Sunset in Kansas

We plan for lunch meetings with colleagues, appointments with physicians, getaways with loved ones, and portfolio reviews with financial advisors.

But the exact date of our exit plan from this place is still a mystery that eludes us. Unless death pounces suddenly—as it sometimes does, like a panther catching its prey—we might see it coming, and if we’re courageous enough not to cover our eyes and turn the other way, we might see it face to face. In his book, The Mystery of Marriage, Mike Mason said, “Death builds by slow degrees of awareness like the unfolding of a murder mystery in which we ourselves turn out to be the victim.” We can have our birthdate etched on our tombstone in advance, but the death date must remain a question mark.

My oldest brother, Lowell, knew it was over; his medical team at M. D. Anderson Cancer Center had told him that much. Death had swooped into his room like a vulture, circling his bed. 

But he did have one choice left. 

And maybe you do, too. 

“I love sunsets,” Lowell had told his oldest daughter, Wende, as they looked at his photos of Kanas sunsets on his phone while she visited him at M.D. Anderson. And then, later, Lowell told Rebecca, his wife, “I think I want to go back to Kansas.” That was where he wanted to die.

And so they drove him by ambulance for the12 hour drive from Houston to the hospice center in Wichita, with Rebecca and me behind. The ambulance got there first. 

“How’s your room?” Rebecca asked when she called him as we approached Wichita.

We could tell through his scratchy voice that something wasn’t right. A building was apparently blocking his view. 

“His view of what?” I asked Rebecca.

She put it together, having talked earlier with Wende. “He wants to see the Kansas sunset.” 

As soon as we arrived, we hurried to his room. His view wasn’t as bad as I had imagined. “I can position you here so you can see the sunset,” I said, pointing out the window to the west. “And the staff has said they can get you out of bed and to the porch so you can see better if you want,” Rebecca added.

The trip had been grueling for him; he was too tired to talk. By the following day, Lowell seemed content to stay where he was, viewing what he could of the sunset from his bed. When we asked about it, he waved off any suggestion of moving him to another area. I knew why: his pain was intensifying.

And so, for the next several evenings, I would point to the sun, adjusting the blinds, so the sunshine wasn’t too bright, then opening them so he could see what he could of the sunset.

Days later, when Rebecca and I were driving away from the funeral home after the visitation for Lowell’s funeral, I saw what he had wanted to see. 

“Look at that,” I said, pointing to the western horizon. The sunset was spectacular. If the morning sun “bursts forth like a radiant bridegroom after his wedding,” as the Bible describes it, the setting sun is like a warrior, lying down in glory, a proud soldier, resting after a victory. 

“It’s like our sunsets in southwest Oklahoma,” I noted to Lori when I sent her pictures from my phone, “It reminds me of home.” 

I suppose that’s what we want when the sun sets on our life: home, whether it’s Kansas, Oklahoma, Kentucky, Africa, or India. 

We want home.

Home, where the sun sets, on this side, and where we hope and trust that it will rise again, on the other side: where it’s always morning.