May 18, 2011

"Goodnight, Irene"

 As I look forward to my ninety-ninth birthday on June 26, 2011, I face the fact of my own mortality. There are other events that bring drastic changes in a life—a baptism, marriage, the birth of a child, the death of a spouse—but nothing compares with the leap from time into eternity. I’m not obsessed with the thought, but it pops up every now and then. For instance, why should I sign up for a three-year subscription when I might not be here three years from now?
 
Readers who listened to popular music during World War II may recall a song titled “Goodnight, Irene.” One of these days it will be time for my friends to say that to me. I just hope they can add, “See you in the morning.”
 
My mother lived to be 102 plus four months. With good genes and a lifetime of embracing a healthful Adventist lifestyle, I may go on living for several more years—or maybe not. A heart attack, a stroke, an accident, or a terminal illness might any day fill up my quota of time on this earth.
 
2011 1514 page31Given the frailties of age, I sometimes ask myself, “Do I really want to go on living to 102 or 103 or 104?” The answer is both yes and no. During the last few months of her life my mother sometimes said, “I’m so weary; I wish the Lord would let me rest.” She fell while getting out of bed and broke her hip, and the end came six weeks later. Everyone I know in my generation prays, as I do, “Lord, please spare me a long terminal illness.” I don’t want to live so long that I become tired of living.
 
There are still things I would like to do—but probably never will. I would like to ride on a ship through the Panama Canal. I would like to visit Kibidula Farm Institute in Tanzania, East Africa, about which I have heard so much. I would very much like to see more than a picture of the new entrance to my alma mater, now Andrews University; it was Emmanuel Missionary College when I was growing up there. There are stories and poems I would like to write and pictures I would like to paint. There is a lot of living I could still enjoy.
 
But primarily I want to stay alive to care for my blind husband, James. He, like me, was born in 1912 into a health-reform-minded Adventist family, and his father, like my mother, was a centenarian. The Adventist lifestyle he practiced didn’t save him from losing his sight to glaucoma. James and I live with our son and his wife, both of them loving and experienced caregivers. But James wants the care of his loving wife. We sometimes say the best thing would be for us to perish together in a plane crash over the Pacific Ocean, which we have crossed many times. That would leave neither one to mourn the other. Nevertheless, we will gladly accept whatever God sends.
 
But when I think of the hereafter, the answer to my question about long life sometimes is “No, I don’t want to stay here any longer.” It’s not the mansions or the streets of gold I yearn for; it’s fellowship with my wonderful Redeemer, who is daily saving me, and the companionship of all those who will be in the heavenly realm. It is the atmosphere of simple goodness that will reign there—integrity, selflessness, compassion, generosity. There will be no self-seeking, no deception or malice or backbiting, no violence or deadly catastrophes. In short, no sin or its effects. Sometimes I can hardly wait.
 
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Irene Wakeham Lee taught English in the Philippines for 24 years. She and her husband, James, now live in Tennessee. This article was published May 19, 2011.

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