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When my husband was first diagnosed, I realized the severity of his illness. I also realized that without a medical or supernatural miracle, our time was limited. Very limited. The further we got into his cancer battle, he and I started discussing death. The first time we talked about the reality that we were facing, Jeremy told me that he felt relieved that we had faced talking about it together.  I remember in that discussion and few that followed, he would tell me he wasn’t scared of death or where he was going. He was confident in that and always, “Dee, God’s got me.” However, he was concerned about the process of walking through the door from this life to the next. And every time, I promised that I would be right there with him and that he wouldn’t have to do it on his own. We would do it together. And I would solidify it with, “I got you, Boo.” And he would half smile.

Jeremy’s cancer journey was intense for five months.  We were constantly going to the hospital for procedures, the infusion center for chemo and doctor appointments. Constantly. In those short, exhausting months, I saw that doorway getting closer and closer. I desperately wanted the death march forward to stop.  But his cancer was relentless. The closer and closer we got to it, I realized that when we got to that threshold, he would walk through it, and I would be left at the doorway having to let him go.  The fight, the battle would be over. And he would be at peace. He would be ok.

Well, more than ok.

But me?  I would be left standing there.

Alone.

I knew I wouldn’t be truly alone when the time came. But Dee and Jeremy had been “us” for almost twenty years. We were a good team. We worked so well together. Over the years, I had even told him, “You are my home.”

It wasn’t a perfect home, but we had found “home” together in “us”.

The night Jeremy went through that door, I did walk him up to it. I am so grateful for the hospice nurse that came that night and took care of giving everything he needed from that little white box they had provided for me. She fulfilled that promise of keeping him comfortable for me so I could just focus on being his wife and hold his hand until I had to let it go. That walk was both horrifying and holy at the same time. I got to lay there with him, talking to him about what was on the other side. Not only Jesus, but the others that had gone on before him, especially his grandpa that he had loved so much. I held his left hand that had not developed properly as he had been formed. I talked to him about how when he walked through that door, it would be made whole. That I had never truly understood why it had brought so much heartache for him because I was going to miss that beautiful hand and when how I held it, with our fingers intertwined, his fingers unable to straighten, held mine tighter and it wouldn’t let me go.

I know the moment he walked through that door.

My body felt it. And I felt the battle over. I could stop fighting for him. I could lay down that sword. And in that moment, God gave me a gift. The words from the song that was playing in the background made it to my ears.

“And I will lock eyes
With the One who’s ransomed me
The One who gave me joy for mourning
And I will lock eyes
With the One who’s chosen me
The One who set my feet to dancing?

We dance
We dance
We dance
We dance
Just You and me”

(We Dance from Bethel Music)

I envisioned Jeremy on the other side of that door, and he was at peace, whole. Not only from the battle of cancer, but all that he had battled with in his life. That he was fully in the presence of God. The One who chose him. The One that had ransomed him. He was in the arms of Jesus. Dancing. No mourning. Just joy.

And I watched it from my side. Left alone with so much pain and grief from the amputation.

No longer “us”.

When I could, I got up and I felt that I needed to pick up another sword for another battle. This one for my kids and me. And I started fighting for my family, walking away from that threshold and the scene of peace and joy I could only watch.

Fighting for my kids and their healing has included not only pursuing mind, body and spirit healing for them, but also for me. I know what not grieving and not healing looks like, and I did not want that for my kids. Or for me. And through it, I haven’t doubted God’s presence and provision. I have felt it. Felt it even though I had been feeling that deep ache in my chest and stomach every morning since that night.

Two weeks after the second anniversary of Jeremy passing, I attended a widows’ conference with some other widows that I was in community. I went not knowing what to expect. But I went with open hands, ready to receive.

It was an amazing experience. There so many things about that weekend that I could share but one of the things that stands out is the breakout session that I attended on Terminal Illness. I honestly don’t remember what the speaker spoke on. But I remember the discussion after.  One woman had questions regarding the trauma she experienced as her husband passed. And every woman in that room understood. The lady next to me responded and she said something that grabbed me. She said, “There is no greater privilege than to walk your husband to the threshold of eternity.” I heard a collective murmur in the room. These women knew the holy of those moments. And they knew what it cost.

And my heart broke open and the healing began.

The next morning after returning from the conference, I was sitting in my sunroom listening to worship music and spending time with God trying to digest all that I had experienced.

As I sat there, I heard the beginning of the song that had made it to my ears after the battle had ended that night Jeremy walked into eternity. Every time I have heard that song up until that moment, it would bring me back to that night as an observer and the tears would flow. But not this morning. In those moments I realized…

This song had been for me! At that moment of eternity, on that threshold, God had meant it for ME!

And I put the song on repeat. To let the words fill me with understanding. To bathe me. To seep into the gaping wound of loss and grief. This time the tears flowed with understanding.

“You steady me
Slow and sweet, we sway
Take the lead and I will follow
Finally ready now
To close my eyes and just believe
That You won’t lead me
Where You don’t go

When my faith gets tired
And my hope seems lost
You spin me round and round
And remind me of that song
The one You wrote for me
And we dance
And we dance

And I’ve been told
To pick up my sword
And fight for love
Little did I know
That Love had won for me
Here in Your arms

You still my heart again
And I breathe You in
Like I’ve never breathed ’till now

When my faith gets tired
And my hope seems lost
You spin me round and round
And remind me of that song
The one You wrote for me
And we dance
And we dance

And I will lock eyes
With the One who’s ransomed me
The One who gave me joy for mourning
And I will lock eyes
With the One who’s chosen me
The One who set my feet to dancing?

And I will lock eyes
With the One who’s ransomed me
The One who gave me joy for mourning
And I will lock eyes
With the One who’s chosen me
The One who set my feet to dancing?

We dance
We dance
We dance
We dance
Just You and me

It’s nice to know I’m not alone
I’ve found my home here in Your arms
It’s nice to know I’m not alone
I’ve found my home here in Your arms
It’s nice to know I’m not alone
I’ve found my home here in Your arms
It’s nice to know I’m not alone
I’ve found my home here in your arms

(“We Dance” by Bethel Music)

He was whispering in my ear as He held me…

“You are not alone.

My beloved girl, you are not alone.

I’ve got you!”

I realized that even though I have leaned into the fact and choosing to believe that God is good and He loved me, I still saw myself alone at the end of that journey, me, peering through the door with Jesus ushering Jeremy into more than I could even fathom, watching them, and having to walk away holding all that pain and grief on my own, hoping that one day it would go away or at least lessen in intensity.

But I had missed it.

Or maybe I hadn’t been ready to see it.

Yes, Jesus was ushering Jeremy into heaven in those moments, but in those same moments where I thought I was standing alone, just the observer of beauty, joy and peace on the other side of the veil of heaven, Abba Father was reaching his hand forward, pulling me through, wrapping His arms around me, holding me tight, swaying, as my heart broke open and pain seeped in, not letting go, swaying, not stopping for a moment, dancing, waiting, waiting patiently for me to lift my head from his chest and look into his eyes and understand where I was. That I had NEVER been left alone at that threshold. He hadn’t left me there alone to go fight another battle.

“No, Beloved. Just the opposite.”

He had been tightly holding me in a dance, turning my mourning into dancing.

Us.

You turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy,

Psalm 30:11 (NIV)