Not Lost

46.  Not Lost

 

“ … men, if you take a lady onto the floor to dance, please escort

her back to her seat at the end of your time together.

This will ensure that you have been a gentleman; also that she returns to

her seat without slipping and falling on the floor.”[313]

 

Seeing death as the end of life is like seeing the horizon as the end of the ocean.[314]

 

This day I breathèd first—time is come round,

And where I did begin, there shall I end.

My life is run his compass.[315]

Trouble is part of your life, and if you don't share it, you don't give the person who loves you many opportunities to express their love.[316]

 

Diane Ackerman said, “I don’t want to get to the end of my life and find that I lived just the length of it.  I want to have lived the width of it as well.”[317]  She used the word “width” to describe the quality of one’s life.  Many people haven’t had the good fortune to live a life like Vicki’s.  They’ve just lived a long time.

I tried to provide a strong arm for Vicki to hold onto, wanting to be the best earthly dance partner I could be.  I knew the excellence of her life wasn’t due to me being her husband and friend.  We were held by the Healer.

November 14, 2003 (Vicki’s last journal entry.)

So much has happened in eleven days, and I can hardly remember.  It’s been the most precious time for me and Lowell with the Lord and each other.  I have never felt closer to my man.  We have had amazing prayer times together.

Vicki’s handwriting at this point was still legible but very misshapen.

(As you can tell, I am very loopy with these new drugs I’m on.)  I have been in a lot of pain with lots of tears, at night especially, but it’s much better now.

On November 5, Lowell came in to talk and pray with me at nap time.

 

Suddenly … journaling became unimportant to Vicki.  It was time to stop.

What did we talk about at nap time on November 5th?  I don’t remember.  Vic’s last time in the hospital has, unfortunately, become a blur of memories. 

The boys were still far from home – Brandon in Hawaii and Chris in China – but that was a comfort to Vicki.  That her sons were still thousands of miles away made Vic feel safer; she said more than once, “Lowell … if I’m going to die, I do NOT want [them] to remember me this way!” pointing to her bruises that resulted from the injections and IV.  Her skin was a pale yellow because the cancer was ravaging her liver, and her eyes were sometimes fogged over by the morphine (now, the pain medication of choice).  Vicki, still the princess, said she felt “undignified,” physically degraded and humiliated by the cancer’s constant attack on her body. 

My sister Kathy became our constant companion.  She was Vicki’s personal nurse practitioner, her most intimate helper (Vic still had her womanly pride), and often our comic relief.  All three of us cried and laughed together a lot those late autumn days.  Kathy spent several nights in Vicki’s room while I utilized the room next door to catch up on some sleep, meditate a little, and cry alone.  What amazed us was that Kathy was there for us in the midst of her own major crisis – the dissolution of her 20-year marriage.  She made herself available to us because, as she would say, and I’m paraphrasing, “If everyone in the family could be here, they would be.  I’m just their representative.”  That was true.

I’ve talked to many people who have gone through what I experienced – a loved one dying.  But I had one thing most did not.  I had “a Kathy” a – member of their family, and even close friends, around.  Without exception these folks told me that they weren’t hoping that anyone would shoulder their load, help them care for their loved one, or provide much of anything, really.  Without exception they would say, “I just hated being alone.”  I asked a few of them, “Did you ever ask anyone to come and be with you?” and always I got back, “I didn’t want to have to ask.  Why didn’t they just know to be with me?  Why didn’t they ask me if they could come?  I didn’t want to be a bother.  And besides, who wants to be around death – smelling the things I smell and seeing what I have to see?”

Then you’ve got the people on the other end of this quandary, this impasse – friends and family wanting to help but not wanting to interfere; people who hoped to be needed and to be invited, but never were.

Whenever I was with Vicki during these dying day we would talk about everything – Brandon and Chris, family issues, medical matters and choices, this book. We traded questions.  I read to her.  But the most important thing I did?  I touched her.  One of her love languages was touch, so I would stroke her hair, rub her head and shoulders, help her change position in the bed, walk her to and from the bathroom and take her on short walks down the hallway.  A day didn’t go by that I didn’t gently make room for myself on her bed, usually on her right side, and hold her while she rested her head on my chest.  She loved to hear my heart beat.

She loved to kiss and be kissed, too, and so we did that until her lips were too tender to do so.  I never stopped kissing her though.  Vicki needed my kiss, she said, “as much as I need the air to breathe.”  When I kissed her cheeks I could sense the heat of her fever, the evidence that her body was in a fight for life.

The pain became more manageable because of the morphine, but Vicki also slept more and more  She wasn’t just fatigued from the battle raging in her body, although that was tiring.  The morphine was slowing her down.  Her breathing and her heartbeat was slowing down.  She had faced a terrible choice:  to dull the pain or stay fully conscious and alert.  Dulling the pain won out.

On November 25th we celebrated Vicki’s 50th birthday.  There was cake and balloons and cards to read.  Vicki told us, “I want to get out of bed and sit up,” so we made that happen – moving two IV trees packed with monitors, bags of saline solution, and the morphine pump.  Always the morphine. 

Just after we placed pillows and her weakening body in a chair Dr. Charles “Chip” Jones came by for a visit.  Vicki’s face lit up – here was the man whom God had used to miraculously extend her life by another 22 months, and who had become one of her dearest friends.  I have a priceless picture of Vic, sitting up in the chair, smiling up at Dr. Jones and holding his hand.

Whenever we had been away from the hospital, at social events or church, and before and after office visits, Vicki would refer to her surgeon friend as “Chip.”  She loved him.  He was the creative, God-hungry, laughing man nicknamed Chip, but when he was operating in his official capacity it was always, “Dr. Jones.”  Without exception.  She honored him … and he honored her right back.  He always called her Victoria.  Never Vicki.

After his birthday visit Dr. Jones and I, as we were in the habit of doing, retreated to the hallway to share a short walk to the nursing station.  Usually we would say our own goodbyes, exchange information, and talk over the next day’s treatment strategy, but not that day.

“Lowell … she’s failing … rapidly.  If your sons are going to see their mom alive they better come now,” he said.  That’s when he hugged me.  Not since the miracle day in January of 2001, when Chip had come running into the waiting area to give us the good news, had he done that. 

Dr. Jones turned to go to the nurses’ station and write down his observations.  He took three or four steps, hesitated, turned back and took a step toward me.  He stopped.  I saw a tear.  “Soon.”  That’s all he said that I remember.

I’m not sure when Vicki’s dad contacted our sons, telling them to prepare to come home, or when he made the travel arrangements.  I’m not sure who came by to visit us.  I have a few pictures from November 26th and 27th, but they seem strange and out of context, or like something was missing.

Vicki slept more.  I continued to read to her, serve her, and change CDs.  Music, one of Vicki’s top-five passions, was always in the air.  It was always worship music.

On the 27th … a Friday … in the evening … Vicki went into a coma.

I have a picture of my Dad sitting by Vicki’s bed in her sunlit room the next day, reading the Bible to her while my Mom hovered over her, brushing her hair from her forehead.  Vicki was laboring for every breath.

On Saturday morning Vicki was deeper into the coma.  I remember looking at the clock.  It was about 11:30 in the morning when her Mom and I were leaning over Vicki, Peggy on her right and me on her left, telling her how much we loved her. 

In a moment we looked at each other and we knew what to do.

We began to say things like, “You can go ‘home’ now, Honey.  It’s okay.  You don’t have to fight this war another minute.  You’ve fought a good, long fight.”  Peggy, who brought her into the world almost fifty years before to the day, and me, her husband for thirty years and four months, let Vicki go.  We released her.  Vic’s dad stood close by.

A presence filled the room.  Jesus was there.

Gary and Wendy came in moments later.  They could sense God’s presence, so they knew instinctively that it was time to say, “Goodbye.”  Kathy walked in about an hour later.  Several nurses came and went – they knew.  One nurse stayed behind.  And Jesus was there.

The afternoon of November 29, 2003, Victoria Lee Winstead Qualls left the room, arm in arm and dancing with the Healer.  In a twinkling of an eye she was in heaven.

The people in the room celebrated because the pain was gone forever.

A sensitive moment or two later the nurse went to call for a hospital staff doctor.  It wasn’t long, maybe fifteen minutes or so, before he arrived to confirm Vicki’s death.

“Are you the husband?”  I nodded my yes.  “Sorry for your loss,” he said as he prepared to leave the room.

“She’s not lost,” I said.  “I know where she is.”

Shortly I left the room, retreating next door to prepare for … another miracle?

 

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A week before she died Vicki had reminded me, “You know, it might be that God will allow me to die … and then, in order to shake Richmond out of its spiritual lethargy, He might have YOU raise me from the dead.”  Once again I told her, “You can’t lay that heavy burden on me.”  I wasn’t joking because I knew she wasn’t either.  Nevertheless, I promised Vicki that if she died, I would lay hands on her and pray that God would raise her from the dead.

When the staff doctor had finished his business, confirming that Vicki had indeed died, I mentioned to the family, “I have unfinished business.”  They knew what I meant because they were aware of the promise Vicki had asked me to make.

I retreated to the room next door while the nurses disconnected all the monitors and IVs from Vicki’s body, sat down, opened my Bible to John 11, and read about Jesus raising Lazarus, his dear friend, from the dead. 

I began to get a sense that God was about to blow my mind, and that He might do what Vicki had dreamed was possible.  I began to believe, really believe, that He was about to raise her from the dead!  And she was dead because the staff doctor, not Dr. Jones – who might be in cahoots with God and the Quallses to perpetrate a sensational lie – had made the death declaration and signed the hospital’s death certificate.

Ten minutes went by.  I was praying for courage.  The shades of the room were drawn but my heart seemed to be filling with a brilliant light.  Soon I felt radiant – like I was projecting the dazzling glory of God from my body and my spirit.  Déjà vu … it felt so familiar – much like the atmosphere in my high school locker room before a big wrestling match, when my head coach used to get me fired up, telling me, “You’re going to win this, Qualls!”  I felt like God was yelling in my face, “We’re going to do this, Qualls!”

I tried to stand up … and I couldn’t.  “Wha …”   It felt like my butt was glued to the chair.  I had no strength in my legs.  If I had tried to stand I wouldn’t have been able to walk – I felt that weak.

And then I heard His voice.  “Write.”  I had a small spiral notebook squeezed between the flyleaf and back cover of my Bible – the little notebook I used to write down my list of errands to run and phone calls to make.  I began feverously writing down what I was hearing.

 

“I have saved Vicki.  No longer will she be susceptible to the attack of the enemy.  She is safe and secure – in My presence – for I have exchanged her mortal body for one that is immortal.  I have placed a crown upon her head – and at the judgment seat, when My Son, acting on My behalf, rewards those who have been faithful, Vicki will receive honors – recognition in heaven for services rendered in My name.  Jewels will be produced that will enhance her crown, and she will be given much reward.

“Today she has entered My rest – her labors on earth are over.  She has breathed her last breath of polluted air.  She no longer walks on the soil of fallen earth.

“This is the sorrow and loss you, Lowell, were promised.[318]  Now, walk with Me in intimacy.  Do not fear man or the governments of men.  Stand uprightly for Me.  Speak with boldness because you have Vicki as a deposit and earnest[319] in heaven.  She joins the great cloud of witnesses – those who are “too good for the world;” men and women of faith, perseverance, courage and holiness – who count earthly things as rubbish so they might gain access to an eternal home.

“Vicki is feasting at a table spread for her and others like her.  She is singing songs with words only those who have been saved and entered heaven can sing.

“So rejoice!  Lift up your head and be filled with My joy.”

 

I understood why my body was frozen in the chair.  I had kept my promise.  I had asked for Vicki’s resurrection.  But God said, “No,” and He told me why.

Lowell wept.

For almost four hours, since the moment Peggy and I said, “Vicki, you can go home now,” I had been a rock.  Steady.  Calm.  Filled with a supernatural peace.  When I felt I heard God say at the very end of His dictation, “So rejoice!  Lift up your head and be filled with My joy,” I stood to my feet, raised my hands to Him, and cried for joy!

Relief came.  I felt so good, I also felt guilty for a moment.  Sorrow had rushed in … but no regrets.  Vicki’s physical presence would no longer grace my life, but for her sake I was glad.  She was no longer tortured, unknowing, or afraid.  Vicki was home, where she belonged.

A few people said, “Her life was cut short.”  It wasn’t.  Her days were numbered by God, and in the fullness of time … His time … she went into His physical, heavenly presence.

 

At her funeral the following week, as Brandon and Chris sat at my side, my former pastor, Dr. Bob Rhoden, opened in prayer.  Thomas Bell, a gifted computer geek and audio-visual genius, put together a multi-media presentation of Vicki’s life.  (There were lots of tears and laughter as mourners celebrated her fantastic life.)  I stood and read from the little notebook the words God had given me just days before … “I have saved Vicki.”  Dave and Julie Connolly had come all the way from Liverpool, England, and comforted the crowd with words from Jesus.  Two of my staff pastors – Jason Stickles and Scott Frary – shared Vicki’s impact on their lives.  Dina Ching and Kendalle Stock celebrated Vic’s special impact on their lives, giving insights into their friendships with her.  Cheryl Orms, traveling companion and comrade when Vicki spoke at conferences and women’s events, sang a solo.  Jim Gilbert, our mutual friend since we were brand new in ministry, led us in worship.  My sister-in-law Laura read a poem she wrote entitled Her Name Is Vicki:

 

Her name is Vicki, Victoria, Victory.

For one small and gentle

A giant, no mystery

Since she called Him, Lord,

The God of all history

Who knew her as Vicki, Victoria,

Latin for Victory.

 

Her name is Vicki, a Qualls and a Wife,

A lover and friend,

She gave Lowell her life;

They ministered, played

And got through the strife

In Victory;

Victoria, Vicki, my wife.

 

Her name is Vicki, a nurturing Mother,

For two sons who loved her

There would be no other

Who’d love them enough

To let them go from her;

Into the Lord’s Fearful,

And all tender cover;

Vicki, Victoria, Victory, their Mother.

 

They named her Vicki, Peg and Ed’s Daughter,

Obedient child to all that they taught her;

Sister and cousin,

Aunt and Granddaughter;

She loved her family

And all of them sought her;

This Vicki, Victoria, Victory, our Daughter.

 

Her name is Vicki, Example and Teacher;

Shouting His praise

To all who could reach her;

Traveling witness,

A regular preacher;

Hundreds were blessed by

This Vicki as Teacher.

 

Her name is Vicki, Disciple, Victorious,

Sand the sad song of suffering’s chorus,

Grace under fire,

Painful, injurious;

Then came God’s call,

The sound was most glorious:

“Vicki!  Victoria!  Come Home … Victorious!”

Laura Qualls, November 29, 2003

 

For me, maybe the best thing that happened during the service, was my pastor’s sermon.  Rev. John Hershman asked us, “Has anyone seen Lazarus lately?”  His most comforting observation was this:  even though Lazarus had been miraculously raised from the dead and given a life extension – much like Vicki’s additional 22 months – Lazarus died … again.  John told us that death eventually comes calling on us all, even if we’ve had a miracle of healing sometime in our past.  He reminded us that we must be ready for that inevitable event.  We must prepare for death as Vicki did.

Frank Sinatra (1915-1998) was indelibly linked to the song, I Did It My Way.  The words are:  “And now the end is near, and so I face the final curtain.  I’ll state my case of which I’m certain.  I’ve lived a life that’s full, I’ve traveled each and ev’ry highway, and more, much more than this … I did it my way.”[320]

I love Frank, but I think he got it wrong and Vicki got it right.  She would have radically changed the lyric of the last phrase to sing it like this:  “I did it His way.”

Beth Moore called and left this message on our recorder:

 

“Lowell, this is Beth Moore, from Houston, Texas.  I had the privilege of meeting you and your beautiful wife while I was in Richmond, and I just wanted you to know that I have thought about her ever since I got home – her faith and the radiance of Christ on her ran back through my mind a thousand times after coming back home. 

“I’ve kept up somewhat through her sister.  I’ve been made aware, in the last couple of days, about her home-going.  I wondered what beauty she must possess right now, even face to face with Christ.  I want you to know that I care; I know that the void must be indescribable, and that you guys are in my thoughts and in my prayers. 

“I thought she was absolutely a beautiful, radiant woman of God; it was obvious to me, even from the platform – before I knew who she was.  I tried to explain it to my husband. 

“I will keep the magazine article that she gave me … I will keep.  I just wanted you to know how much I care, and that I have you on my heart and my mind, and that my heart was so tender toward her.  I’m concerned about your grief.  Even though I only met her the one time, [I know the loss will be great].  “I pray for you and your church body.  I know that God will show His glory through the months and years to come. 

“I appreciate you so, so much for what you do.  And you stand firm!  God has a plan; He knows what He is doing … and greater works than these does He have for you, Lowell, in the future.  He has [those things] inscribed on the palm of His hand for you.  So … you take care, my brother, and be steadfast in the faith.  Let nothing take that from you, and may He reveal Himself mightily to you in the coming days.  

“Take care.  Bye, bye.”

 

The Dance of Life, it goes on and on and on. 

Others will certainly effect how we dance our dance, either positively or negatively.  It won’t matter how hard we try to keep their influence to a minimum, people will still influence the way we dance. 

That said, it was Vicki’s hope that her influence would be positive, even it she crossed paths with someone but for an instant.  She made a sweet impression on Beth in just a few minutes; she would have been so pleased to have picked up that phone message herself.  She hoped to be a positive influence, not drawing attention to herself as much as pointing to Jesus and saying, with every breath possible, “Dancing with Jesus, dancing with The Healer … my Healer … is the best way to live and love.  And the best thing about dancing with Him?  You get to do it forever!”

And a one and a two …

 

Psalm 116 NIV

Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of His saints.

 

2 Corinthians 5:1-10 NIV

Now we know that if the earthly tent (our physical body) we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands. 

Meanwhile we groan … For while we are in this tent, we groan and are burdened,

because we do not wish to be unclothed but to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life.

Therefore we are always confident and know that as long as we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord.  We live by faith, not by sight.  We are confident, I say, and would prefer to be away from the body and at home with the Lord.  So we make it our goal to please Him, whether we are at home in the body or away from it.