Deficits and a Redeemer

I pleaded with the nurse, "I don't know what else to try. I don't know how to help him." There was a long pause after I had expressed my desperation. She softened her voice, "Renee, you have been Ryan's nurse. You have anticipated his every need. But it's time to be his wife now." 

My breath caught in my throat.

Those words were gracious, true, and brutal. We both knew we had reached the end of what my hands and feet could do for Ryan. In one moment, two things were clear: my deficits were vast, and my role leading to that point had to shift. For the first time, I couldn't find the new gear and I had to relearn what being Ryan's wife meant as I watched him enter his own Gethsemane and slowly slip out of my grip into the arms of Jesus. The only words I could utter in response to the other end of the line were, "Oh, God. Help me."

"When the righteous cry for help, the Lord hears and delivers them out of all their troubles. The Lord is near to the broken hearted and saves the crushed in spirit. ...The Lord redeems the life of His servants; none of those who take refuge in Him will be condemned." Psalm 34:17-18, 22

A year ago today, our earthly threads frayed and Ryan graduated from this world into the Kingdom. 

A strange coincidence this anniversary lands on Good Friday. The day the multitude lost their Teacher. The day twelve followers lost their Leader. The day a mother lost her son. The day a Son was forsaken by His Father. The deficits of mankind were insurmountable, the need was abundant, and humanity sharply wailed for salvation.

In the same instant I drew my first breath without my husband, I watched my sons lose their father, and I watched a mother lose her son. I could do nothing in the face of that moment but melt to my knees, bury my face, and reach for any hand that would squeeze back. Once again, my deficits were insurmountable, our need was abundant, and we sharply wailed for salvation.

"This is not as it should be."

Ryan always told me that I had to walk the hardest part as the caregiver that would go on caregiving. As I witnessed firsthand the degradation he faced, I wholeheartedly disagreed with his sentiment. But as he died, I understood the weight of what he was trying to communicate. Holy longing and renewal grew in tandem with Ryan's limitations and questions, but he knew his suffering was almost complete and Glory would soon take its place. Ryan recognized that difficult and transformative path was still ahead of me.

Following his death, the feeling of relief, renewal, or glory were far from primary and none of them conquered the sense of disorder I felt as I sat at the kitchen table, staring at Ryan's empty seat, making my first attempt to write his obituary. A world with Ryan past tense felt bigger and scarier and I had reached the edge of myself. 

It has taken time to navigate this new terrain and, as I have sat with growing questions and deficits over this last year, the more singular the answers have become. God produced abundant life from death through His Son, the Redeemer. It all whittles down to this truth. While I am not owed clarity or answers, I am confident neither of those things exist or can be produced outside of what Jesus did for us in His death and resurrection. The answer is that Glory is coming.

Today, I have ached just as I ached to see the glory of Ryan drawing his first breath in Heaven a year ago; to witness our prayers for him fully manifested. And I sit this evening in the refuge and weight of the Cross in great anticipation of the One who redeemed it all and will redeem again. 

God, help me. Jesus, come.

Copyright 2025->Renee Sunberg