A Hard Goodbye
A little over a week ago, my friend Bill Carmichael crossed life’s finish line and slipped quietly into the arms of God. After a long battle with congestive heart failure, it was the rest he was looking forward to. He had fought the good fight and finished his course, and it was time to say “Goodbye.” He had complete confidence and trust that God would be there to greet and welcome him home. He was without fear and full of anticipation for what awaited him. He died as he lived—with optimism, courage, humor, selflessness, faith, and hope.
Still, it was hard to say goodbye to my friend. Just knowing that he was only a phone call away was reassuring. He had a knack for always understanding where you were coming from and saying the right words that would brighten your day. The people who spoke during his funeral—his daughter, a church staff member, his best friend from college, a colleague from work, his pastor—reaffirmed what everyone already knew: Bill was a rare individual who gave far more to this world than he took.
Some of you who read my weekly blog may not have known Bill, but when I write that he was an extraordinary man, I am not exaggerating. Every now and then people enter our lives who so reflect the light of Christ, you feel you are in the presence of someone who walks a little closer to God than the rest of us. Bill Carmichael was such a person. Just to be around him, to talk with him, to listen to him teach the Bible, or see how he showed concern and love for others elevated your own understanding of what it means to be human.
I visited with Bill several times in the days preceding his death. His heart was failing and, consequently, he grew tired easily and struggled to keep his eyes open during conversation, but his mind was still alert and his keen sense of humor never left him. Even in his last hours on earth, Bill showed interest and concern for those who came to visit him. As I sat beside his bed, he quizzed me on how I was doing, what I was doing, and what books I was reading. Drawing his last breaths, Bill’s focus on people and his love for learning never wavered. I was in awe of him.
Sitting beside his hospital bed, my thoughts drifted back to 20 years earlier, when my wife and I first met Bill and his lovely wife Wanda. We met casually and chit-chatted at church on various occasions, but we really didn’t get to know them until they took us to dinner one evening. As Bill drove us to the restaurant, he and Wanda shared story after story of their courtship and marriage which kept my wife and me in stitches. We laughed so hard our stomachs hurt. They laughed at themselves, too, with such self-deprecating humor that it took us a moment to realize that these two people were so secure in their relationship, so utterly and completely in love, they could speak freely and openly about their most embarrassing dating experiences. Several hours later, when they dropped us off at our house, we felt like we had known them all our lives.
Bill was, to be sure, a deeply religious man, but he was not so religiously high-minded that other people felt awkward around him. He spent much of his adult life in the National Guard as a chaplain and retired as a Lieutenant Colonel. He served in Desert Storm in a combat zone and was a man’s man in every sense of the word. Without a doubt, he was a flesh and blood human being who others felt drawn to, but his humanity never compromised his deep reverence for and devotion to God.
Even on his off days, and there were precious few of those, one sensed that this man walked the talk. He had absorbed the teachings of Jesus into his heart and mind to the point that his frame of reference for every decision, every act, every word was always, “What would Jesus do?” or “What would Jesus say?” For Bill, it was not just a slogan to be worn on a wrist band, but was a way of life.
There were a few times, however, in my years of working with Bill when the toes of his feet edged out ever so slightly from his sandals, and he revealed a few splotches of the coarser side of his humanity. Oh, how I loved those moments! We often take perverse pleasure in the weaknesses of remarkable people as their faults temporarily make us less conscious of our own greater failures.
It happened one day in a staff meeting when Bill became agitated with another staff member over a scheduling conflict. A rather hot debate ensued. I was stunned as were the other staff members present. We had never seen either of these godly men lose their temper, and now they were engaged in a heated argument. To my disappointment, the exchange quickly subsided and graciously ended. Then the two men hugged each other and went out to lunch as though nothing had ever happened. Such a short-lived perverted pleasure!
Bill had so many enduring qualities. He was a brilliant Bible teacher, and I so appreciated his Bible lessons during the Tuesday morning Men’s Bible Study. He was always well prepared and sprinkled in humorous anecdotes that made his teaching relevant and mesmerizing. He was also a quintessential team player, always willing to help others. Then, too, he showed intuitive sensitivity to those he visited in the hospitals and nursing homes, always knowing how to give the greatest comfort to those in the greatest need. He cared deeply for Senior Adults, and they adored Bill because they knew he loved them.
The qualities, however, that have remained with me were his spontaneous sense of humor and unrelenting optimism. Bill loved to laugh, and he loved to laugh with others. No matter how dark the situation, Bill had a way of finding light and helping others to see the light too. Several times I stepped into his office feeling downcast, but after half an hour or so in his presence, I left feeling the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders. Bill had that way about him.
The gift of being able to see the light in the midst of darkness remained with Bill to the very end. Only hours before he said farewell to this world he was so at peace. One of his daughters brought him a strawberry milkshake, and when she left the room to take a call, I took over and fed him the shake. I shoveled spoonful after spoonful into his mouth and after every swallow he would smile and say, “Boy, that sure tastes good.” In spite of his dire circumstances, his face would light up again and again as the ice cream melted on his tongue. Even in the throes of death, he never lost his joy for the simple things of life.
“You want some more?” I asked. “Sure do,” he said with a grin on his face. “I may not be here tomorrow.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Bill Carmichael lived life to the very end. Even as his body shut down, he had confidence that God would lead him out of the darkness into the light. As I lifted the spoon to his mouth, I was reminded of what another man once said when faced with his own mortality, “Even in the valley of the shadow of death, I will not fear.” Bill had walked with God throughout his life, on mountaintops as well as in valleys, and he was certainly not afraid to walk with God through this momentary darkness into God’s eternal light.
As I prepared to leave Bill’s room, I leaned over and whispered into his ear and told him that he was in God’s hands, and the angels were waiting for God’s signal to carry him home. He opened his eyes and blinked a few times, and then in that wonderful voice of his said simply, “I know.” The hint of a smile formed on his lips and his eyes peacefully closed.
A few hours later my dear friend Bill Carmichael was home.
