Our Last Dance

As I start writing this, it's been 63 hours and 28 minutes since our last dance. At least a "dance" is what we called it... the dance of helping my wife walk twelve feet to the bathroom. And then the twelve feet back from the bathroom to the hospital bed that had been delivered to our house because she couldn't walk up the stairs anymore.

After working hard to simply stand up, we'd rock from side to side so she could swing one leg at a time a few inches forward. I'd use my free hand to help prompt her movement. Her frail arms around my neck. Squeezing as tight as she could. Our lips in each others ears, whispering to one another.

"You can do it."

"You're doing great."

"I got you."

Broken by her occasional, "I need to sit down." That last dance, we'd only gone from the middle of the bed to the head of the bed... five feet maybe. That was her limit. And then she had to rest.

But she held on to me, and I wasn't letting go of her.

And while it was killing my lower back, I didn't care. I wanted to dance with her. To hear her whisper "I love you" one more time. To see her precious smile. To see her eyes light up and crinkle around the edges when she recognized it was me. To hear her counting with me "3... 2... 1... go" when she was trying to stand up.

What am I supposed to do now that she's gone? How am I supposed to move forward when my world has fallen to pieces?

Joella's answer would be: dance.

Just dance.

Put one foot in front of the other. Even if it's a few inches at a time. And right now, that's about all I feel like I can muster.

But those last days, those last moments with Joella, I will forever cherish. And savor.

That was our word the last few years: savor.

To savor every moment as if it was going to be our last. And eventually, there were a lot of lasts.

One last great Thanksgiving day. We had our family's traditional chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, vegetables, and bread. And pie. Joella enjoyed her food as much as the rest of us did. It was the last full meal she would ever eat.

And then we did another Michael family tradition: we headed to the beach. No one is there on Thanksgiving day. And yes, this year it was a bit windy, but we were there. Joella in her wheelchair, and I pushed her up and down the sidewalk as we listened to the waves crashing and watching the ocean and our family being together on the sand. We talked about our girls, our hopes and dreams for each of them, how proud we are of each of them, and just reflected on the day and wondering how much time we had left.

And we strolled in silence. And then I heard Joella singing. Softly. But singing. One was a song we've sung at church since we were kids (I'm sure the song is older than that).

Have you ever stood at the ocean

With the white foam at your feet?

Felt the endless thundering motion?

Then I say you've seen

Jesus, my Lord.

And another:

You make beautiful things

You make beautiful things out of the dust

You make beautiful things

You make beautiful things out of us

You make me new,

You are making me new

You make me new,

You are making me new

Little did we know that the "newness making" would be four days later.

And that was the last time Joella was able to get out of the house. We had a lovely family dinner. All of our girls were home. We went to Joella's favorite place, the beach, and we went home. That night, Joella and I would begin dancing. Both of us knowing on some level that these moments of "You got this" and "You're doing great" and dancing with my best friend, the love of my life, would at some point become Jesus cutting in to say, "I got you. You're doing great. Dance with me now."

And I would step out of the way, and let him take the eternal lead.

And I'm grateful he did because she was in so much pain and now she's not.

But I am heartbroken. I miss my wife.

Through our 28 years of marriage, whenever I'd come home from work or wherever I was coming from, Joella would greet me with a hug and a kiss and an "I'm glad you're home." And she would regularly tell me, "You're the best part of my day." She loved me. She chose me. Me! (I will never fully understand why.) And I am forever grateful and forever thankful she did. But while I may have been the best part of her day, she was the best part of my life.

And we'd occasionally spontaneously dance. In our house. When we were on a date waiting for a table. When we were in line going to a concert or a movie. It wasn't often. We wouldn't go crazy. And we didn't care who was looking... as long as we got to dance with each other. Our kids would roll their eyes... sometimes take a picture. We loved each other every moment. I was her world, and she was mine.

And dancing for us became a metaphor for living life fully. For not caring what others thought, but taking advantage of opportunities and situations we were presented with. For laughing or crying when appropriate. For living life fully and with a sense of reckless abandon. And that was Joella's prayer for girls... that they dance.

And in the midst of all our heartbreak (because we all miss Joella), my hope for anyone who reads this is that you dance. That you live life fully. That you savor every second, every moment. That you don't take any relationship, any opportunity for granted. Be fully present. Laugh when you need to laugh. Mourn when you need to mourn. And love God deeply and fully.

You won't know when your last dance will be. I didn't think my last dance with my precious wife would be a 2 AM, twelve foot waltz to the bathroom and back to the bed. But it was. And it was sweet, and I will never forget how tight she held on to me and how she trusted me to lead her on that short waltz. And how, when we finally made it back to the bed, she whispered, "I love you" in my ear.

And now, I am so thankful she isn't hurting anymore. That any tears she cries will be wiped away by the God we both love. And as weird as it sounds, my deep sadness is mixed with an equal portion of thankfulness. Thankful she is at peace. At rest. At home with God. And frankly, I'm a little jealous. She's getting to have conversations with Jesus, with Moses (one of her heroes of faith), with Ezekiel (one of my heroes of faith), with John, and Mary, and Lazarus, and all who have gone home before.

And I know I'll get to have a few more dances with Joella. But not here. Not yet.

Instead, I'm just trying to put one foot in front of the other. Sometimes with normal steps. Sometimes only inches. I'm just trying to continue dancing.

And make no mistake... you are not exempt from dancing! This isn't junior high school anymore. You can't stand against the wall and watch others do what you should be doing. Joella's smile, joy, hearty laugh, and infectious grace compels you to savor every moment.

And to dance.