Blue Skies

I lift my eyes, the cloud grows thin.
I see the blue above it.
And day by day this pathway smooths
since first I learned to love it.
The Peace of Christ makes fresh my heart,
a fountain ever springing.
All things are mine, since I am His.
How can I keep from singing?


I sang this folk hymn with my sisters at Risa's funeral three months ago, and the words held so much meaning for me then, but it's amazing how every stanza continues to touch me more and more deeply as time passes.
The day we learned that Risa was dying, I stood in the hospital and looked out the window so she wouldn't see me crying. I remember that the window was very big, and the sky was covered in gray clouds, except for one long, clear, bright patch of blue. When dramatic things happen in your life, somehow everything takes on some meaning to you (at least, it tends to be that way with me), and this was one of those times. I remember feeling bitter at first, thinking of the clouded sky as a representation of reality- dark and gray and gloomy- and the blue patch as the few months that I thought Risa was going to get better. It didn't seem fair! Why had we been allowed to have such hope? Why those happy months, when it was all going to end so suddenly? What a cruel trick for the Lord to play on us. Thankfully, these bitter thoughts didn't last too long before I was shown that I was wrong. A paradigm shift revealed that the clouds weren't reality, but just the veil that is drawn over reality by this mortal state. The blue patch- that time we had with Risa when we thought that she was going to make it- was actually a window into what was real. Reality is that behind the clouds, there is nothing but blue sky. It may sound silly, and maybe it doesn't even make sense, but I took great comfort in it at the time. It was peaceful to think of those happy months with Risa as a window into eternity. In eternal reality, we will always be together without fear of death or sickness or anything else.

Even with all the comfort and sweet peace that the gospel provides, there are days that it's still hard. It's hard when the ache of missing Risa is so strong it hurts and the veil is thick. When I visited home over the 4th of July weekend, I was extremely nervous on the plane. I'd been away from home and family since the day of Risa's graveside service. It was a long ride back. My dad had purchased the cheapest possible airfare available on such late notice, and as a result I had to switch planes in Denver and again in Seattle, making it a 5-hour trip. My stomach seemed to squirm and twist inside me. I'd received a glorious phone call from Rebecca and Blair that morning, informing me that I was now an aunt!

Baby Paul Corson Hasler had been born at 8:01 that very morning! I was itching to see him and hold him in my arms! In that respect, it seemed I couldn't get to Oregon soon enough. But then on the other hand, I was terrified to go back to the place where Risa had died. I was terrified to find my old, beloved world changed.
My brother, Ryan, picked me up at the airport in Portland. I tried not to think of the last time we'd been together in Oregon. As we drove through Portland (my beautiful Portland), the memories barraged me with more force than I'd anticipated. Not just memories of Risa-- but memories of past relationships and friendships. Good times and bad, all swirled together in one, big, emotional tide-pool. I found my feet pressing on the floor of the car, as if that would somehow slow us down, and I shrank in my seat. We were going too fast. We were getting to close. I realized I wasn't ready for this. I wasn't ready to pass the Doernbecher Children's Hospital, where I'd spent several long nights during Risa's chemo treatments. I wasn't ready to pass the Portland Zoo, where my sisters and I had gone with Risa the weekend before she'd started chemotherapy. I wasn't ready to see the Allen freeway exit. I wasn't ready to see the Taco Time on Lombard. I wasn't ready to see the Taco Wagon and the Shell gas station on Hall Blvd. I wasn't ready to see the little park on the corner. I wasn't ready to turn at the green sign that read "Barlow"! Before I knew it, we were pulling in front of the big white house on the corner of Barlow and Lilly. There was dad's work van. There was mom's green Ford Escape. I noticed that a new baby tree had been planted to replace the old one that had died. I wasn't sure how I felt about that.

My feet made their way unwillingly to the door. Not the beautiful blue one on the porch-- the mudroom door. The handle was still as finicky as ever, and my stomach knotted at the way the door stuck at first and the familiar scraping sound it made as it was pushed open. It's strange how such little things come to mean so much.
The mudroom was empty, as usual. But even as I stood in its entryway, the house felt different. Too clean. Heavy. It smelled good, but the scent was unfamiliar. I felt like a stranger here.
Bowser looked like he was about to attack me at first (some strange girl invading his castle!), but after a moment of hearing me squeal his name in the customary overzealous greeting, his stubby tail began to wag, he trembled with excitement and welcomed me home.
It was so strange, and wonderful, and painful, to see mom and dad again. Dad looks older.
Finally dad took me to the St. Vincent Hospital to meet my new nephew. The last time I'd been in that building, it was to learn that Risa's liver was failing and she had mere days left to live. I kept my fists tightly clenched as I walked through the sliding glass front doors, past the

too-familiar front desk, the sickeningly pleasant gift shop, the statue of an angel... it was all like walking into my worst nightmare. Dad seemed to be reading my thoughts. "I haven't been here since Risa..." he said.
I didn't want to talk about it, but I nodded and said I was thinking the same thing.
Back into that dreaded elevator, up we went. The baby floor looked uncannily like the cancer floor. They were on the same side of the hospital. But as we walked down the hall, rubbing sanitiser into our hands, I noticed the cheerful pink and blue bubbles on the outside of each door announcing, "Boy!" or "Girl!"
Rebecca's room was set up just like Risa's had been, only everything was reversed. It was like a mirror image. The bed was facing the other way, up against the opposite wall. The shelves, the TV, all opposite from where they'd been in Risa's room. And there was a crib. The whiteboard, instead of listing nurses' names and drugs to be fed into the I.V. at certain times as Risa's had, had the name of the midwife and in large letters, "Congratulations!" This room was a place of cheer. One thing only was exactly the same... the large window and the view it looked on.

I'll never forget the moment that my little nephew was placed into my arms, glorious in all his tiny perfection. He was so soft. I marveled at this little person who had so recently left the presence of God. Did he remember Risa? What had she told him about us? Did he know who I was? Beside me, Rebecca related the events that had transpired to bring him into this life. It was a story of pain and fatigue beyond anything she'd experienced before, and it was strange how similar it sounded to what Risa had had to go through. Something about this life-- it's hard to get in and it's hard to get out.
As I was thinking about this, my eyes were drawn again to that big window. Holding the newest member of our family (our eternal family) in my arms and feeling Risa so near, the veil felt very thin. I couldn't help marveling when I realized there wasn't a cloud in the sky. It stretched clear and bright and blue as far as the eye could see.

A friend told me the other night that peace doesn't necessarily come all at once, but over time, as we keep exercising faith in the Lord and obeying Him even when it's hard. This, he said, is the witness that comes after the trial of our faith.
I know that there are still many hard, lonely days ahead of me, but I have felt such peace and love from my Savior. As time goes by, I feel that I understand a little better. Just a little at a time. And while a cloudless sky may mean nothing to anyone else, it was exactly what I needed at the time and it served as a powerful reminder to me of what is real. The Lord is mindful of me and my family. Day by day, this pathways smooths as I

learn to love it.

My life flows on in endless song
above earth's lamentation.
I hear the sweet, tho' far-off hymn
that hails a new creation.
Through all the tumult and the strife
I hear the music ringing.
It finds an echo in my soul--
how can I keep from singing?

What tho' my joys and comforts die?
The Lord, my Savior, liveth!
What tho' the darkness gather 'round?
Songs in the night He giveth.
No storm can shake my inmost calm
while to that refuge clinging.
Since Christ is Lord of Heav'n and Earth,
how can I keep from singing?

I lift my eyes, the cloud grows thin,

I see the blue above it.

And day by day, this pathway smooths

since first I learned to love it.

The peace of Christ makes fresh my heart,

a fountain ever springing.

All things are mine, since I am His.

How can I keep from singing?