The Calm Before the Storm

The Calm Before the Storm

      There are certain moments in life that carve themselves into your soul—not because of what went wrong, but because of what went beautifully right. For me, it was the weekend before my sweet Tiffanie passed away. We needed a reprieve, a break in the storm clouds. Looking back, it feels like God placed a gentle calm in the middle of a gathering storm. A moment of peace before our world changed forever.  A moment of building before everything came crashing down.

      We didn’t know it was her last good weekend. To be fair with you the previous day was one filled with goodbyes. We weren’t sure if she would ever see another sunrise. Imagine my surprise when on Saturday morning she felt better, almost like she physically rebounded! Still, we didn’t know how close we were to the moment when our lives would split into “before” and “after,” almost like a break of BC and AD in our calendar . I never thought I would have a BT and AT life, aka, before Tiffanie and after Tiffanie. But we felt the mercy in it: her smile returning, her pain easing, her laughter ringing through that hospital room again. For the first time in over a week her laugh was louder than the breathing machine and heart monitor. It was good to have a beautiful sound, mute all the sterile medical equipment in the background. Her spirits were higher than they had been in weeks. Friends came, family stopped in, our kids presence lit up the room. She was tired, but she wasn’t defeated. For a brief window of time, it seemed like hope hung in the air again. Yes, probably a false hope, but there was hope nonetheless. We didn’t talk about dying or funerals. We talked about the present, how much we loved each other.  The clouds of doom seemed to dissipate if only for 48 hours. 

      In grief circles, people sometimes talk about “the rally”—that unexpected lift right before the end. As a pastor I had witnessed this in the past. It was almost like a God given gift to enjoy a few last days with our loved ones. But it didn’t feel clinical to me. It felt sacred, like a divine appointment on God’s calendar. It could almost hear God Himself saying, I’m giving you one more weekend. One more memory. One more moment to breathe before the storm breaks. He gave us peace in the eye of the storm. He allowed light to funnel in one last time.  We soaked up every second. We sat close. We held hands. We enjoyed our last dinner dates together. We cherished conversations we didn’t realize would be our last.

      And somehow, that calm prepared us for the inevitable in ways I only understand now. God let me see through a glass darkly , only seeing pieces of what was laying ahead . When the storm finally hit—when the monitors quieted, the room stilled, and the finality of death arrived—those memories became an anchor. To this day I miss the sound of her oxygen machine. I now use three dans to fall asleep because they mimic the sound of her machine. That final weekend reminded me that her final chapter wasn’t defined by suffering alone. It held joy. It held connection. It held peace that didn’t make sense at the time, but makes perfect sense now. It reminded me of my wife who was a weary warrior and how our Master gave her one last weekend to treasure before passing away. 

      I believe God gives us these mercies so that when we step into the darkest valley, we don’t step in empty-handed. He showed His goodness in life’s worst situation. I carry the warmth of the calm, the sweetness of the laughter, the strength of the love we shared.

      Looking back, that weekend was a gift. A breath before the breaking. A calm before the storm. A reminder that even when death draws near, God is still near also.  And now, as I walk forward as a widower, a dad, and a man learning how to live with both grief and hope, I hold that weekend close. Not as a reminder of loss, but as a reminder of love. Love that was strong enough to shine even in a hospital room. Love that gently prepared us for goodbye. Love that prepared for the grueling days ahead. Love that still carries me today. Because even in life’s fiercest storms, God often sends a calm—not to erase the storm, but to remind us that we will not face it alone.