Where is Hope? - Part 1

Hello to All,

We returned from one of our regular trips to M.D. Anderson about a year ago last week, hopeful that the new chemo plan would continue to keep Ann afloat in her cancerous sea. We celebrated Matt’s twelfth birthday a few days later (April 11th), quietly hopeful that Ann would live to know our grandkids. She died three weeks later (May 2nd).

A thousand words would picture our living in the shadow of Ann’s death: unjust, premature, pointless, hopeless, chaos, shock, fog, disorientation, separation, pain, loneliness, emptiness, doubts, anger, brokenness, regret, guilt, grief, pain, heartache, tears, weeping…

Three words are the most graphic.

Devastation. A few months back I asked Hannah what words came to mind when she thought of death. “Devastation” was her first reply, a word that had dominated my thinking as well. It seems to signify both the destruction and the hopelessness caused by Ann’s death. Everything normal about our lives – meals and car pools, birthdays and vacations, ball games and worship services – was decimated.

Robbery. Max Lucado wrote the following in Facing Your Giants,

“Bereavement comes from the word reave. Look up reave in the dictionary, and you’ll read “to take away by force, plunder, rob.” Death robs you. The grave plunders moments and memories not yet shared: birthdays, vacations, lazy walks, talks over tea. You are bereaved because you’ve been robbed.”

Ann was robbed of growing old with me, of being a mom to Paul, Drew, Hannah and Matt, and of knowing her grandkids. She never had a “peace” about her death from cancer, though she had every confidence that she would immediately be in the indescribable presence of Jesus Christ. As any mother might, she fought death’s intrusion as long as she could. She even asked if I was still praying for physical healing, just an hour or two before she saw Jesus face to face.

I was robbed of my best friend, confidant, and compliment, even though we had trekked through seminary slowly in order to keep our marriage healthy. I find that decision making is tough now, not just because of grief, but because I no longer have her input. I miss everything about Ann, even the things that used to irk me. Frankly, I am sickened by those who have willfully tossed away their spouses; I had no choice in the matter.

The kids were robbed of their mom, even though we had intentionally sacrificed so that Ann could be a stay-at-home mom. The remainder of Hannah’s and Matt’s childhood will have an irreplaceable void, though many moms have (and will) graciously stepped in for key events like Matt’s surprise thirteenth birthday party last week. Every future event in the lives of our four kids – graduations, marriages, births of our grandchildren, ministry successes and failures – will be marred by the robbery of Ann’s death.

Death stole David’s only sister and Lois’ only daughter. A mom should never have to bury a child. (Ann’s dad Pete made out the best; he’s with her now in Paradise.) Laurie, Joan, and Shayne, Diane and Marilyn, Wanda and countless others are all robbed of opportunities to “soul slosh,” go out for coffee, shop, or discuss raising kids with Ann. They can’t even pick up the phone just to say, “Hi.”

Death even stole our future and our dreams. Ann and I will never mentor young couples in Dallas; we will never encourage pastors and their wives in Mongolia. We will never take an Alaskan cruise; we will never return to the coast at Monterey. Ann won’t be here to help plan Hannah’s wedding; Ann will never hold her grandkids. The long-anticipated freedom of our empty nest has morphed into a dread of my future loneliness.

Irreversible. Probably the most suffocating aspect of Ann’s death is that it is absolutely and utterly irreversible. There’s no rewind button. There’s no opportunity to say “I’m sorry” for the times we argued over stupid stuff. There’s no option for reshuffling priorities. There’s no chance to say “I love you” one more time.

I find myself constantly wanting to call Ann on her cell phone, especially when I’m in traffic on the way home from work. I want to talk about my day or let her know what I’ve been studying in my spare time. I want to tell her about the kid’s lives, like Paul’s upcoming internship, Drew’s first year of college, Hannah’s voice recital, and Matt’s basketball games. It often seems like she’s just away on a trip so a phone call is the most natural thing. But… there’s no cell coverage in the grave.

Friends often ask, “What can we do to help?” I’ve told the truth a few times when I said, “You can’t help. You can’t give us the one thing we really need.” Even those who love us most are utterly helpless, when it comes to giving us just one more second together. It’s impossible.

Doctor’s were incapable of preventing Ann’s death; they are certainly powerless to bring her back from the grave. They gave us no hope for a cure; they can’t even try to give us hope for life now.

Death is permanent, final, irreversible.


Where is hope?
The last six weeks were tough. Drew, Matt and I each had our birthdays without Ann, completing our family’s first cycle. The next month will be even tougher. The anniversary of Ann’s death (5/2), Mother’s Day (5/10) and Ann’s birthday (5/17) will all hit us pretty hard.

Where is hope in light of the devastation, robbery and finality of Ann’s death? In a word – Resurrection.

I had hoped to complete this email in time for Easter, but I’m already a week late and it’s long enough, so I’ll close for now. Someday I’ll send out a “Part 2” describing the hope which is the anchor for our souls.


John 11:25-26:
I am the resurrection and the life.
He who believes in me will live, even though he dies.
And whoever lives and believes in me will never die.
Do you believe this?


Thank you for listening and praying.

Love,
Howard, Paul, Drew, Hannah & Matt