Peter was in his late fifties and had been chronically ill for a long while. He was the kind of person who never complained, learned early to take one day at a time and found joy in even the smallest things.
He was cared for by his wife of many years, who had not planned on caring for an “invalid,” as she called him, and who did not easily hide her discontent. I did not know whether Peter just naturally had a peaceful demeanor or if he had become that way by virtue of his illness and his circumstances. He seemed, on the most difficult days, to be able to retreat inside of himself with his God and find rest there.
Slowly but surely his energy and appetite were ebbing away due to his illness. He was declining, just a little bit more each time I saw him, and he seemed contented and unafraid.
He was a man of few words, and you understood more about him by simply holding his hand than by talking. The silences said a thousand things beautifully.
One day while we were visiting together, I found us whispering to each other. When I said, “Peter, why are we whispering?” he replied, “Because I am in a waiting place, not there yet but not here with you anymore. It is very peaceful here and very beautiful.”
He smiled, squeezed my hand and closed his eyes. Those were the last words we spoke together; Peter died later that night. I am more than certain that God was already showing him glimpses of his new home.
