Over two decades ago, I received an email from a college friend, telling me of a woman I will call Audrey, who, at the tender age of thirty-three, had started a blog, keeping people updated on her husband.
A husband, who, with hardly a symptom, had been diagnosed with stage 4 cancer.
Audrey did not set out to be a writer, yet her husband’s health crisis prompted her to put pen to paper. She proved herself to be a shepherdess of words, governing thoughts with exquisite care. Her sentences? Expressions beautifully arranged, overflowing with honesty, taking readers from here to there.
Initially, doctors offered hope for her husband’s survival, but as fall turned to winter, it became clear that Adam would die.
Her words hit hard, prompting an ache in my throat as she told of glimpsing her distorted image in the reflection of the metal bed frame that hospice had delivered to their home; her firm insistence that it be positioned beneath the window in their modest bedroom, so her husband’s peaked face might be warmed by morning light.
When the pitch of night fell and blanketed their room, Audrey battled fear that clutched her throat, praying and crying softly as she reached for her husband’s hand, bridging the chasm between the bed they once shared and his thin cot.
She told of their three little children, the youngest of whom would never remember his remarkable father, a godly man and freshly ordained pastor. Readers were beckoned into the simple birthday parties she threw for her family of five: silly pillow fights followed by hard-won laughter atop Adam’s bed, random tears of inexorable frustration, pepperoni pizzas, and chocolate cake her husband did not crave yet bravely choked down for the sake of his puckish trio, as he labored to stuff their hearts with happy memories.
Memories to soften the hard edges, someday.
Audrey wrote of their quiet prayers at bedtime; as she studied her husband’s wedding band, so loose on his finger, as she toyed with her own gold ring and remembered their vows. The thumping of her heart jolted her from all reverie as a fresh wave of understanding bore down, unbidden, the gravitas and nearness of eternity, a blanket flooding their little home.
She shared of the morning’s groanings, the desire to sleep and fall into dreams of pleasant days gone by, but instead waking to three active children plus a sea of medicine bottles and suppressed moans of pain she could not assuage for her beloved.
Some of her writings were as brief as a post-it note, yet lovely: the ache of sad kisses and slow endings. The staggering farewells from Adam’s stream of young, robust friends.
It was plain to see through her flowing pen: Audrey’s husband had lived well before the face of God and was now dying in the same vein. It was also plain to see that Audrey was gently held, cradled by God, her words holy and raw, delicate while sturdy.
Eventually, when the doctors could do no more than make Adam comfortable, the elders from the church softly circled his bed as they read Psalms over their exhausted friend. This brotherhood became a chorus, singing Adam’s favorite hymn of all: A Mighty Fortress is Our God.
A Bulwark never failing.
Audrey gave her small readership the cadence to taste death, her sentences a deep, quiet pond of tedious grieving, laced with the confession of the countless ways she already missed her robust, fun, faithful husband, her best friend, now fading, withering, leaving her as a single mother even as he still lived.
Her prayers? Please, God, take him, and then one breath later: Dear Lord, please let him live.
Her melodic words spun with blood and fire, tension and restraint. She wrote from her worn-down knees, too worn for a woman in her prime. The sweetness was this: God was near in her darkest hour, and he was good, always good, and she trusted him.
It has been 22 years since I read Audrey’s words, but do you see? Her writings endure.
Never did she shun the gritty curves of suffering, nor was she guilty of wallowing: her pen spoke the hard truths exquisitely, drawing this reader to a deeper hope of eternity with Christ.
Her final post was the brief announcement of Adam’s death, and then a gracious goodbye. Audrey’s family had diminished as the five became four, the breadwinner now with God.
And then she closed the door of her blog forever; her work finished.
Adam was safely home.
I remember blinking back tears, already missing her.
Those quotidian writings lived on as her words burrowed and nestled their way down into my bones, cooking something warm and savory: an insatiable thirst for God, a hunger for heaven, and a pining to write words that endure.
The Palest Ink 