How Can You Be Present Today?

He was here with his wife and granddaughter, visiting the Australian Shepherd puppy they were buying from our farm. One minute he was sitting on a planter in front of my house, and the next he was face-first in the grass.

One minute we were talking about puppies, and the next we were talking about life and death.

The only other adult at home, my father-in-law, joined me next to this near-stranger. He was complaining of pain in his neck, and he begged us to help him sit up. Then, in the middle of our helping him into a chair, he stopped breathing.

I was holding this sixty-nine-year-old man in my arms, calling his name, tapping his cheek, asking him to squeeze my hand, begging him to stay with me. His wife was pacing, making phone calls, answering questions, praying. All the while their granddaughter and my kiddos were playing with puppies as if nothing had changed.

In a moment, every plan I had for that day disappeared. Every plan he and his wife had for their life together disappeared as well. Everything hinged on the moments that followed—as ambulances drove up to our house, as a helicopter was called in, and as he was taken to a hospital.

The next three weeks were painful, and then this Christian man finally succumbed to the broken neck he suffered when he passed out at my home. He left his wife and the granddaughter they were raising together for his heavenly home.

This story has so much sadness. I cried more tears than I thought possible as I bonded with this family over the tragedy that occurred on the steps of my farmhouse. They are my family now. They took home a wiggly little puppy as they buried the head of their household.

But the sadness is not why I write today. Those weeks weren’t only painful; they were also beautiful. I write today to share about the beauty that came from such a very sad time.

Amid a tragedy we can see goodness in people. We see giving. We see complete unselfishness. We see joy. We see God’s hands and feet demonstrated through the people in their community.

I watched as a community rallied around this family. People prayed. They gave. They shared. They visited. They hoped. They rallied. They yearned. They grieved. They brought meals and mowed their lawn. They raised money to pay the couple’s granddaughter’s Christian school tuition, and her ballet tuition was comped for the year. Strangers from across the country sent gifts.

Coming home from the hospital one evening, this worn-down wife found a flood in her basement. She posted her frustration on Facebook, and within an hour a friend was at her home, draining the basement of the water that had found its way in. He never mentioned he was due to leave on vacation later that evening.

The most beautiful moment of this entire loss for me came a few weeks after the funeral. I had been struggling internally, playing every moment of this man’s fall over and over in my mind. Could I have done anything different? Why did I help him sit up? What if I had left him lying in the grass? If we hadn’t had puppies for sale, would this have happened? What could I have done to avoid his death?

Amid this grief in my own life, his widow asked to come over to the house. We sat down in the living room and began going over the events. I hadn’t shared with her my trauma over what had happened. I hadn’t spoken of my guilt. I hadn’t shared about my remorse and anguish over what I couldn’t fix.

She said God told her to come.

“I just want to make sure,” she said as we both started crying, “that you don’t have any guilt in this. I just want to make sure you know it was time for my husband to go home to Jesus. He was always heaven-focused. He had been ready to leave this earth for years. You did everything you could to save his life. And I want you to never question that.”

I sobbed.

This woman, trudging through the depth of her own grief, took the time to drive to my home, sit in my living room, and make sure I was comfortable in my own grief. She wanted to alleviate the burden she knew I had put on myself. She was setting me free.

It took only two hours of her time to do what she did, but the gift she gave me was so much more significant. It was monumental. Life-changing, even. Freeing me from the yoke I had put on myself was one of the most precious gifts I have ever received.

I want to tell you about the three important lessons I took away from this life-changing event:

Life is short. Don’t forget it. Make your plans, but then remember that God holds the number of days in the palm of his hand. We’re simply here to live our days for his glory.
We are called to take care of the widows and the orphans. You have no idea what the small thing you’re doing means to someone else. Send a card. Send a gift. Make a meal. Give a hug. Sit and listen. Attend a funeral. Be present. Care. Choose a family to support and help. If you can’t give money, give your time.
Remember that while you may be deep in grief, you still have so much to offer those around you. This widow’s gift to me that day was beyond what I can put into words. She could have pushed the idea away, told God she was too busy, given excuses for why she didn’t have time to deal what I might be feeling. But she reached out and allowed me to reach in.

Who could use your presence or words or gifts today? Reach out. We are the hands and feet of Jesus. Be that for someone else . . . today.

Wendi Kitsteiner is a former city girl now living on a farm in the middle of nowhere, Tennessee with her husband and four young children. She is passionate about the causes of infertility, adoption, and keeping it real as a mom. You can follow her at flakymn.blogspot.com or becauseofisaac.org.