term brain tumor patient. Thank you that she fought to live without fighting you or me or family or the unfairness of cancer. Thank you for her incredible strength, her desire to do well in all things, and for her courage to stand fast when it was hard to do so. Thank you for loving hospice staff and for a nurse who, even when Susan couldn’t speak, said he knew she was a grateful person because she had a grateful face.

Thank you for our amazing church family. Thank you for a team of some 30 caregivers who donated at least 7,500 hours over six years so Susan had care and companionship each weekday. And they thanked us! Thank you for a couple who cared so much to offer us weekly housecleaning for us for six months and ended up providing it for nearly three years.

Thank you for over ten thousand dollars given to us over the years by way of greeting cards, cash pressed into handshakes and anonymous envelopes. Thank you for one dentist and staff where Susan worked who instead of a gift exchange at Christmas, gave us the money they would have spent on each other. Thank you for another dentist where Susan worked who provided years of free dentistry for our family during her illness. Thank you for a compassionate barber who refused payment from me more times than I can count and for friends who paid for my haircuts before they left the shop. Thank you for meeting our needs and giving us encouragement.

Thank you, Lord, for this long catalog of gratitude and for many more reasons to give thanks. Thank you for bringing Susan into the glory of your presence after helping her run and finish the race you set before her. Thank you for giving us comfort, hope and peace to counter the sadness of being separated from her. Thank you for reminding us that even if you give us 90 years, it’s only a breath. Thank you for teaching us to number our days and live with our eyes fixed on you. Thank you for helping me say, “Any way you bless me, I’ll be satisified.”

Susan's memorial service: Lexie

Our 23-year-old daughter Lexie sang “Not For A Moment” by Meredith Andrews at her mom’s memorial service. It’s an amazing song – and she sang it amazingly. I love my Lexie girl!

Not For A Moment (After All)

You were reaching through the storm
Walking on the water
Even when I could not see
In the middle of it all
When I thought You were a thousand miles away
Not for a moment did You forsake me
Not for a moment did You forsake me

[Chorus]
After all You are constant
After all You are only good
After all You are sovereign
Not for a moment will You forsake me
Not for a moment will You forsake me

You were singing in the dark
Whispering Your promise
Even when I could not hear
I was held in Your arms
Carried for a thousand miles to show
Not for a moment did You forsake me

[Chorus]

And every step every breath you are there
Every tear every cry every prayer
In my hurt at my worst
When my world falls down
Not for a moment will You forsake me
Even in the dark
Even when it's hard
You will never leave me
After all

[Chorus]
Not for a moment will You forsake me

Three weeks later

Nearly three weeks since Susan went to heaven, there’s a strange sense of time passing differently than before. So many things are different for our daughter, sons and me now – the focus of our activities, the function of our memories, the extension of our plans. Hours and days thread along unusually, laced with missing her.

When we were thrust into Susan’s life-and-death brain tumor journey six years ago, she and her care became the exclusive object of our attention. Lots of other things didn’t matter. Decisions about what to do today or next week or in months all played off how she was now or how she might be doing then. We learned to expect the unexpected and got along by praying all the time, hoping for the best, and being ready for anything.

Memories are weird. My consciousness of Susan a month ago was her still in bed like she had been for most of five months, her weakened body now paraplegic according to her nurse’s notes, and needing to be offered food or water if she wanted it. Peace prevailed for her; but it was a hard situation. We’re relieved that’s done. But my consciousness of Susan since she died is wider, freshly informed by photos chronicling her life and ours together. It’s youth, energy, vibrancy, maturity, joy, possibilities, life. I grieve in those memories. There’s not much relief there, just a lot of sadness for me.

While my sense of the future during Susan’s illness was bound with uncertainty about the outcome of her brain cancer, that’s been resolved. It’s done. Susan and I came to accept our circumstances in June of 2007, so I must do the same today. I’m working on that. It will take as long as it takes, so I’m making no demands of acceptance. I’m there mentally I think, so my emotions will trail along in their time.

Balance is important to me. I will not deny my grief, but if I focus just on me, pain and loss, I’ll become a thumb-sucking navel-gazer, to quote a favorite preacher. To counter self-pity, I've found it helpful to look up with gratitude to the Living God who sustained all of us so marvelously during our trial and with whom Susan now dwells in glory. Grief, relief, gratitude – I consider them all valuable. I’m amazed to think how both Susan’s confidence in God and her faith that Heaven would be more wonderful than we could imagine have been fulfilled for her. She’s with Him. There. Now – or whatever “now” means in Heaven. It’s thrilling, really.

I’ve been checking in with Lexie, Austin and Adam to know how they're doing. They’re okay, like me. It’s early. No one’s falling off the rails. Grief, relief, gratitude. Following such a profound conclusion three weeks ago, the future seems more open; time is perhaps a bit lighter, which is good.

To whatever degree you have followed our journey on this blog and elsewhere, you have measures of grief, too. I’ve become more aware of that lately from cards, notes, comments, and expressions of sympathy. We’re so thankful for your care, prayer and support for us, and all the ways you’ve expressed it. It means the world and had made a huge difference.

My high school classmate Connie Brown-Bennett was moved to write the following verses after Susan died and gave me permission to share. I may post other tributes in the coming days in the same way. This is so lovely and amazing:

Mike, I wasn't able to attend the funeral yesterday, but you and your family were in my thoughts and prayers. So much that late last night I wrote a poem/song inspired by Susan and you.

A woman of faith, a mother, friend, and wife. The love she had for others shone in her eyes. This world brought pain and suffering which she gracefully bore. Still trying to lift others, she fought hard but lost the war.

Well done thou good and faithful servant. Well done oh sweet and precious one. Your life has been an inspiration. You are blessed. You are loved.

A man of the Father, a husband, and a dad. With honor and courage held all that he had, bound together through their trials by the power of prayer, and his love never ending, in her need, he was there.

Well done though good and faithful servant. Well done, oh true and goodly son. Your life has been and inspiration. You are blessed. You are loved.

Susan's memorial service: Austin

Our 21-year-old son Austin honored his mom with this hymn at her memorial service. He played and sang so well.

It Is Well with My Soul

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,

when sorrows like sea billows roll;

whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say,

It is well, it is well with my soul.

Refrain:

It is well with my soul,

it is well, it is well with my soul.

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,

let this blest assurance control,

that Christ has regarded my helpless estate,

and hath shed his own blood for my soul.

(Refrain)

My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!

My sin, not in part but the whole,

is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,

praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

(Refrain)

Susan's memorial service: Slideshow

Here's the slideshow we featured at Susan's memorial service. 

Susan Buccowich Memorial Slideshow

Susan's memorial service: Adam

Our 20-year-old son Adam sang Phil Wickham's “Cielo” beautifully at his mom’s memorial service. "Cielo" means Heaven. I'm proud of you, son! 

Cielo

I'm walking through the bright white gates
Breathing in and out your grace
All around me melodies rise
That echo with the joy inside
So I start to sing

But I can't sing loud enough
I can't sing loud enough
When I'm singing for You my God
I can't sing loud enough
I can't sing loud enough
When I'm singing for You my God

With a thunder roll and a brilliant light
Your glory boasts and the heavens shine
The saints and angels stand in awe
Captured by the beauty of it all
So I fall to my knees

But I can't bow low enough
I can't bow low enough
At the vision of You my God
I can't bow low enough
I can't bow low enough
At the vision of You my God

I can't hold it all inside
I'm reaching for the One who 
Brought me out of death and into life

But I can't lift my hands high enough
Lift my hands high enough
When I'm reaching for You my God
I can't lift my hands high enough
Lift my hands high enough
When I'm reaching for You my God
Oh I'm reaching for You my God
I'm reaching for You
I'm reaching for You
I'm reaching for You my God

 Copyright © ℗ 2012 Phil Wickham

Susan's memorial service: brother Randy

Here is what Susan's brother Randy Romberg shared at her memorial service yesterday:

For whatever reason, Susan always really seemed to have great affection for me. This, in spite of some of my actions toward her when we were kids.

L-R: Randy, Susan & Brian Romberg, 1970

When Susan was in about 7th grade, she LOVED David Cassidy. She studied his every move in Tiger Beat magazine. She also played her Partridge Family album incessantly. I pounded on her bedroom door hoping she’d make the awful noise stop. She ignored me. At some point I actually came to believe that Keith Partridge thought he loved me.  

There were the times when I chastised her for being the slowest person on the planet Earth. You absolutely could not rush her. This did not always fit well with me and my hyper-active ways. My dad affectionately called her “Slough-Foot Sue.” I’m not 100% certain, but I think that title alluded to the fact that she was a bit slow moving.

There was also the time in high school when we were on vacation at Clear Lake and she took her usual full hour, at least, getting herself all dolled-up for the evening. When she came down to the dock, I pushed her in the lake. Nobody thought that was funny then either.

Actually, those incidents were few and far between. Most of the time the two of us treated each other with love and respect. 

Now, ever since we were in our thirties or so, I have consistently looked about ten years older than Susan. The truth is she was actually a year-and-a-half older than me. But that was one thing about my sister. She always looked great. As a matter of fact, it was important to her to look like everything was perfect. It was important to her to do as good a job as possible in all of the areas of her life. Susan worked very hard to be as perfect as possible when it came to being a daughter, a wife, a mother, and a Christian.

So, even though she was always kind and thoughtful, on the inside she was a bit of a worrier and kind of bound up. That was until about ten years ago. It was then that everything changed for her. You’re going to hear more about that in a little while. But suffice it to say that Susan met the real God who just wanted to love her and who didn’t expect perfection.

That’s when Susan became free. Free from guilt. Free from expectations. Before that time she was careful not to offend, not to draw attention to herself, and to always do the right thing. After that time, Susan grew deeper friendships, laughed more and loved more. Her faith became something simple. A simple trust that the God who loved her held her close. That simple faith is what got her through breast cancer and a long road of brain cancer.

Further, after Susan’s stroke and brain surgeries, she had like zero inhibitions. She would sing a silly song for you. All you had to do was ask. She’d make strange faces just for kicks. And hair and make-up weren’t even a consideration. This was definitely not the Susan from before. I know some of this was the effects of brain trauma, but it was the path she was heading down anyway. I’m telling you, she became free.  

So here are my questions for you; Are you a worrier? Are you bound up on the inside? Are you attempting to measure up in some way? You don’t have to. There is a solution. His name is Jesus. And He is a God who offers freedom. The only thing He asks is simple trust – the kind that Susan had.

Obituary

Susan M. Buccowich

Susan Buccowich, 51, passed away peacefully on July 18, 2013 following a six-year battle with brain cancer. Susan Marie Romberg was born July 23, 1961, the second of three children and the only daughter of David and Helen Romberg. She grew up in Paramount and attended Lincoln Elementary and Alondra Junior High before graduating from Paramount High School in 1979.

A key aspect of Susan’s youth was her activity at Emmanuel Reformed Church in Paramount where she belonged with generations of her Christian family. Depending on her age and the day of the week, she could be found in worship, attending or teaching Sunday school, participating in youth groups, singing in choirs, acting in and leading drama ministry, and participating in women’s ministries plus a variety of Bible studies. Susan centered her life on God and his people.

She met Mike Buccowich at church one evening with the college group in 1982. They began dating within a couple of months and became inseparable. They enjoyed each other’s company anywhere and spent time serving at church, sharing Falcon burgers at Cerritos College, and establishing a relationship they would treasure. In 1984, Susan graduated from the Cerritos College Dental Hygiene Program and pursued her professional career. Mike and Susan were excited to be husband and wife, and married on March 23, 1985.

Motherhood arrived with joy for Susan in 1989 when their daughter Lexie was born, followed by sons Austin in 1991 and Adam in 1993. She learned to balance motherhood with her career, and created a warm and loving home for her family. Susan also helped introduce a legacy of faith to her children, helping them to know and serve God just as she had done. She happily continued family traditions in her own home and sought to create lasting memories on birthdays, Christmas, Easter, and Thanksgiving. Annual highlights also included family vacations for water skiing at Clearlake, snow skiing in Mammoth, and weekend retreats in the mountains at Angelus Oaks.

Susan’s sincere faith and trust in God became remarkably evident when she was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2005. Caught early and treated with surgery in 2006, it served to make Susan more thankful for the gift of life. But her Christian foundation became indispensable when she was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor in 2007. Knowing her life belonged to God and that his good purposes can be established in spite of the hardest circumstances, she determined to prevail against a disease with an average life expectancy of 18 months.

She endured radiation treatment and 6 chemotherapies,10 ER admissions, 19 hospital stays and 14 surgeries throughout her brain tumor journey. She overcame a number of complications including tumor progression four times, brain hemorrhages twice, and even fungal meningitis. But bigger than her overstuffed medical file, Susan’s huge capacity to prevail with peace in the face of death demonstrated God’s resources at work in her life. 

She pursued her journey knowing that God would provide for her needs and wanted others to share in the comfort she received. Her positive attitude brought encouragement to her family and to others as God saw fit. Her legacy of trusting the Lord in spite of overwhelming circumstances will continue by his grace.

Susan is survived by her husband Mike and children Lexie, Austin and Adam; her brothers Brian (Nancy) and Randy (Dorothy) Romberg and their families; her father David Romberg; and scores of people who knew her and accompanied her on her journey – friends, co-workers, patients, and people of the family of God. Funeral services will be held the week of July 22, 2013 at Emmanuel Reformed Church.

Susan’s family expresses their profound gratitude for everyone who prayed for and supported us over the years with family meals, gifts, gift cards, housecleaning, cash, gas cards, flowers and countless notes of encouragement. We especially want to thank Susan’s caregiver team for your vital weekday visits so she could be supported while we were at work and school. You are amazing. Your help was life-giving.

We’re also deeply grateful to Dr. Leia Nghiemphu and the neuro-oncology and neuroscience teams at UCLA who extended Susan’s life again and again and gave us the gift of time. Susan was a beneficiary of yourr tireless commitment to bring healing into the devastation of brain cancer for patients and families. Your commitment will continue to bear fruit in the form of more effective treatments and better outcomes.

Those who are inclined to remember Susan with flowers are encouraged instead to donate generously to the UCLA neuroscience program. You may donate online or by check payable to the UCLA Foundation and mailed to: 

The UCLA Foundation

Attn: Patricia Roderick

UCLA Medical Sciences Development

10945 Le Conte Avenue Suite 3132

Los Angeles, CA 90095-1784

In Heaven

Susan went to Heaven this morning. I was lying on the couch not sleeping when Daisy barked softly a couple of times. Alerted, I stepped over to Susan right away. She had stopped breathing. It was 4:23am. I listened as her heart quietly stopped beating a few minutes later.

Pastor Ken shared this word with us yesterday from Psalm 73:

“Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand. You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will take me into glory. Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.

Those who are far from you will perish; you destroy all who are unfaithful to you. But as for me, it is good to be near God. I have made the Sovereign Lord my refuge; I will tell of all your deeds.”

Our sister-in-law Nancy shared this word with us today, John 10:28, “I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one will snatch them out of my hand.”

I also think of John 14:19, “Because I live, you also will live.” The Word, the Word of the Lord, the Word of Life. Such a comfort. Such grace when we need it. Our God is everything to us.

Passing over

Last night, Susan began passing over from her familiar, temporary home to the home in Heaven the Lord has prepared for her. She is actively passing away now in that final course that can last hours or days. Her body so clearly is failing; yet she’s still so lovely. 

Our family and friends have been gathering with us to visit, grieve and say goodbye, or at least to get used to the idea. It’s hard. We’re sad and we have peace. Susan has peace. We feel so loved and supported and thankful. We treasure God’s presence, welcome his timing, and pray for her comfort and ours.

Hospice, week 14

At 14 weeks on hospice care, Susan’s status seems strangely stable. She continues her trend of less eating and drinking with more sleeping and unresponsiveness. This week she wasn’t interested in food from Tuesday through Thursday, but finally ate a bit of applesauce yesterday morning.

When I spoke with her hospice nurse during yesterday’s visit, he said the human body is an amazing resource. Looking up to God, he said we’ve been given all we need to survive with the smallest amount of nourishment. He told me in spite of all that’s going against her, she has no infection, no skin breakdown, the meds and nutrition she needs – she’s doing perfectly.

We’re left to continue our surreal existence with Susan sort of living and sort of dying, attended by the peace of God. We’re in a place we don’t want and don’t want to be rid of; dealing with a situation we didn’t start and can’t stop and can’t speed up or slow down. We can’t control such circumstances, so we accept them. Knowing the Living God as we do, we have comfort in yielding to him.

The holiness of it is that a precious human life waits in the center of our situation – Susan, my wife, our kids’ Mom, others’ loved one. She’s precious to us and greatly precious to God. We’re all focused on her and attending to her needs and her comfort. The holiness of it means God is present with us during these days for his will, his good plans for us, and his glory in it. We recognize that and accept it, and we don’t need to know why it’s happening or what will happen next. It’s all so weird and hard and okay.

We thank God for his presence and for the support of a community who prays, visits, brings meals, and shows love in lots of ways.

Six on the 4th

Things have changed by degree for Susan over the past week – persistent sleeping, hazy alertness, less food and water, few words. She’s unable to move her left arm now, like the rest of her limbs. Water comes by way of a two-ounce syringe since she’s not able to use a straw anymore. During a brief waking moment the other day, I told her I can see how she’s doing physically and asked, “But how’s your spirit? Do you still have peace?” “Yeah.” I knew she did, but hoped she could say it. It just feels good that we can still communicate.

Six years ago yesterday, I watched as Susan’s condition worsened at home. We were biding time until her scheduled brain surgery after her tumor biopsy the prior week. But her headache grew more intense that day and brought lethargy and vomiting. I helped her into the SUV and rushed to Long Beach Memorial, watching her fade as we drove. I parked near the ER entrance and began helping her out of the passenger seat when she passed out and slumped over. Was she dying? I remember saying “Susan, stay with me” sharply and hollered for someone to grab a wheelchair.

They admitted her in a blur; then came all the hook-ups, a CT scan, a visit from Pastor Ken, and some groggy, painful hours for her in ER that led to getting a bed in the neuro unit upstairs. I went home to rest but got a midnight call that she was in ICU on a ventilator following a seizure. I met Susan’s brother Randy there. We watched as she writhed and pulled at her restraints to yank the tube from her throat. I remember how that didn’t seem like Susan to me.

Those July 3^rd events brought her to emergency brain surgery the evening of July 4^th. Her family rushed home from Clearlake or booked flights from Colorado while friends left their patriotic parties to join the hospital vigil. We had lots of prayers and tears, and then great relief when she came out of surgery with a good report. What followed were the waves of treatment, healing, recurrence and complications of brain tumor world that have dominated our lives for the past six years. Now Susan is home on hospice care.

I think we’re as prepared as a family can be for days like these. I’ve been blessed by our children’s bravery and how their recent comments reveal acceptance. Lexie said she’s glad we’ve had this time to be with Mom while she’s on hospice, that it’s better this way than if she’d passed away more quickly. Austin said he’ll be relieved when Mom is in Heaven, healed in the presence of God instead of lingering here in her weakness. Adam said he assured Mom that she doesn’t need to stay here for our sake, that we’ll be okay, that she’s not letting us down when it’s her time to go. I’m so thankful that God has given us all such strength.

I’m encouraging them to tell their Mom what’s on their hearts. She can’t respond much, but she hears us. I asked them to imagine her not being here – if they think there’s something they wish they would have said to her, they should say it now. 

The Psalms continue to resonate as I read and pray with Susan in mind.

“But may all who seek you rejoice and be glad in you; may those who love your salvation always say, “Let God be exalted! Yet I am poor and needy; come quickly to me, O God. You are my help and my deliver; O Lord, do not delay.” Psalm 70:4-5

11 weeks and 6 years

This week makes 11 that Susan’s been home on hospice and six years since we found out about her brain tumor. It’s an odd conflict of trends since one suggests demise and the other survival. I suppose “conflict” rightly describes a lot of things for us.

The kids and I are conflicted in that we don’t want to lose Mom, but we don’t want her to linger in her diminished state. Susan seems conflicted since she’s at peace with things overall but clearly struggling with being bedridden for so long, unable to speak much and able to move only her left arm due to painful muscle loss. Six years have widened the divide between our former life and our brain tumor one. We’ve adjusted as much as we can to the new normal, but we’re all naturally conflicted about having lost the vibrancy of those days even though we know God is sustaining us in all of it.

I’m conflicted too, in all the ways I’ve mentioned, having borne them all to some extent just to identify them. What may have changed for me over the past week or so is a greater impatience for our circumstances. I don’t like seeing Susan in pain, lingering like she is. Lately she’s awake and cheerful once for every five or six times she’s awake in discomfort. Things have shifted. That’s hard.

What hasn’t changed is the goodness of the Lord, the surety of our heavenly home, the good plans he yet has for us, and our gratitude for all God has done for us. He’s secured our lives eternally and has kept us in his care. Our friend Letty Wunderley brought a delicious meal tonight and reminded me that God orders our steps. That means he knows the end from the beginning, from our birth to our death, and he has our lives wrapped up in his grace. There’s a great peace in knowing that. It prevents us from trying to control things we can’t and to just accept. And trust.

We’re not the first ones to cry out. David says in Psalm 13:1, “How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?” That’s a good question. It’s honest. I like how it doesn’t bother God when we ask it of him. He knows our hearts.

So after 11 weeks and six years, we’re conflicted, but thankful. We’re torn, but peaceful. We don’t understand so many things, but we know and trust the one who does. We trust his plans and his timing. We trust the Lord. Whatever may have changed for me over the past week, our God never changes. Our help is in his name, the one who made heaven and earth. He’s just as worthy of our thanks and praise today as he was on June 25, 2007. 

June 26 will be six years of Susan’s brain tumor journey. That’s 2,190 days. Tomorrow is just one more, so we’ll keep taking them one at a time.

Desperate to see Jesus

Now in her 10^th week of hospice care, Susan’s trend continues with noticeable decline over the weeks yet little change from day to day. She usually manages to have one daily meal while we do our best to keep her hydrated. Her verbal interactions are small and infrequent. She still smiles easily when she’s awake and lucid; but sadly, those days are fewer. She’s been less responsive since the weekend.

We recently received an amazing gift. Our friend Joyce Wybenga delivered a DVD from a church service around 2002 when Susan shared her experience from Joyce’s Companions group that focused on listening to God. It’s amazing on several levels.

The video recalls a time of young kids, busy schedules and certainly no inkling of Susan’s brain tumor. It’s deeply moving to see and hear her again in the prime of life. She appears animated in a way otherwise entrusted to memory and displays the energy, humor and emotion that are so familiar to knowing her. It’s a precious gift and a great comfort to see that Susan again.

But what she says is more remarkable. Susan relates an instance with the story of Zacchaeus, who wanted to see Jesus but could not because of the crowd. She shares how meditating on the Word in Luke 19 ushered in a new experience with God for her. She confesses that she either had been too distracted by the crowd in her life to see Jesus or too reliant on her own efforts, but that she yielded to God that night in Companions. She shares how it changed her.

I remember that event and the season which followed, and how God took hold of Susan’s heart and secured it in his own. It was a time when she moved from a position of striving to one of receiving. She caught God’s love for her in a series of powerful, cleansing experiences, like waves washing over her. As she yielded to him, she let go of stuff inside and received healing. No longer content with doing, she found fulfillment in being with God and surrendering to his will, which transformed her. Susan saw God and his love for her in a new and truer way, which changed how she saw herself.

I remember how it changed her worship. I’d see her in church next to the kids from my perch with the worship team, her arms splayed out like if they could go further, they would. Sometimes I wouldn’t see her at all because she’d be on her knees. I loved seeing her surrender in worship and how it inspired me.

I remember times past when I’d be serving in music ministry or church leadership and growing spiritually, maybe more or differently than Susan was at the time. She’d feel left out and a bit frustrated. During this season though, she was growing, almost slingshotting forward. It was exciting for both of us.

For a long time, Susan had wanted to see Jesus just like Zacchaeus, but couldn’t because of the crowd. God used that passage to call her out, to lead her away from the crowd so he could speak tenderly to her and bless her. That’s what she shares in the video, so we see a transformed woman speak with eloquence and emotion about how God’s love changed her and how she surrenders to him every day.

I’d have been happy for five minutes of Susan reading a grocery list on video in 2002, so this is an over-the-top gift. It’s her, complete and fulfilled, sharing from her heart about real and meaningful truths in her life. I wasn’t able to produce a clip of it for this post, but you get the idea. Sometime later I hope you can see the visual evidence of someone completely captivated by God’s love.

It may seem awkward if not impossible to connect that vibrant Susan to the one in her hospice bed. I know I can’t neatly tie a cause and effect together here or explain God’s purposes in it. Neither can you. We can explain the person and ways of the King of Heaven to a point; but beyond that point, we can’t. God is so much mystery, and that’s good. Perhaps we’re learning to live with it and simply to trust that the One who loves us so well will work it all out.

Hospice, week 8

Today begins Susan’s eighth week at home on hospice care. On days when she’s more awake and alert, I get the feeling she’ll be with us indefinitely. On days when she mostly sleeps and doesn’t eat, drink or respond much, it seems she has less time, days maybe. It’s hard to know because we can’t. We’re left to trust the Lord with life and death just as much as we did when Susan’s brain tumor journey started six years ago.

These days there are usually about 2 hours in 24 for us to interact. She’s most lovely at first when she fully awakes, with her eyes clear, bright, and blue. Her warm smile beautifully frames her thinning face. She responds to my jokes with a knowing look and a brief giggle. We still connect. In those moments I move in with affirming words, food, water, and meds. I ply all of her daily meds on her at once since a second opening is so elusive.

I enjoy praying with her before her meal. We thank God for the gift of life, for his love and faithfulness, for his peace, joy, healing and strength; for our kids. We declare our trust in him and our thanks for holding our lives in his hands. When we finish praying, Susan usually sighs and looks me in the eyes instead of saying “amen.” Sometimes she says simply, “yes.” It’s all amen anyway. Yes, God, you are good. Yes, we trust you. Yes, we thank you.

It’s amazing how God’s Word becomes so consistently relevant through the filter of each day’s circumstances. This week I saw Psalm 65 like never before. David says:

“Praise awaits you, our God, in Zion; to you our vows will be fulfilled. You who answer prayer, to you all people will come. When we were overwhelmed by sins, you forgave our transgressions. Blessed are those you choose and bring near to live in your courts! We are filled with the good things of your house, of your holy temple.”

Eventually, all people will come to God. Susan will come in her time with his Son’s credentials. Her praise waits for that moment when she comes to him, when her vows are fulfilled – like her vow to trust him for salvation. She’ll praise him in person for the day he relieved her of her sins and forgave her transgressions. She’ll praise him for so much more; her praise will go on and on. She’ll join those he chose to bring near and live in his courts. She’ll be filled with the good things of his house.

“You answer us with awesome and righteous deeds, God our Savior, the hope of all the ends of the earth and of the farthest seas, who formed the mountains by your power, having armed yourself with strength, who stilled the roaring of the seas, the roaring of their waves, and the turmoil of the nations. The whole earth is filled with awe at your wonders; where morning dawns, where evening fades, you call forth songs of joy.”

Meanwhile, here on earth where morning dawns and evening fades, the One who answers prayer responds with awesome and righteous deeds. We know the effect of his creative deeds that brought our world into being. We’re among those across the globe who witness his dominion and care over us.

“You care for the land and water it; you enrich it abundantly. The streams of God are filled with water to provide the people with grain, for so you have ordained it. You drench its furrows and level its ridges; you soften it with showers and bless its crops. You crown the year with your bounty, and your carts overflow with abundance. The grasslands of the wilderness overflow; the hills are clothed with gladness. The meadows are covered with flocks and the valleys are mantled with grain; they shout for joy and sing.”

During our years on the earth, we all enjoy the abundance of the world God made and sustains for us. For a time we have the opportunity to praise him for his goodness that covers the earth. And if we choose, we can lay claim to the greater glory that is the heavenly Zion. If we choose, we can praise him now, in our plenty or our wanting. But we look forward to the greater praise that rightly waits for him when we enter his house at last.

Hospice, week 7

Susan’s progression of more sleeping and less waking continues since last week. The past few days she’s had fewer meals, either from sleeping through mealtimes or losing interest in the meal she’s having. Her hospice nurse encouraged me not to worry, that she really doesn’t need more than one meal a day. It’s hard to know how much time she has at this point; but I know one can linger only so long without food and even less without water. I know that as Susan’s journey takes her toward Heaven, food and water will become less important to her.

That said, today she had several awake periods and ate three meals. She had a good day. She smiles easily when she wakes up and still never complains. Our messing around is muted; but she still giggles when I tease her. That’s because when we mess around, we don’t mess around.

I asked Susan the other day if she’s ready to go to Heaven. She said “yes.” Curious, I asked if she thinks she’ll go to Heaven soon. Just like you and me, she couldn’t answer. I asked if she’s scared. She said “no.” I love her courage and trust in God.

I’ve been praying Psalm 63 for Susan this week. David wrote these words in the Desert of Judah:

¹ O God, you are my God, earnestly I seek you; my soul thirsts for you, my body longs for you, in a dry and weary land where there is no water.

Susan’s soul thirsts for God and her body longs for relief in a weary land, our restless world.

² I have seen you in the sanctuary and beheld your power and your glory. ³ Because your love is better than life, my lips will glorify you. ⁴ I will praise you as long as I live, and in your name I will lift up my hands. ⁵ I will be fully satisfied as with the richest of foods; with singing lips my mouth will praise you.

She knows the God she worships. She knows his goodness. His love is her greatest treasure, and is one of the spiritual possessions she will take with her from this earth. The lesser things will stay here; but she’ll bring her great treasures back to the Lord with thanksgiving so they can celebrate together.

⁶ On my bed I remember you; I think of you through the watches of the night. ⁷ Because you are my help, I sing in the shadow of your wings. ⁸ My soul clings to you; your right hand upholds me.

Susan’s journey is so much more private now. Sometimes I find her awake at night, lying there quietly. She has thoughts that only the Lord knows. God truly is our help; we have no other. He gives us great peace, so much that we praise him under his unseen protection.

⁹ Those who want to kill me will be destroyed; they will go down to the depths of the earth. ¹⁰ They will be given over to the sword and become food for jackals. ¹¹ But the king will rejoice in God; all who swear by God will glory in him, while the mouths of liars will be silenced.

Cancer is a great disabler that is itself disabled. The lie of cancer is that it will consume you; but now I realize how limited it is. It cannot touch your soul. It cannot snuff your spirit. Cancer may so disease a person’s body that it cannot go on living – but cancer dies when the body does. Cancer loses. When Susan goes to heaven, she will glory in the Lord, forever.

Sometimes not here

The noticeable change for Susan over the past week is a slight decline to the point that she’s sometimes not here. She sleeps most of the time, often deeply, and is often weakly alert when she’s awake. When she is alert just after waking up, she doesn't have a lot of stamina. She's otherwise comfortable and sweet-spirited. Word-finding is really hard, so she doesn't talk much. I noticed the word “paraplegic” in her nurse’s notes, so I guess that’s true since she hasn’t walked in about three months. Medical terms can be jarring in their accuracy.

It’s weird that she’s sometimes not here. She slept through me repositioning her in bed recently. She slept during Adam’s birthday party with 15 guests. On Sunday, after sleeping all night, she slept through late morning. She slept through much of yesterday’s bed-bath with her nurse’s assistant.

Going on hospice is acknowledges that if someone’s about to commence the process of dying, you’re going to support it and not interfere. That’s a hard decision to make. That process on hospice means you’re sometimes not here; then I suppose it means you’re sometimes here but mostly not, and then finally you’re not here at all. I've noticed that Susan’s journey is becoming more private, something she has to do alone. That’s hard too, even though there's no other way. Gradually or all at once, being separated from someone you love is just really hard.

The Fairfield Four sing, “You got to walk that lonesome valley, you got to go by yourself… ain’t nobody else gonna go there for you.” That’s another jarring truth even without the medical terms

The other day I thanked the Lord for being my shepherd, so there’s nothing I will want. I thanked him for making me lie down in green pastures, because I needed that rest. I thanked him for leading me beside quiet waters and enjoyed the sounds I heard. He refreshes my soul. I thanked him for guiding me down the right path for my good and his glory.

I thanked him again that his presence, his perfect love, casts out all fear from the valley of the shadow of death. I thanked him that while it’s a lonesome valley, he’s there with his strong hand to lift and guide and comfort. I thanked him again that the reason it’s the valley of the shadow of death and not the valley of utter darkness is his light. His light gives vision and means the gloom is only temporary. 

"Because you are my help, I sing in the shadow of your wings. My soul clings to you; your right hand upholds me.” Psalm 63:7-8