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“For we know that if the
earthly tent
we
live in is destroyed,
we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven,
not built by human hands.”
2 Corinthians 5:1 (NIV)
My
husband and I were married for thirty-eight years, the last three years of
which his health declined due to a very rare form of cancer—chronic myeloid
leukemia with five genetic mutations. His doctors estimated that only two
hundred people had ever been diagnosed with this form of cancer. At that time,
my husband was one of only two dozen with the diagnosis in the world.
What an
uplifting experience it is to look at life as a miracle, to view each day as a
gift. My husband was told he had five
months. He managed to survive thirty-five during which we experienced much
pleasure together exploring the wonder of God’s presence, the meaning of life
and our role in it and how to provide for others as we prepared for separating.
We talked about art and literature, the beauty of nature, the gifts of the life
around us including the blessing of our large blended family of my four and his
three children and our grandchildren.
We had
always valued our Episcopal faith, but during this time, we came closer to our
church and relied more on its support. Believing even more strongly in its
sacraments, we regularly sought communion. When we were no longer able to get
out, our friend Andrew Smith, a wonderful man and retired Connecticut bishop,
graciously came to our home and invited me to participate fully as his
assistant in the experience.
Before
my husband passed away, we discussed how he might be able to share his presence
after death. He might be able to turn a light or the television on. We
dismissed these both as being easily explained away by natural phenomenon:
While they may very well have been just what we were looking for, we concluded
that we couldn’t be certain, so we shouldn’t count on either of these as sure
signs.
“What do
you think you could do to let me know about your ability to stick around?” I
asked.
“I know
what I’ll do,” he replied. “I’ll ring the doorbell.”
“Honey,
you know the doorbell doesn’t work anymore,” I said.
“That
won’t be a problem,” he said with a smile. “When you hear it, be sure to look,
but don’t expect to see anyone.” Situated on a hill, our shingled
Nantucket-style home had a wraparound veranda and a circular drive with clear
sight lines of the street from both the back and the front.
I was
with my husband in the hospital when he passed away. I climbed into the
hospital bed beside him when I knew he was breathing his last breath. We
embraced and said, “I love you so much.” As we said our farewells, we spoke our
hope of being reunited.
Five
days later, I was in the house by myself when the doorbell rang loud and deep,
twice. I went to the front door, opened it and looked out. There was nobody
there. I raced to open the back door. No one was there either.
I
returned to the front door. Straight ahead, a butterfly hovered at the column
to my right, and a dragonfly hovered at the column to my left. As I stepped
out, the butterfly flew directly past me over to the dragonfly. After a moment,
the dragonfly crossed to the other column. From out of nowhere, a warm,
delicious breeze swept over me. Carol Schaller
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