Haven

November 2025

Matthew 28:20b . John 14:18 . John 14:27

 

In the office, we sat close, her hand clenched in mine. My tympani heartbeat echoed hers. I could scarcely breathe, dreading what I knew was to come.

Doctor Morris’s words were frosted with regret. “I am so sorry, Willow. Sam. The tests and the scans are conclusive. Advanced, stage four, metastasized. Your pancreatic cancer is inoperable, Willow. It is not treatable. I am so sorry.”

My voice rasped like a rusty gate. “How long?”

“Months. Weeks. Soon.” His eyes welled up.

When we got home, Willow turned, put her arms around me.

“Hold me,” she said. “Just hold me.”

She leaned her head back, the better to see me. Her hair brushed my cheek. Like sprinkled diamonds, tears caught in her lashes. “I’m dying, Sam.”

“Yeah. I know. I know.” A hundred pounds of wet sand dropped into my stomach. I held her closer and wept with her.

We had been together for so long. Our next anniversary would be fifty-six years. Our two children, grown and gone, visit now and then. Our grandchildren delight us, five of them. Five treasures. Five bright lights.

We had a third child, a son, drowned. Andrew was only five. The loss nearly wrecked us, our marriage. Somehow, we endured, stayed together.

And now … and now.

“What do you want, hon?”

“I don’t know. Just hold me. Sit with me. Listen to my song.”

Some desperate thing in my gut wanted to fix it, to make it better. I told myself to leave it.

Our history, enriched by time, leavened by a stubborn refusal to quit when faced with trials had formed a solid foundation, one strong enough to reassure us; together, we would get through this, too. In our lexicon, ‘together’ had a meaning different from most. ‘Together’ included Jesus.

That night as we lay there, spooned, I held my wife close to my heart. I prayed softly. “Lord, show us the way. How do I love my wife in the same way you love your church … the way you love us.” I didn’t know what else to say.

We were silent for a long time. I nuzzled her hair, her neck, breathed in her scent, wanting to capture it, keep it somewhere safe for after she was gone.

I knew this would end soon. Too soon.

Neither of slept much that night. I held her, praying little prayers the night long. “Lord, show us the way. We can’t get through this without you. Help her, Lord. Help us.”

 

I’ll always remember that night, the beginning of the end. She has been gone how long now? Two months, three? I lost track in the blur of days.

My God, my God, I miss her so. She went so quickly.

There was one small blessing, if you could call it that. Because chemo was not an option, we didn’t have to contend with nausea and the hair loss. Toward the end, Dr. Morris prescribed pain meds which helped some, but not enough. By then, nothing helped much. It was just a matter of time. An awful, painful time.

We fell into a routine. I fixed meals, things she liked. We ate too much black walnut ice cream. I read to her, novels, short stories, the Bible. Magazine articles. I got out our old LPs from the 60’s and 70’s. Her favorite singer was Anne Murray. She liked Perry Como, too. The Beatles. Elvis.

Once a week, sometimes more, we’d sing hymns, the wonderful old ones. Praise songs. When she couldn’t sing anymore, I’d sing and she would smile and nod and keep time, tapping her finger. Amazing Grace, always. She’d hold my hand and we’d look into each other’s eyes and give silent thanks.

We took long drives without any destination. “Let’s go east today and see what we see,” she would say, and east it would be. Twice, we stayed overnight in a B&B. Once a week, we would try a little-known restaurant and found one so good that she said, “Oh, we have to come back here.” We never did.

For as long as she was able, we walked in the forest near our house, stopping at a clearing next to the brook. Our favorite place. We’d listen to the watersong and the breeze in the trees and smile at shy wildflowers. Too soon, her strength failed and the walk down the trail was too much.

I gave her baths, made sure the water was just right, caressing her pale skin gently, the two of us so much at ease with the intimacy. She’d hum with the luxury, giggle when I washed between her toes. One day, I brought her a pair of rubber duckies that squirted water. We played and laughed like little kids.

We were somehow content, spending every day together. Days I now recall, crystal, as poignant. Tender. Grace-filled. Loving days. Peace-blessed.

When the end was near, we called Gary and Ellen. Willow wanted to be the one to say the words, ”It’s time.”

Our son, Gary, said, “Let’s pray, everybody. Please, we need to pray.”

The children and grandchildren gathered around. We held hands. For our family, prayer was a given.

She smiled. “Thank you, Gary.”

“Sure, Mom.”

We prayed for nearly an hour, asking God for comfort and understanding, for wisdom and patience and peace. I told myself it was helpful.

When our daughter, Ellen, said, “Help us to love Mom the way she needs to be loved,” With that little laugh of hers, Willow said, “You’ll have to figure out what that means, darlin’ … I’m not quite up to the task.”

We were all together the day she died, standing around her bed at home. Our bittersweet celebration was sad, surely, but blessed with a sense of joy, of anticipation. None of us doubted she would soon be hand in hand with Jesus.

Willow whispered, “It’s time to go.” She looked at me with those wonderful deep brown eyes, so dark, they were almost black. I held her hand. She gasped and said, softly, “Ohhh, he’s so beautiful … don’t you see …” and was gone.

“Father,” I prayed, “thank you for the time we shared. She was such a wonderful friend, my wife. Bless her, care for her, rejoice in her just as we did, her family.” And then I could say no more.

Later, our daughter and daughter-in-law washed her carefully and dressed her in a soft beige dress. They brushed her hair. I called the funeral home. “She’s ready,” I said. They came and took her away.

The funeral service, the graveside service, the reception afterward, have all faded now. Rituals to be endured. Not memories I keep. Instead, I hold dear our times together, for they all, hard times and good, endured our unspoken commitment that no matter what, separation, divorce were never an option.

We had a life together,

Yes. A wonderful life.

And now, it is done.

 

Today, like every day since Willow died, I walk to the woods where we once loved to spend our afternoons. Not far from our home, it is an easy stroll. I head for the fallen log – our log – and sit. The week after Andrew was lost to us was the first time we came here. Over the years, we returned again and again. There is something about this place that brings peace. Healing. Comfort. I have often thought, God is here.

Now, I come to hear the brook sing, to watch trillium and wild violet and sorrel dance their minuet before a gallery of ferns and moss – maidenhairs, close to where the water spills over the rocks, swords, stiff-standing higher up on the embankment. Hillside firs and redwoods and oaks watch and sway. In their midst, an outcast madrone bares her sleek red limbs.

Here, in the caress of the breeze, life asks for nothing in return.

A flicker catches my eye. A pale dove flutters its wings, alights on a limb. It looks at me, bows, and offers a coocoo. A second dove comes, settles. Mates.

Willow’s hair, gone to salt-and-pepper when she was diagnosed, turned pure silver in her waning days. The dove’s breasts were the same color.

On the brook’s far side, a limestone boulder stands overwatch. A twig-and-leaf armada courses down and down, riding to the sea. A chuckle rises in my heart, recalling how Willow laughed at the stone. “See how the lichen grows on it … it looks like it’s wearing a vest.” That same day we saw a native trout dart like a black shadow in the water. I wished I could see another.

Sitting here in this kind, familiar place, her death hurts less. Wisps of memory come, remain long enough to caress my heart. A doe comes to the brook. Cautious, she looks around, sees me. Decides I’m not a threat. She bends her neck to drink. A shy fawn, still speckled with sun-dots, peers at me from around its mother’s legs. Our son and daughter’s cheeks were sun-spattered with summer freckles like that, when they were young.

Willow’s doe-like eyes spoke warmth, grace. Her loveliness struck my heart with joy every time I saw her. There was not a day I did not give thanks for her. Even now, after she has been gone these many days … weeks … I give thanks.

Like remnants from songs of years ago, verses of Scripture drift into my thoughts … my shepherd leads me beside still waters … he refreshes my soul …he guides me along paths of righteousness … he comforts me …

I wonder what she is doing. Does she thinks of me? Has she found Andrew? There must be so many souls there. Would he know her? Perhaps they would sit together and play Button, Button, he loved that. Or Ha Ha Hee, Can’t Catch Me. Even better. Andrew always made Willow laugh.

A verse from Matthew lingers … store up your treasures in Heaven … I wonder, will they be waiting when my time comes?

I put my hand on my heart. It felt like it had been carved hollow with a dull knife.

Like the sunshafts through the limbs and leaves, God’s words glide near, float away, drift back … blessed are the ones who mourn for they will be comforted … grief will turn to joy … God’s unfailing love comforts us … never will I leave you … never will I forsake you.

I yearn for more.

Sunlight spangles the brook. A breeze ripples the trees, carries a fragrance that reminds me of her. My stomach clutches and I wrap my arms around myself. My forehead presses to my knees. Tears fall into the dust between my feet.

God’s voice rides the breeze … I will comfort you with the Spirit of life … come to me and I will give you rest … no one can take you from my hand …

The ache in my heart cries, be merciful, O Lord … my eyes grow weak with sorrow … my strength fails … my bones grow weak … yet my hope is in you … Oh, my Lord and my God … why have you forsaken me …

I breathe deeply and hear new words … to all who are weighed down by life … take on my burden, for it is easy and it is light … I will give you rest.

My Lord speaks. My heart hears … because you believe Jesus is the Christ, Samuel … you are a child of God … take heart … I am with you always … I will never leave you or forsake you … ask, and you will receive …

There is a freshening in the air. I feel the log shift – just a little. Jesus sits at my side. He puts his arm about my shoulders and draws me close. I lean into his embrace. His presence calms my anguished heart. His arm around my shoulders feels good. Comforting.

I think of the man who spoke to Jesus, the one Matthew wrote of, whose son had been afflicted by a troublesome spirit. “From childhood, he has been like this,” said the man. “I would be grateful … if you can do anything.”

Jesus had laughed, “If? If? Friend, is there anything that is not possible for one who believes?”

The Father’s heart imprints upon my own. I whisper Jesus’ words. “Lord, I believe … help me in my unbelief …”

Jesus gives me a nod and a smile.

His arm about my shoulders is cool water to my soul.

Together, we listen to the song of the brook.

 

Haven copyright © 2009 Peter K. Schipper