The Good-Bye Promise
That’s good, Pawpaw. You’re eating mashed potatoes!” Derek said as he moved his grandfather’s chin up and down, up and down.
Pawpaw might have smiled, if he’d had more control of his muscles. Instead, he let his jaw fall open for another bite, his jaundiced gaze fixed intently on my eleven-year-old son.
They were twins, Derek and Pawpaw, different only in age and experience. As Derek raised another spoonful of potatoes to Pawpaw’s lips, their profiles mirrored each other’s perky ears, rounded cheeks, slender necks, and curved shoulders.
I looked out the window at the Mayo Clinic grounds. A mature display of green oak leaves mimicked my stillness. Even creation seemed to know that Derek and Pawpaw would soon be separated. They would no longer fidget with electronic gadgets together, join hands on the steering wheel of Pawpaw’s boat, or walk side-by-side with the same gait to check the mail or walk the dogs or visit the neighbors.
“Derek,” I said, several weeks after Pawpaw stopped eating, “do you understand that medicine cannot help Pawpaw anymore?”
A shrug of acceptance. “Yeah, I understand that.”
Blinking tears away, I steered my son’s slender shoulders closer to Pawpaw’s bedside. “You should say good-bye to him now, honey. He might not live through the night.”
Derek stared at the dangling tubes that had recently been disconnected. Then he eyed the severely bruised and punctured skin of his grandfather. Heavy doses of steroids, antibiotics, and other treatments had only prolonged Pawpaw’s battle against vasculitis of the brain.
Pawpaw watched Derek with yellow-glazed, half-opened eyes.
After several moments, Derek said, “I can’t say good-bye now, Mama. It doesn’t make sense. He’s not leaving yet.”
I wrapped my arms around Derek’s shoulders. “Yes, he’s still here, and I think he hears every word,” I said. “But he could go any minute, and how will you feel if he dies before you say good-bye?”
Derek shook his head adamantly. “I’ll say good-bye when he leaves.”
I cringed. Throughout Pawpaw’s illness, I’d struggled with how to guide my children’s prayers. “If it’s your will” was a phrase I’d turned to often, knowing that God’s plans sometimes differ from our greatest hopes.
But Derek did not preface his heartfelt request with “If it’s your will.” He kept saying boldly to God, “Please let me say good-bye to Pawpaw when he leaves.”
“At least tell Pawpaw you love him before we go for the night,” I suggested now.
This, he could do.
“I love you, Pawpaw,” he said tenderly.
As days passed, Derek and my nine-year-old daughter, Haley, supported Pawpaw by sitting with him and telling him stories. If he heard them, his blank stare showed no sign of it. Each time Derek left Pawpaw’s side, he said, “I love you,” but never good-bye.
One afternoon I took my children out of the hospital room for a little break. When we rejoined relatives in Pawpaw’s room, his breathing had slowed dramatically. I looked at the clock and saw that he was inhaling only about once every twenty to thirty seconds.
“He’s going,” I warned my husband.
We all huddled around Pawpaw’s bed. Each time we thought we’d seen his last breath he surprised us with one more inhalation. After several minutes of this, his lungs stopped for more than fifty seconds. Sixty seconds. Seventy seconds. Eighty.
Pawpaw’s favorite nurse, a Christian, entered the room and watched with us.
I felt tears sting my eyes and choke my throat. This was it. Pawpaw was gone.
We all began to grieve more openly—all except Derek, who said cheerfully, “Bye, Pawpaw!”
I glanced over at him and saw that he was staring at the ceiling with a smile spread wide across his face.
He just got his wish, I realized.
But why was he looking up to say good-bye instead of saying it to Pawpaw’s still face?
The head resident entered the room and confirmed the death.
I moved toward Derek, drawn to his pure joy and puzzled by it.
“I saw Pawpaw go!” he exclaimed.
The nurse rushed toward us. “I’d like to hear this, if you don’t mind,” she said. “Children really do see things sometimes.”
“Did you see something?” I asked Derek.
“Uh-huh. Pawpaw was on the ceiling.”
My brows shot up. “On the ceiling? You mean he was floating?”
“Nooo.” Derek laughed at me. “There were hands lifting him up!”
“Hands?” I glanced at the nurse.
She clamped her hands together. “What else did you see?” she asked.
Derek’s broad smile never wavered. “He was dressed in a bright white robe, and he looked a lot younger. He had a lot more hair, and his skin looked really smooth, without any spots. And his face looked happier than ever. He looked at me and waved and said, ‘Bye, Derek!’ and I waved back and said, ‘Bye, Pawpaw!’”
Derek’s face beamed up at me. “He looked so happy, Mama. You’ve never seen him look so happy!”
“Were they Jesus’ hands?” I asked, trying to make sense of this.
A shrug. “I couldn’t tell. I could only see the fingers. But they were bright white like the robe—really bright.”
“What made you think to look up at the ceiling?” I asked.
“Pawpaw was talking to his daddy a few days ago,” Derek said, “like he could see him in heaven. I’ve been looking up because I wanted to see him too. I never could see him, but I got to see Pawpaw waving at me.”
The nurse must have sensed my skepticism, because she said, “This is real. This happens with some children. They get to see Jesus take their loved ones away.” Placing a hand on Derek’s shoulder, she added, “I’m so happy for your Pawpaw, I’ve got goose bumps!”
“God answered your prayer,” I said to Derek.
He chuckled. “Yeah, God let me say good-bye at the right time, but I didn’t expect Pawpaw to wave and say good-bye to me too!”
“That was quite a bonus,” I said, still watching my son. He kept speaking of Pawpaw’s happiness, but I’d never seen Derek look so happy.
Thank you, God, for giving them one last pleasure together, I prayed. And please forgive me for doubting the power of your love. You’re probably as tickled by all of this as they are—maybe more so.
Derek’s good cheer lasted until the funeral services. He did not like seeing Pawpaw in a casket. But an easy remedy for his sadness seemed to come at just the right times. Each time a frown formed on his lips, one of Pawpaw’s Sunday school students or neighbors or relatives wanted to hear Derek’s testimony.
“I heard you saw your Pawpaw leave,” Derek heard over and over. Each time his face lit up, and his gleeful response reaffirmed that Jesus will one day carry us to heaven, that God’s promises are credible, and that we’ve not seen the last of Christians who have gone before us.