Departures

Sometimes you get the chance to say goodbye.

And sometimes you don’t.

In January 2025, we were shocked when we received word that Mr. Pettit’s sister-in-law, Bennie, had passed away. The news of death always lands with a jolt, but we weren’t aware she had been ill. An overwhelming infection had taken her quickly.

Two weeks ago, Mr Pettit’s older brother, Richard—Bennie’s husband—succumbed to cancer. His condition had deteriorated rapidly, so when we got the call we had been awaiting and dreading, we were not surprised. But it is one thing to expect loss and another to experience it.

It’s the difference between watching a door close and hearing the click of the lock.

Richard had been diagnosed roughly two years ago, and as he traveled from treatment to treatment, I began to wonder if his cancer could be tamed. Not cured, perhaps, but relegated to the status of a chronic illness. A rude and obnoxious guest, but one he could tune out while he enjoyed the company of his children, grandchildren, and friends.

We had a lovely time when Richard visited us last November; we browsed at a farm market, went to Older Son’s home for dinner, and took a drive through Shenandoah National Park. We even took a short hike along a gentle trail.

When we learned that hospice had been called in, we made the trip to his home. Richard had become much weaker and he moved slowly, but he was still very much himself. He shook his head when I made him laugh, as if he were still trying to figure out that crazy Finch girl from next door. He was like his mother that way.

He still had his own dry wit, and his eyes hadn’t lost their leprechaun spark. We shared family stories and rifled through memories, leaving out the sad parts.

As Richard talked about his grandchildren, his energy surged. When two of them visited for an impromptu pizza party, he threw off the identity of Hospice Patient and fully inhabited his role as Papa. The love between them was vibrant, untouched by the breakdown of his physical form.

After Richard’s son took his children home, Mr. Pettit and I stayed a bit longer, knowing we should leave but unable to go. We hugged goodbye and waved from the car as we drove away, just as we had after every visit. We behaved as if there would be another, but our hearts told us there would not.

Since I started this column, I’ve learned that one of my high school classmates has passed away and another has lost her 36-year-old son. As far as I know, there were no long farewells in either case.

As a mother, I imagine that no goodbye, no matter how prolonged, would be adequate preparation for such a devastating loss. The sound of that door slamming shut would rend my heart in two.

What, then, is my bottom line here? That we should hold the uncertainty of life close, aware that we never know when the last time will truly be the last time? That we should strive to live in harmony with our family and friends, in order to live without regret should the unthinkable (yet inevitable) happen?

Yes.

But more than that.

Jesus knows me well. He knows my struggle to live as his disciple in the tension of joy and dread. He sees how tangled up I become, my inclination to love this world too much. The splendor of the waters off Polynesia. The spirit-lifting power of “How Great Thou Art.” The comfort of an embrace.

I don’t sense Jesus scolding me for enjoying the beauty of nature and man. After all, He is the Creator of everything.

But I feel His tender nudge reminding me that this mortal life is but a dim preview of the eternal home awaiting me as His follower. A trailer for a coming attraction beyond description. As always, Paul summed it up much better than I.

So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal. 2 Corinthians 4:16-17 (ESV)

Sometimes we get a chance to say goodbye.

Sometimes we don’t.

But through it all, Christians share this hope: Our departure from this realm will lead to an arrival in another, a place of no more goodbyes.

Only a series of hellos.

Mepkin Abbey, Moncks Corner, South Carolina