Her name was Renée. She was… she is… my hero.
In my life, I have never known anyone like her. So vivacious, so full of light and laughter and life. She had a way of making you feel like you were the most important person in the world when she spoke to you. She cared deeply and loved fiercely. She gave of her time and energy and resources. She was a beautiful singer, my favorite in our church choir. She loved to pass that passion for music down to future generations, whether that be through choir, praise team, interpretive dance groups, or church handbells. She was always doing something, and even now looking back I can't really imagine her sitting. So it came as a shock one day when I came to visit her and she didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even smile. You see, Renée had cancer, and she was dying.
It was a cold day. The sky was a dull sort of gray. The wind rustled the fallen leaves and scattered them on the lawn. The weather matched the same foreboding spirit that I had in my heart as we pulled up to the home Renée shared with her husband, Jody.
I knew that this was going to be a hard visit, but I had no clue what to expect. No one close to me had ever died before, and certainly I hadn't been there to experience the dying process. I didn't know what we were there to do, but I did feel as if I was there for a purpose. It's only been in hindsight that I have come to understand what my purpose was on that visit.
Jody met us at the door, and weaving around his ankles was their huge, fluffy cat. Jody carried on in his usual manner as if nothing were out of the ordinary. I suppose, for him, nothing was out of the ordinary. This had become his new normal. This steady beeping from the monitors was normal. This haunting quiet was normal. It was all so different from my vision of Renée, but for Jody, all this was just normal.
I hadn’t seen Renée since she took to her bed a month or so before. We turned a corner in the house, and came immediately to Renée’s bedside. Despite Jody’s warm and welcoming nature, the room felt cold and hard. It was as if the sterile nature of medicine had seeped into the very fabric of the room.
She was lying on her back, what was left of her wispy brown hair laid about her on the pillow. A long and jagged scar wandered across her neck, and it seemed to mock any sort of liveliness that Jody showed as he tried to be a good and hospitable host. I felt as immovable as Renée. The weight of memory overtook me, and in the stillness of her face all I could see was years of laughter and concern and love.
This was the first moment that it all sunk in for me how devastating cancer could be. It was the first moment that I realized that the people whom I love so dearly would not always be with me. It was the first moment that I realized death was a reality.
Renée had believed God would heal her of cancer for a long time. She would sing the Chris Tomlin song “I Will Rise” and believed it was her victory song in Christ. I believed her too. But as time and illness progressed, it became evident that no such victory would come. But the amazing thing is that Renée kept singing “I Will Rise.” It just took on a new kind of meaning. It was still a victory song in Christ, but she knew that she would be rising to meet her Savior rather than rising from the hospital bed.
As she laid in her bed that cold, dreary day I visited, “I Will Rise” came back to me once more. I felt the crushing weight of illness as I, for the first time in life, recognized that “heart and flesh may fail.” Even to this day I strive to have the faith Renée held to be able to claim her own risen-ness even as she lay still and silent upon her deathbed.
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