The Darkest Night; The Birth of Hope

While laying in bed, the shrill of Hubby's phone broke the silence of the night. My heart sank; we both had preparation for the call we were about to receive, but there was still a heaviness in the receiving. 
Our suspicions were confirmed, his Daddy was with Jesus. Sobs overtook my body while I listened to his mother's tired voice on the other end. Words of pain, but not without hope. Peace intermingled with sorrow. 
It seems like such an oxymoron for both peace and grief to co-exist together...and yet this is somehow the beautiful gift that knowing Christ is. We grieve, and we grieve incredibly deeply, but not without hope. 
My father-in-law was an incredible man. I know many will speak only kind words of those that have passed away as some sort of unspoken rule of  "show no disrespect"  - but with him, it flows easy; there was truly very little "unkind" to speak of. Gentle, but firm. Quiet, but incredibly observant and endlessly witty. He was a contented man that lived a humble life. 
And I adored him. 
His son is a part of him. There's so many attributes that he gained from him. I often joked that when I looked at Doug, I saw my future - and that it didn't look too bad from where I was sitting. 
During his last few years we watched his health deteriorate under the influence of Parkinson's Disease. It stole so much from him, but never his humor. I'm so grateful for the moments we were able to spend just the two of us, walking with and eventually beside his little scooter, when walking became to challenging. We would talk about the future, reminisce the past, and laugh. (Oh, how I miss his laugh.) I don't fully know what he thought about me as his only daughter-in-law, but I thought the world of him. One of the biggest impressions he made on my life was simply this: his acceptance of everything that came his way in life. Losing his own father while he was young, also many siblings along the way, and even the heartbreaking loss of his own daughter a few years ago - he sure tasted his own share of this world's sorrow. And while he grieved every loss, and grieved hard - it was never without hope. 
He was never ashamed about his hope. He spoke of heaven and death openly, and without fear - even to the end, for he knew what was waiting for him. He was certain this world's sorrows couldn't compare to the joy that was coming.
I find my mind in disbelief sometimes. As though, by chance, maybe he's really not gone. The distance of another country away has always separated our family, so we're quite used to feeling the absence of him physically. But then I remember where he really is...that a nine-hour drive in the car won't bring us to him...and that ache deep in the chest comes back. That I won't get the chance to laugh with him one last time. There's no further opportunities for those heart-to-heart conversations. My children's stories of their Papa Doug are complete -  nothing new is able to be written of him.
It's just so...final. 
And then I reflect on my own story. And all the questions come flooding: What do I want to leave behind for those who love me? What words unspoken to I want to be heard? What do I want those who are closest to me to remember? What am I doing in the here and now that will matter for years to come?
We squander so much time. In this one life we have, it is so easy to become distracted. Self-centered. Lazy. Comfortable. Self-seeking.
I have become all these things...and time has cleverly slipped right by. 
I have no idea how many days, hours or even minutes I have left in this world. But I DO know: I want to make each one of them count. 
I have grief, but I have hope. And renewed purpose.
When this chapter of his life came to a close, a new one was birthed in me.