Tears from the Sycamores

Late Monday afternoon, the Sycamore trees in the valley were dripping with rain. It seemed as if the whole valley was crying. Larry was a miracle, who doctors said should have died days before he had the surgery. The heart valves that needed replaced where pretty routine, and the bypasses were too, but the hole in his heart had grown from a small tear to a gaping hole the size of an orange. That was not routine at all.

Larry came out of surgery on that Monday, two weeks ago, to the surprise of the doctors and the relief of friends and family. His prognosis was good, and we all thanked God for the miracle that He had provided us.

Two weeks passed, with little change. Larry lay in a hospital bed, sedated, fighting for his life with the same dogged determination that he brought to life. He had the patience born from a lifetime of farming—he still plowed, planted, cut, and gathered his harvest with the horses. But like the storm clouds that roll up into the valley, the signs did not look good.

Monday, after two weeks of fighting, Larry was ready to go home. He was a simple man who loved hunting with the dogs, spending time with the grandkids, and giving horse-drawn wagon rides at the harvest festival. When the family had said good-bye, he passed peacefully from this life into the next.

I know that I’m not alone in wondering why God would give us a miracle one Monday, only to allow Larry to come home so soon, but I know that God has a plan for our good. God is good . . . all the time.

What I do know is that when Larry stopped breathing on Monday afternoon, my wife was driving up the valley. And the sky broke open in great big drops of rain. The whole valley seemed to weep for the loss that will be felt for many years to come. Larry, we’ll miss you, and add our tears to those that fall in the valley from the sycamore trees.