by Donna Poole
Reverend Bill Williamson had been retired for ten years, but today he’d stand behind his old pulpit one last time.
His mind wandered as he waited for the funeral service to begin.
How many funerals did I preach during my fifty years as pastor? My text was always the same, the one that rings out hope, John 11:25-26: “Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest thou this?”
He’d recited those verses when young parents had clung to him, weeping, as a tiny casket had been lowered into the ground. He’d shared it with a teenager dying of cancer.
They were verses that helped when it mattered most.
They’d been his secretary’s favorite verses. When early onset Alzheimer’s had hit her fast and furious, she’d wandered the halls of the nursing home repeating them. Word by word they’d slipped from her mind until she could only say, “I am resurrection life.”
Her family had called Bill to come when she’d been slipping away. She’d been moaning and saying, “I…I…I…”
Her daughter had been sobbing. “Pastor Williamson, I don’t know what she wants.”
“Perhaps I do.”
He’d put his hand on the dying woman’s shoulder, leaned close to her ear, and repeated, “‘I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.’”
Her eyes hadn’t opened, but she’d smiled. She’d stopped moaning, and a few minutes later she’d slipped softly through the thin door that separates earth from heaven.
He’d preach those verses at today’s funeral too.
Bill sat soberly in the chair on the platform as the organ played and tried not to rub his arthritic knee. Betty had often reminded him not to do that when he’d still been pastor here.
“It’s distracting, honey,” she’d said. “And besides, you don’t want people thinking we’re getting old, do you?”
“We are getting old, Betty.”
She’d laughed, a sound he’d loved. “Maybe you are, but I’m not.”
She had gotten old though, and quickly too. Strokes can do that to a person. She’d gone from jogging a 5k charity run at the age of seventy-five to needing help walking a single step.
“We’ve never had a patient work as hard as Betty,” a physical therapist at the rehabilitation center had told Bill.
“That’s Betty! If she’s anything, she’s determined!” he’d replied.
But when the months of therapy had ended and Betty still had no use of her right arm and limited use of her right leg, Bill had retired to stay home with her. She could no longer stay alone.
Then Betty had done something Bill had never seen her do.
“I quit,” she’d said. “I give up. Help me into bed.”
And there she’d stayed despite Bill’s pleading and prayers.
When the family had come to visit, Betty had turned her face to the wall and had refused to see them.
“Tell them I’m too tired. And close that door on your way out.”
Friends from church had come to visit, and they’d gotten the same response.
When Bill had suggested Betty talk to a therapist about her depression, he’d seen a side of his wife he’d hadn’t known existed. And Betty had spoken words he’d never heard her use.
Spring had come unusually early to Michigan that year. By March it had been warm enough to open the bedroom window for few hours some afternoons. Bill had pulled back the room darkening drapes and let fresh air and sunlight into the room.
Betty had shielded her eyes. “Close that window! Close the… whatever you call those things. The bedspreads. Too bright.”
Bill had turned so she couldn’t see his tears. It was time for tough love. He’d left the window open.
He’d left the room and prayed.
It became their afternoon ritual. Sometimes she’d called the drapes the shower curtain, the sheets, or the bathrobe. She’d begged for darkness. Sometimes Bill’s prayers had been tears; that had been all he could manage. He’d run out of words.
He’d begged her to look out of the window. “It’s beautiful, honey. Spring was always your favorite time, remember?”
Once again, his normally sweet wife of fifty-five years had cussed him out finishing with, “I don’t care about spring now. I don’t care about anything, Bob!”
That’s the first time she’s forgotten my name. Is she getting worse? Staying secluded like this isn’t going to help her get better. Lord, help; what am I going to do?
Bill kept opening the window and letting light into the darkness. A few times, by early April, he’d noticed Betty pushing herself up on one arm and looking out of the window. As soon as she’d seen he’d noticed, she’d turned her face to the wall and closed her eyes.
One mid-April day, Bill had opened the window, and Betty hadn’t shouted at him to close it. He’d been surprised but hadn’t commented. As he’d been leaving the room she’d asked, “Is that the blue wings I hear and the spring peepers?”
“Yep. The red wing blackbirds have been back for quite a while and the frogs started singing a few weeks ago.”
She’d nodded. He hadn’t said anything else; he’d been afraid to push it. He’d been closing the door when she’d asked, “Will you help me get outside?”
“I’ll get the wheelchair.”
“No! If I have to use a wheelchair, I won’t get up. You! You help me. What’s your name? I forget.”
‘I’m Bill, your husband. Of course, I’ll help you.”
She’d giggled and he’d almost collapsed from shock. “You ninny! I know you’re my husband. I just forget words sometimes.”
They’d only gone as far as the bench on the front porch. She’d sat there silently for half an hour, sometimes lifting her face to the sun.
Then she’d reached for his hand. “I’m sorry.”
He hadn’t tried to hide his tears. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”
“I do. I’ve been so angry at God and at you. And mostly at myself. I wanted the old me back. I’ll try to get used to the new me, but it’s going to take a while. I think I’d like to talk to that therapist you mentioned.”
Bill had put his arm around her and had pulled her close. “I’ll be with you every step of the way.”
“I love you, Theodore.”
“And I’ll love you forever. Honey, tomorrow’s Easter. Would you like to go to church?”
“I’m not up to that yet.”
“That’s perfectly fine. But we could listen to the service over the radio from the church parking lot. Remember, that’s as far as it broadcasts.”
“Okay. If you’ll help me walk to the car.”
“I’ll help you walk anywhere.”
And he had. For the next ten years they’d walked together, a bit farther each day. She’d grown stronger and more alert, though she’d never regained use of her right arm. Her right leg had remained a bit weak, and when doctors had suggested she use a cane, she’d laughed and pointed at Bill.
“I’ve got one.”
They’d been inseparable, and she’d always held his right arm with her left.
God had given them ten more good years together, years they’d shared with family and friends, years of love and laughter.
One April day Bill had taken Betty to the doctor for her annual physical.
“I don’t have another patient your age with such good blood pressure, oxygen level, and muscle tone. I doubt you’ll ever have another stroke,” the doctor had said.
They’d celebrated with a long walk in the park, sat on the bench, and thanked God for their many blessings.
He’d leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Have I ever told you how much I’ve loved having you hold my arm all these years? I love helping you walk. I’d walk you to the ends of the earth if I could.”
Betty had laughed, a sound he’d loved. “I’d love to walk to the ends of the earth with you and keep walking right on up to heaven. But now you’d better help me get home. It’s Thursday, and with all the family coming for Easter dinner, we don’t have much time to get everything ready.”
He’d been helping her up from the park bench when she’d slipped limply from his arms. He’d known it was a second stroke before they’d told him.
The family had gathered for Easter, but Betty hadn’t been there. She’d been celebrating her first Easter in heaven. They’d talked about the funeral, and Bill had said he’d wanted to preach it.
“Dad, I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” his son had said. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“I want to do it for your mom.”
And so here he was, rubbing his knee, waiting for the service to begin. He was going to try to follow Betty’s instructions; they’d talked about their funerals.
“If you preach mine, keep it short,’ she’d said. “Remember what Mark Twain said. He doubted any sinner ever got saved after the first twenty minutes of a sermon.”
He’d laughed. “Yes, dear. Any other instructions?”
“Yes. Keep it about Jesus, not me.”
Bill had four pages of notes for this funeral tucked in his worn Bible. He thought he could finish it in twenty minutes, maybe a half hour. Suddenly, he realized it was silent in the church and everyone was looking at him. How long ago had the music stopped?
He stood and walked behind the pulpit. For the first time Betty wasn’t in one of the pews. He knew she wasn’t in the flower covered casket at his feet either; she was with the Lord, and she was forever young and strong again, but he was still here. He wasn’t young, and he wasn’t strong.
Bill hadn’t cried since Betty had died, but the tears came now. Tears come when they want; they have a mind of their own. He opened his Bible. He opened his four pages of notes. He tried to speak.
Instead of his carefully crafted sermon he could manage only two verses, spoken between sobs: “John 11:25-26: Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest thou this?”
It took the funeral director a minute to realize Bill had finished preaching. He ushered out everyone but family. Bill apologized to his children.
“I’m sorry; I should have listened to you and had someone else preach. Anyone could have done a better job.”
“Dad, what are you talking about?” his son asked. “Mom would have loved that sermon. It was perfect. Those are the verses that help when it matters most.”
Bill took a deep breath. “They do ring out hope, don’t they?”
His son hugged him.
And then Bill lined up with the pall bearers to carry Betty out to the graveyard behind the church.
“Dad, what are you doing? There are enough of us to carry the coffin. You don’t have to do that.”
“Please, let me. I’ve been helping your mom walk everywhere for the last ten years. I told her I wanted to walk her to the ends of the earth.”
As Bill walked through the grass carrying Betty’s casket, he thought of the Martin Luther quote he’d meant to use in his message but hadn’t been able to because of his tears: “Our Lord has written the promise of resurrection, not in books alone, but in every leaf of springtime.”
Spring was late that year. Bill heard the frogs sing. He caught a flash of a red wing blackbird and remembered when Betty had called it a blue wing. And he smiled.
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
