Last year, Holy Week took on a whole new meaning for me as I frantically searched for a spot for Stephen in any clinic in Mexico. On Palm Sunday, I asked him what he wanted to do; and he said, “I’m going to fight.” On Holy Thursday, we hit rock bottom as I heard the fifth hospital deny him possibly his last chance. On Good Friday, his counts miraculously stabilized enough for ONE clinic to grant us admission. On Holy Saturday, I booked our tickets and packed our bags for the last trip we would take together. In the early morning of Easter Sunday, we picked him up from the hospital and flew out to Mexico. It was our own little Easter miracle!

We had a very difficult flight, which Stephen survived through strategic timing of many pain killers, but the smile that was on his face as he breathed in warm air in San Diego was worth it. Despite the rush and stress of the week prior, he was calm as he held my hand and hope flooded our hearts once again. His first night in Mexico was going to be the only night we spent in the same bedroom for the duration of his stay there. We did not know he was going to be admitted for the whole time; we had hoped he would be able to come home and relax after his daily round of treatment, but that was not to be the case. He spent the next three weeks, trying to reverse years of medication and malnutrition. The husband that spent Holy Week unable to stay awake for visitors, was suddenly holding my hand and walking with me in the warm sunshine. The father who could not even hold his children, made it a point to sing to them on their birthdays which we missed last year. It was so good to have him back.

365 days ago today Stephen took his last flight home. He finished his three week treatment and he was coming home; we were so excited for a new chapter to begin.

Today is Easter. There is an immense sorrow that will always accompany this liturgical season for me because of how it played out for Stephen. I cannot look at an image of the crucified Christ without likening his suffering to that of my husband. As charismatic as Stephen was in life, he bore his suffering in silence and he carried scars that ran deeper than the wounds of his IV lines. My heart aches thinking about the pain, loneliness, and suffering Stephen had to endure for many months as he lay in a hospital bed; I wonder about the thoughts that went through his mind, the conversations he had with God.

And yet, today we are reminded that we are an Easter people. Today we remember the empty tomb and the hope in the resurrection. There is an emptiness in my life that I know cannot be filled, much like the empty tomb they found on Easter Sunday many years ago. However, in that tomb there is hope; a hope that awaits us on the day of our death. Today I must hold on to my faith, because I believe that a soul like Stephen’s lives beyond our understanding. The tears, uncertainty, fear, and sorrow, these are the fruit of our limited understanding of our fragile life; we are made for more and so I will strive for more. One day, on the other side of this life, this will all make sense. Until then, Alleluia is my song,