A painful pause is a gateway to heaven’s wildflowers

A single-syllable word keeps circling my brain. Gratefully, that tiny word is consoling me. You see, all the hearts in my family are feeling crushed, and it’s possible those hearts will be flat for a long while.

Each of us wakes up and goes to bed worried about Mike, my sister Sue’s husband. I’ve known Mike for about 35 years, and it only took a few years for him to feel more like another brother than an inlaw. Mike saw me floating aimlessly during my mid20s, and in his way, effectively suggested that I finish my BA degree, which I did. Mike and I regularly played tennis, had a memorable night at a Paul McCartney concert, and most of all, share a passion for baseball. Yep, we have one of those rare in-law relationships that don’t require a hyphen.

But now, my stomach aches because I’m scared our amateur baseball analyses may be over. For two decades, Mike has been able to quiet the rare cancer that invaded him. But, these days, that front is causing a new level of dangerous chaos. My heart sinks thinking repeatedly about Sue and their kids, Ellen and Matt, and the turmoil that may be in front of them.

When I think about Mike and me never talking baseball, I know half of my year will be much quieter. We won’t be able to reminisce about the authentic Hal Newhouser autographed baseball he helped me find in an industry filled with forgeries. Every time I look at the baseball, I think of Mike.

But, should Mike’s body stop serving him, there is a rich and honest comfort to be found. Simply stated, his departure is just a pause — alas, a very painful and challenging separation. But the calming truth is we will be with Mike again, and that time it will be forever, because that’s the way a pause works: After each pause, a restart follows. It’s the complete opposite of a definitive end, where only silence follows. So, when our worries dissolve into weeping, we can hang our hearts on that promised new start.

Last year during the LA Dodgers World Series run, Mike, my brother, Scott, and I texted at least 100 times over the 11 playoff games Mike’s team won to earn that trophy. This year the Dodgers are in the playoff race again, and I’m nervous Scott and I won’t be cheering with Mike. But, since I believe there is baseball in Heaven, I can exhale just a little knowing that one day we’ll talk about our beloved sport until our throats are sore.

My family is getting so much comfort from that tiny word, pause. If Mike and I are forced to take a break, I am confident down to my bones that one day he will pick up exactly where he left off, holding Sue’s hand, looking at his children, Ellen and Matt, and talking with his parents. And should they take a quick minute to look around Heaven’s wildflower fields, I’ll bet they’ll see endless rows of picnic tables filled with family reunions.

I can picture everyone in that park taking in the warm breeze, watching it give sway to the vivid flowers knowing the painful pause is over, and the joyous re-start has begun.