Last night, I attended my church’s Maundy Thursday service. This particular service was a first for me, and although I expected it to be a somber event given its focus, I did not anticipate the waves of emotions I experienced multiple times throughout.

Each part of the worship service tugged at me and set my mind in motion, from the opening hymn to the overwhelming silence that enveloped the entire building as everyone departed. And, as is usually the case at least one Sunday morning per month, I ended up spending a lot of time thinking about Emily. However, it wasn’t a memorable hymn or my post-communion reflection that triggered it tonight; it was the moment they started stripping the altar.

The Curse of Knowledge

I’ve never thought about the weight that knowing one’s fate may carry prior to tonight. But, that’s exactly where my mind went as I watched the pastors systematically “take down” everything that typically resides on and around the altar in our sanctuary. Jesus knew his purpose, but that purpose included death. And not just the typical aspect of human existence in which we know we will all eventually die — he knew exactly how and when he would die, just like he knew what his death would bring.

On the other hand, I’ve spent countless hours wondering if Emily knew those final 36 or so hours we spent in the hospital were her last. I recently recorded a TikTok video in the parking lot of St. Thomas Rutherford, discussing the way in which Emily just casually said, “This feels like 2017 again,” to myself and a visitor who is now one of my best friends. And then again, her last words to me: “I think it’s about to happen again.”

I can’t imagine what a heavy load that would be to carry, to know you’re about to die. Especially for an everyday, ordinary  person (at least in comparison to Jesus).

Yet, best I can tell, Emily knew. And, at some point between when we “went to bed” Tuesday night and those final words she said to me in the early hours of Wednesday morning, I’d like to think she embraced it and felt at peace. (Well, as at peace as Emily ever felt thanks to her anxiety.)

Love Is Watching Someone Die

I’m constantly amazed by the things my mind focuses on now versus before Emily died. And, in last night’s case, I couldn’t help but think about the fact that we rarely look at the events leading up to the crucifixion from the perspective of the disciples. Yet, those are the ones who are actually dealing with the messy, complicated emotions that come with death.

That final span of time I spent in the waiting room of the ICU were the most terrifying moments of my life (and that’s saying something given all that I’ve endured). I had no idea what was about to happen, but I knew it wasn’t good as time continued to pass. And, if I had to guess, that’s probably the way the disciples felt on the night before the crucifixion.

After all, Jesus was being “sus AF,” and they all knew something was about to go down… But did they really know what would happen? Or, more importantly, were they capable of believing it?

I will never forget the way the doctor sat down with me to deliver the news. I can’t tell you a single word she said at this point, but I do remember the way I responded: “No… No… No!”

For several minutes, my mouth got stuck in a loop of, “No,” along with, “But she was fine!” I don’t remember how long this continued, with the doctor just nodding and responding with her own loop of, “I know,” mixed between, “I’m so sorry.”

The time I spent alone with Emily in that ICU room after they pronounced her dead felt like an eternity. And yet, there was a systematic order to it, much like the order in which the pastors cleared the altar on Thursday.

A nurse handed me her engagement ring inside of a Ziploc bag. Then she stood at Emily’s feet while I sat by her side, holding her hand and repeating a chant of, “I’m so sorry… I was supposed to save you.” The nurse asked me to describe Emily, our relationship, and the proposal. Then, someone turned off the ECMO. Then the monitors. Then everyone left… Except for me. Alone with a vessel that could no longer smile, speak, or squeeze my hand, with the rhythmic sounds of the ventilator being all that remained until her parents arrived.

For months after that, I could only wash away that image and drown out that sound with the help of booze and marijuana. But even now, it still reappears at the most random moments — and Thursday night was one of them. I felt tears begin their way down my cheeks, but my body was just as paralyzed by watching the stripping of that altar as it was while I watched an innocent individual pluck away any last glimmers of hope I held onto about Emily returning to me.

There’s a line in a Death Cab For Cutie song that has stuck with me since I lost Emily:

“Love is watching someone die.”

I have to wonder if that sentiment is what the disciples carried with them through those final hours. In my mind, it has to be. Why else would they stand beside him and continue his legacy after the death and resurrection? Yes, visions and the Holy Spirit, yada yada. But also, love.

Because, honestly? I don’t know that I’d choose to walk beside a person during the final hours of their life and be present at their death if I didn’t love that person with my entire heart.