Saying "Good-by" to My Brother

I spent some time yesterday with my younger brother - younger by some 17 months - who is in the final days of his life here on this earth.  Over a year ago he was diagnosed with kidney cancer which had metastasized in his bones.  He went through many rounds of chemotherapy which helped him to have a measure of quality of life with his family for many months.  But this cancer would not surrender to the chemo, although it was attacked by those drugs vigorously. 


My brother is home having expressed that as his desire.  I had last seen my brother some ten days earlier.  He had been alert and we talked about politics - which he loved to do; we had many conversations through the years as he pushed 18 wheels down between the two white stripes on the highway.  He joked with the nurses who came in to administer his medications.  I could tell that he was in a lot of pain, but it was being monitored with his newly acquired morphine-pump.  I put my hand on this shoulder - he winced because of the pain - and I prayed for him and his family.  I said, "Mike, I may never get to see you again here on this side of glory, but I will see you up there someday."  We both had tears as we said good-bye.  Our usual way of ending a conversations was, "Talk to you later." 


As I walked into my brother's room yesterday, I could hardly believe what I saw.  He had slipped into a deep-sleep, perhaps one might call it a coma.  His breathing was shallow but would be interrupted with an occasional gasp for more air.  His eyes were nearly closed and his body was at rest.  I leaned over the side of his bed and told him I was there.  I think he knew my voice as he tried to move his head and briefly looked up at me; then the eyes closed once again.  As my Mom and I sat around his bedside with his wife and daughter, we talked as if Mike were part of the conversation.  I have been told by many that people who are in a coma can hear those conversations, so we were careful in our discussions. 


Then it was time to leave.  I once again put my hand upon Mike's shoulder and prayed, thanking God for those drugs that were keeping his final days as pain-free as possible; thanking God for a loving wife who was as an angel in her care for her husband; and asking God to surround that family with His love and care as they watched and waited.  And, as I was leaving, I said to my brother, "Mike, I know I will never see you again here, but I will look forward to seeing you in glory." 


As I drove home several thoughts lingered in my mind.  First, I tried to imagine what my brother's expressions might be when he steps through those portals into glory.  My brother was a truck-driver for over 35 years.  He once told me that he had driven truck in every state except for Alaska and Hawaii, and had logged well over a million miles - probably closer to two million.  If there are trucks in heaven, I know my brother will stand in line to get behind the wheels of one.  I know he will search through the crowds looking for our Dad and our grandparents.  I don't believe we can ever comprehend what those first views of eternity will be like...but I am guessing that they will be pretty fantastic.


Second, I realized once again that, even though we know the joys and glories of heaven that await those who lie there in that bed, we struggle with "letting go."  I put my arms around my niece and she said that it was so hard to see her Dad lying there and yet it was so hard to let him go.  I thought of that scene at the foot of the cross of Jesus and wondered how Mary handled the "letting go" of her son.  I think Jesus sensed her struggle when he invited John to take care of her - she was going to need someone.  We struggle with "letting go" because of the love that binds us together.  Yesterday I had flash-back moments of standing beside the bed of my Dad in those final hours of his life.  My Dad was my best-friend.  How could I manage without his counsel?  Yet I knew I needed to "let him go."  Death is a "letting go", isn't it?  Never easy, but vitally important.  And, it is easier to "let go" when we know where our loved-one is going. 


Third, as I watched Mike's wife tenderly care for him, carefully swabbing his mouth with the little sponge, gently wiping his beard with a towel after trying to get him to swallow a little broth.  She was aware of any hint of discomfort and knew exactly what to do.  I called her an angel.  She did that because of her love for her husband.  And then I thought of the Lord Jesus and those familiar words of David came to mind: "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me."  That is exactly what Jesus does: He tenderly takes us by the hand and with a love that knows no limitations, He leads us safely home. 


I do not know how many days my brother has here - my prayer is that God would soon call him home.  I will miss my brother - those conversations while he was driving down the road - his contagious laugh - his friendship.  But I am blessed to know that our separation will only be for a short while; then a glorious reunion will occur.  "Therefore, comfort one another with these words."