way to Yesterday

Sunday 7^th March 2018.

Sarah’s eyes lingered on the familiar faces gathered around her bed—her two daughters, her only son, her husband, her pastor, and his family. She had never wished to draw her final breath within the sterile walls of a hospital, yet here she was. The last five years had reshaped her world in ways she could never have imagined, marked by the cruel return of breast cancer after surviving it twice.

Now, as machines hummed and monitors beeped, tubes tethering her frail body to life, she felt an unexpected gratitude. Not for the hospital, nor for the machines, but for the gift of presence—the people who had chosen to make her last moments bearable, even beautiful.

Rebecca’s voice trembled as she clutched her younger siblings, “Mom… we have something for you.”

Sarah tried to lift herself, but her strength betrayed her. Gently, her husband slid a pillow behind her back, steadying her frail frame. She managed a faint smile and whispered, “I’m all ears.”

The room fell into a hushed stillness. Every gaze turned toward Paul, her only son, as he stepped forward. His voice, though shaky, carried the weight of love and farewell:

                                                                                                                   Our sunflower,

                                                                                                                              One by the riverside,

                                                                                                                                As we wave goodbye,

I hope you don’t wither.

With tears streaming down her cheeks, Sarah whispered for help so she could lie back. Her children leaned in, gently adjusting her frail body, then wrapped their arms around her as she prayed over them with trembling lips.

Peter, unable to bear the weight of the moment, turned away from the bed. His shoulders shook as he muttered under his breath, I can’t take this anymore.

And then, in the blink of an eye, Sarah Johnson exhaled her final breath. The room erupted in cries of anguish—her children, her pastor, his family—all mourning the sudden silence. All except one. Her husband did not wail, did not whisper goodbye. He only stood frozen, staring at the lifeless body before him.

His flower had withered. And he felt himself withering too.

Sunday 7^th March 2023. Present.

Exactly five years since Sarah Johnson breathed her last—a death that carved deep scars and reshaped lives.

Rebecca Johnson found her way to the cross, clinging to faith as her anchor. Paul Johnson poured his grief into words, venturing into Christian poetry that carried echoes of his mother’s prayers. Tabitha Johnson discovered purpose in compassion, dedicating herself to caring for cancer patients, walking the path her mother once walked.

And then there was Peter—her husband.

The door to the sitting room of the five-bedroom apartment creaked open, revealing a middle-aged man weighed down by years of sorrow. He locked the door behind him, dropped his briefcase on the armrest, and turned toward her picture—the one he had taken while she was lost in the pages of her favorite novel.

“Happy birthday, SJ,” he whispered. “It’s been five years since He took you away from me. Five years without your laughter, your meals, your touch. Five years of silence where joy once lived.” Five years…” His voice cracked, rising into a cry. “Five years too long!”

And the man wailed. “SJ, I am broken. I hardly see our children anymore—they don’t love me, or maybe I don’t know how to love them without you. I have no friends, no family. I am lonely, SJ.”

He turned away from the picture, wiping at his tears, but they refused to stop. Frustrated, he faced her image again. “I tried so hard not to blame Him, but I can’t help it. Why did He take you away? Why that day? Why so much pain? SJ, you loved Him. I did too. We met because of Him. I proposed because of Him. You said yes because of Him. Our wedding was before Him. Our marriage was rooted in Him. So why? Why did He do this to us? I begged Him not to take you, but He did!”

His voice fell into silence as his eyes wandered across the room, every wall lined with frames of memories—snapshots of joy, laughter, and love. He whispered, “Babe, I’m done walking His path. It’s a path that only leads to death.”

With weary steps, he picked up his briefcase, cast one last glance at her picture, and climbed the stairs—retreating into the silence that had become his only companion.

Several minutes later…

Unable to sleep, Peter lay still in the silence of the room he had once shared with the woman of his youth. Every corner bore her touch—the curtains she chose, the books she loved, the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air. His eyes wandered across the familiar details until they settled on a box tucked away in the corner.

Curiosity stirred. He rose from the bed, moved closer, and lifted the lid. Inside lay Sarah’s journals, pages filled with her thoughts, prayers, and fragments of her journey. He turned them over slowly, as though each word carried her breath. Then, nestled among them, he found a brown envelope marked in her familiar handwriting: “After I’m gone.”

His heart pounded. With trembling hands, he tore it open. Inside lay a handwritten letter—her voice preserved in ink, waiting for him across the years.

As he held the letter close, his favorite scripture flashed through his mind: “…the Lord is HIS name.” And Peter wept—not only for Sarah, but for himself. For in that moment, he realized he had found his way back to yesterday.

Inkhorn

He speaks. We write.