Going, Going, Gone!

by Donna Poole

It was October first, but the soft evening breeze on our faces still felt like late summer. The sun dipped low over Lake Michigan. John and I stood where the white sand meets the black asphalt ready for our nightly vacation ritual of watching the sun set.

The sun never sets the same way twice over the lake. Last night was John’s favorite way. Without a cloud in the sky, the fiery orb sunk lower and lower until it entered the lake with a hiss. Only John can hear the hiss, but he insists it’s real, and who am I to argue? I’m so deaf I can barely hear a locomotive.

I did hear the sounds on the beach soften as the sun began its downward journey. Little children stopped playing and watched, enchanted. In the last millisecond before the sun disappeared, they shouted, “Going…going…gone!”

Then they resumed their play.

We watched a bit longer through part of blue hour, admired the reds, purples, and blues that painted the sky, and thanked the Artist who is far lovelier than his most beautiful creation.

It was on just such a clear night as this two years ago that our young friend Amber lay on a trampoline with her sister, Aubree, and watched the stars fill the night sky. She loved sunrises, sunsets, the stars, and their Creator. None of us guessed that before the sun rose on October 2, Amber would be in heaven, and we would be whispering through tears, “Gone.”

Gone too soon? She was only twenty-two years old.

Amber loved standing with me, holding the railing on the little cement porch of our old country church, and watching the sun set over the fields, spring, summer, fall, winter. She went to heaven on a golden October day; never again would we watch the sunset over those fields.

Amber’s mom said to me this morning, “More than anything Amber wanted a ministry for God. She didn’t know she already had one.”

Oh, she did. You can’t describe a person’s life in three words, but if I had to pick three for Amber, they’d be light, love, and laughter. And she brought those things into every life she touched.

God took Amber softly, gently. She was here; she was gone.

But it didn’t feel gentle for those of us who loved her. It was a thunderclap, a tornado, a hurricane, and I don’t suppose we’ll ever “recover” if by that word we mean we’ll be the same we were before.

Once we could pick up our assorted pieces and see through our tears, we could see Amber everywhere; in a restored marriage, in a heart turned back to God, in a child’s laughter, in the golden leaves of October, because those are Amber days.

We’ve lost other family and friends too since Amber slipped away without a goodbye, and we’ve whispered, “Going, going, gone.”

But last night at the beach when I heard the children shout those three words I thought, And somewhere on the other side of the world someone is saying about the sun, “coming…coming…here!”

When my stubborn Morticia cancer refused to respond to treatment I often pictured Amber, leaning over heaven’s gate waiting for me, the way she and I leaned on the railing and watched the sunset over the country fields we both loved. I could see her smile. Then I got the unexpected news, “No active cancer.”

Honestly, I felt two ways. I’m glad to stay here with people I love and who love me. I’m happy to continue whatever work God has for me until it’s done. But part of me felt like I’d finished packing for a wonderful once-in-a-lifetime trip and it had been indefinitely postponed.

“Stop hanging over the gate waiting for me,” I said to Amber. “Looks like it’s going to be awhile.”

Amber would have laughed at this story: Yesterday we left home at 5:30 AM so we could get to our camping place in time to go to church. When you’re married to a preacher, at least if he’s my preacher, vacation includes church.

Despite our best intentions, we were twenty minutes late. Regardless of how I may appear to you in my writing, I can be a shy person. Into this church I go, hunchbacked now because of scoliosis and radiation damage, wearing a mask because I still have to take cancer treatments so I’m immunocompromised, and tipsy even with my cane.

My medical team still has me on restrictions: “Stay out of groups, and if you must go wear a mask and sit in the back.”

This lovely church reminded me very much of ours in many ways including this: the back seats fill up first. It was also quite crowded. I hesitated. Where to sit?

“Sit up there,” John whispered, but he has to whisper loudly enough for me to hear, so everyone else heard too.

The pastor stopped mid-sentence. He had a great voice for a preacher. “Welcome!” he boomed.

At that the few people who weren’t already looking at us turned and did so.

It didn’t bother John a bit. He’s a people-person.

Once I slunk into my seat and forgot about me, the sermon was just what I needed. The pastor told us to look back at the cross where Jesus died for our sins. Then he told us to look inward at ourselves, the person we see in the mirror. Is that who we want to be?

“Look ahead,” he told us next.

Heaven is what is waiting for us if we’ve trusted Jesus as Savior from sin.

We took communion together. It was a sweet time, but somehow, I managed to knock over my cane. It was loud, and I think I heard Amber laugh.

They sang mostly newer songs at that church, ones John and I didn’t know, but we knew the last one. It was, “In the sweet bye and bye we shall meet on that beautiful shore.”

I forgot about my hunched back, my mask, and my cane. All I could think of was meeting on that beautiful shore where Amber has been for two years today.

A few years ago, back in 1678 to be exact, John Bunyan wrote, “There you shall enjoy your friends again that are gone thither before you; and there you shall with joy receive even everyone that follows in the holy place after you.”

It will be wonderful, Amber, but God’s not ready for me just yet. So, this evening, I’ll go back down to Lake Michigan with John and watch the sun hiss when it hits the water. I’ll thank God for such beautiful days as this and wonder how much lovelier yours are there. So don’t hang on the gate waiting for me, but don’t get too far away either.

When the people who love me on earth whisper, “Going…going…gone,” you shout, “Coming, coming, here!”

Maybe there will be a little country church somewhere in heaven’s vastness, and a railing, where we can watch the sunset and talk. We have a lot to catch up on.

The End

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These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have four other books on Amazon as well.

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