The Last Word

Originally published 1996 in Heavenly Thoughts!

By Bettie Corbin Tucker

    After returning home from visiting my ninety-three year old dad who lives in Morgantown, West Virginia, my husband Jack and I were tired and hungry.  Even though it is only a two-hour drive from our home in Baden, Pennsylvania, we had worked outside late the evening before, painting garage doors.
     "Honey, if you walk the dog, I'll make us a sandwich," I said to him.
     "Sounds good.  I want some of that leftover meatloaf. "
     Once the meatloaf was in the warming oven, I decided to check our telephone answering machine.  There were two messages from friends and another disturbing one from my brother-in-law.  He and my sister Jane lived in Portland, Oregon.  "Bettie, this is Dick.  Give me a call.  I have bad news!"
     Apprehensively, I dialed the familiar number.  What did he mean by bad news?  Was something wrong with my sister?  Were their children (young adults) sick or in trouble?
     He answered on the second ring, his voice barely audible.  "Hello."
     "Dick, it's Bettie.  What's wrong?"
     "It's Jane . . . she . . . she was in an automobile accident on her way home from church!"  He paused, struggling for words.
     The pause frightened me.  Tell me, I thought, tell me that she's okay!
     "Bettie . . . she didn't . . . she didn't make it," he said brokenly.
     Feelings of hostility toward him surfaced momentarily as my mind fought the acceptance of his words.  I asked myself, Why is he telling me this about Jane?  Then in the distance I heard my own voice screaming in pain.  "No.  Please God, no.  Don't let it be true!  Please don't let it be true!"
     My husband, who had come into the room, pieced together what had happened.  Helpless and grief-stricken, he held me, crying out to God!  "Lord, help her.  Help all of us!"
     For weeks after the funeral, I kept trying to make some sense out of the tragedy.  Over and over again I would question God aloud.  "Why did You allow this?  Jane was on her way home from church!  She was a wonderful Christian who lived to serve You.  Her family needs her.  I need her.  Why did she have to be there when that kid crossed the centerline?  Why was he so careless?  Just a few seconds could have made a difference"    So many "whys!"  So many "what ifs."
     When I confessed to a friend that I was angry with God, he said.  "You can't be.  You're a Christian.  No one has the right to question God.  Be angry with the other driver."
     Feeling annoyed, I said, "If I could, I would change it and be this super spiritual person.  As yet, I can't relate to the driver, but I know God could have stopped it."
     Later on in the grieving process, I realized it was perfectly natural to be angry with God.  After all, He is my best friend—Someone I should be real with!  It was only after pouring out my thoughts and feelings to Him that I felt His strengthening presence.  God whispered to my spirit that anger is part of the grieving process, especially in the unexpected, sudden death of a healthy person or persons. He said He, too, had experienced grief and anger.  Now I realize that, during the months when I felt as though I were walking around with a knife in my heart, God, too, felt my pain.  The knife stayed there until He pulled it out and began healing the wound.  Sometimes, when I cried myself to sleep at night, I felt His comforting presence.  Most importantly, during the whole grieving process, He allowed and encouraged me to grieve in my own way.  My Lord didn't say, "Shape up, it's time to move on."  He said, "take all the time you need; I am with you."  Can we do no less when someone we know has suffered a loss?
     Just a little over a year before the accident, Jane and I had both spent a month visiting Dad in our hometown.  We had a wonderful time as we giggled over old photographs and reminisced about our childhood years.
     "Jane, do you remember when you made me smoke corn silk?"
     "That was my insurance against you telling Mom and Dad that I was smoking it!"
     "Your plan didn't work!  I tattled anyway and afterward, I poured your best perfume down the sink drain."
     "Didn't like it anyway," she quipped back.  "Remember, Betz how both of us insisted on having the last word before we went to sleep."
     "Do I ever!  I'd force myself to stay awake until 2:00 AM and then whisper very softly, 'Good night Jane.'  I'd feel quite smug and then—"
     She laughed.  "And then I'd say, 'Give up Sis.  Good-night, Sis.' "
     We spent time walking, talking and enjoying the old neighborhood.  There was the old grade school—now boarded up—that we had both attended for six years.  And the United Methodist church where we were both married.  We'd worn the same wedding gown, and were married by the same warm-hearted country preacher.  I was married in February and she in November of the same year.  She was my Maid of Honor; I was her Matron of Honor.  Laughingly, she teased me.  "It took me a long time to forgive my baby sister for getting married first.   It made me feel like an old maid."
     And so the banter continued with the two of us having a very special time, sharing and enjoying each other's company.  We walked neighborhood roads where we had both ridden our bikes, inspected the field where we played softball, and caught lightning bugs.  Since she was older, we had a separate group of friends, but still she always found time for me.  As we grew older, even when living on separate coasts, we remained very close, sharing special moments and family problems through telephone calls and personal visits.  Years before, we had promised to be there for one another and for our respective children.  We were bonded spiritually, one of us sensing when the other needed prayer.  Jane and I shared the grief of losing our mother and the joy of seeing our dad recover from a serious heart attack.  Since childhood, my sister's unwavering Christian walk strongly influenced my own relationship with God.
     If by some miracle this article is read by the driver of the car who was at fault for the accident, I can truly say that I forgive you, knowing that you didn't set out that day to kill my sister.  My example is Jesus Christ who, as He hung on the Cross, said, "Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do."  I do, however, ask that you take responsibility for your actions and realize that Jane was not a statistic; she was a daughter, a wife, a mother, a sister, a sister-in-law, an aunt, a niece, and to many others, a wonderful friend.  She was looking forward to, one day, holding her grandchildren in her arms.  Because Jane knew Jesus Christ personally, be assured that she has forgiven you.  Somehow, it would ease my pain to know that the accident did not also claim you as a victim.  I pray that you have accepted Christ as your Savior and are using your time on earth to make a positive difference in lives.
     When Jane married Dick and they left for Oregon, my sister and I hugged through tears and she said, "Betz, don't you know that there is no distance than can ever separate us."
     I know now this is true.  No distance, not even death.  And realizing that I was the last one to say "good-bye"— during what would be our last telephone conversation— I smile, thinking what she will say when we meet again.  How wonderful it is to have the assurance that I will not have the last word!

A note from the author:  My sister was killed on Palm Sunday in 1995.  Time eases the pain; however, there is an empty place within all of us who loved her that will never go away.  But the memories are precious and sweet, as will be our reunion!  Please be sure you are ready when God calls you home!  Never assume that you have a "tomorrow" here on earth!