Perfume, palms, feet. Bread, robes, and roosters. Lent is almost over. Holy Week is half done. I am getting Resurrection Sunday outfits ready. And outfits for a visitation that could take place anytime now. The hospice nurse shook her head. Days? Weeks? We never know. There is no end date. No false dignity in pretending you can choose the time. Just the slowness of it all. We won’t get the miracle. The tumor won’t disappear. His body won’t un-atrophy. Once he passes, we won’t get our Lazarus back. But we know the One who did it the first time and we cling to the promise that my dad-in-law will be healed soon. Ultimate healing. Lazarus died again. Countless people have died. Organs shut down. Hearts stopped. No one ever wants to talk about it. We don’t talk about the creeping of cancer. People who end it all become famous. Others just keep holding your hand, whispering for more water, touching their grandkids’ feet, and participating in this naturally unnatural process. During this Holy Week, that is flying by me, I remember that the same One who can empathize with my pain of losing this man I love, also empathizes with the dying. Because He took on death. He didn’t end it quickly when things got scary and messy. He followed through to the very end. Body completely changed and broken and not resembling the Jesus they all knew. Thirsty in a way only the dying understand. Wanting to be home, but thinking of the ones at his feet. Care for Mary. And my dad-in-law has asked me a million times to make sure his wife is cared for. And a million more times he has begged me to reassure him that his grandchildren will be safe without him. These kids he has seen twice a week since their births. These men spend their last breaths focusing on others. That doesn’t make headlines. Going out in a blaze of glory does. But the real glory is at the finish line. Finishing well. “I don’t fink gwown-ups understand dat Papa Bob is all sick and almost dead here but he gets to die and be wif Jesus and gets to walk again on a new Earf and have a new bwain. If gwown-ups knowed dis, dey wouldn’t get to sad and cwy so much. Papa Bob gets better stuff when hims dies. It just takes lots of time. So I’m gonna keep coming to see him and tell him bout Angwy Birds.” And a five-year-old speaks the truth that the world is too fearful to even whisper. It takes time. And we are preparing for Friday. The goodness of it all. It took time and suffering. And nails, crowns, tombs, angels. So many angels. And we are halfway through Holy Week. Looking forward to that resurrection and fish dinner with the people He loved so much. And the hope. “Mawy dumped da perfoom on Jesus’ feet and dat’s why he gotta cwean his duh-sciples’ feet. Cuz do for ovvers da good fings you get.” Jesus did for others. What we couldn’t do for ourselves. And my second mom of more than ten years bathes her dying husband and whispers inside jokes to him and they chuckle together. The glory is in the finishing well.