I suppose this account has been taking form in my head for
over a month now since I saw him alive for the last time in the Winthrop P.
Rockefeller Cancer Institute, in Little Rock, Arkansas. My thoughts and
feelings have undoubtedly been trying to cast themselves into words and
phrases. These fragments of words and phrases turning over and over, trying to
find expression in unified thought. The feelings and the attempts at expressing
these feelings woefully overwhelming and escaping me as I have tried to go
about my normal life as a wife and mom of three children and all the expected
last-days-of-summer sacraments. I have thought of, prayed for, and meditated
upon the gift of my friend Matt Lyles from the driver seat of a minivan with
the low rumble of children’s squabbling ruminating from the back, from the tops
of roller coasters on scorching hot afternoons, while folding piles laundry,
picking out produce at the grocery store, and in rare quiet moments. It has
finally caught up with me. I returned a little under 48 hours ago from honoring
my friend by attending his requiem mass, and today is the day I have finally
bowed to the need to work through, with words and tears, the depth of my sorrow
of the loss and the magnitude of my gratitude at having had the privilege of
calling Jarrell Matthews Lyles my friend. I will do so in a requiem of words,
for my voice is one no longer made of notes and melodies, but one of words on
pages.
Even now, as I sit to officially reflect and record, the
dryer is dinging at me, demanding I do yet another thing to distract me from
the sadness. But I will make a different choice, and redeem a few precious
hours in an empty house to honor and remember my friend.
I remember first seeing Matthew Lyles tapping across the
campus of Ouachita Baptist University in Arkadelphia, Arkansas one sultry
August afternoon just before our classes began in 1995. I was a freshman, and
had chosen to go to a school seven hours away from the home I had always known,
leaving behind the faces and places that had been a part of my life for all 18
years. I wanted a fresh start, and when I walked on campus not knowing a single
soul, the depth of my loneliness was nearly suffocating, or perhaps that was
just the humidity. Either way, I found it difficult to breathe as I exited the
doors of the music building headed my dorm. As I started down the oddly hobbit-spaced
steps, up tapped this small hobbit-sized (and quite furry) man. I took a double
take, not sure if he was a professor or student, and what caught my total and
complete 18-year old fancy was the way this small man moved, with and air of
complete and total confidence while very obviously blind. He had a little black
bag slung over one shoulder and a white cane extended in front of him and was
moving with great speed aided by his untiring rhythmic tapping. It was nothing
short of amazing, and since he obviously couldn’t see me, I allowed myself the rude
pleasure of staring, marveling at how he moved, totally independent, quite
fearless, and with absolute dignity. My aching loneliness was temporarily
displaced by intense curiosity and before I even realized it, I was praying.
“Lord, I would really like to meet that guy. I think I’d like him to be my
friend.” Well, I’d never had a blind
friend, and the opportunity to understand what his world might be like was a
fascinating possibility, one I couldn’t quite shake.
Two days later, I headed towards the Jones Preforming Arts
Center for the weekly required chapel service.
I checked and rechecked my seat assignment as I ascended the carpeted
steps to the balcony, the place where all freshman were assigned chapel spots
and moved our way down and forward as the years went on. Lo, and behold! There
he was! The small blind hobbit man, sitting primly with his black bag on his
lap, a strange electronic device atop it, and his cane folded neatly beside
him. I did a double, and even triple take at my seat assingment and again
allowed myself a wide-eyed stare at this very interesting person before me, quite
probably suppressing a giggle, because he
was in the seat right next to mine. Well, there ya go, it would appear that
God does hear and answer prayers – no matter how seemingly random or petty, but
as I look back on that flung out prayer rooted mostly in selfish curiosity
about his blindness, I see the merciful hand of a God who really does care for
me: for he gave me the gift of having Matt Lyles as a friend.
It began with simple introductions and by my unbridled
delight upon discovering that we were
BOTH freshmen music majors. I don’t remember many of the details of that
conversation but I am left with the sure memory that meeting Matt Lyles eased a
good deal of my loneliness. We compared schedules and before I knew it, we were
often having breakfast together, headed to classes together (he simply would
ask, “May I walk along?” and I’d gladly offer my arm, because then we could
talk as we walked to our shared destination) and laying down tiny stones of shared
experiences in a path of true friendship.
More often than not, it was easy to be at ease with Matt, until he
inevitably asked some burning and pointed question to which I didn’t want to
honestly respond. One of which was an incredulous, “Are you for REAL?” doubting
my then quite Pollyanna disposition. One I didn’t want to answer, because under
the happy, bubbly, sunny exterior, there was a depth of hurt and denial I
didn’t yet have the strength or tools to face. In true Matt fashion, he saw
things most people didn’t, and wasn’t afraid to press deep, ask the hard
questions, make keenly astute observations, and share his own journey, if
anyone had the inclination to really listen.
About half way through that first semester I scored a sweet
work-study gig as a theory tutor (I find this actually quite hilarious now) and
the real perk of this new job was getting to be Matt’s scribe for his theory
homework. I sat in his little organ practice room for a couple of hours each
week and he would dictate his chorales to me as I wrote them out, note by note,
measure by measure, line by line. He would never have known, but I kept the
lights off, choosing to work solely by the light from the hallway seeping in by
the tiny square window of the brown metal door. He had every bit of it worked
out in his brilliant mind, every jot and
tittle, already perfected according to the assignment in his mind. All I
had to do was patiently wait for him to sit and settle upon the wooden bench
and he would begin unfurling his mental masterpieces, playing them on the
keyboard and meting them out part by part to my waiting pencil and staff paper.
I was always guaranteed some interesting conversation and a genuine inquiry as
to how I was doing. He always asked, and really meant it. He often shared with
me a favorite hymn, telling me the story and setting of the poet or preacher
who had written the text, where it was first sung, why he found it meaningful.
His liturgical knowledge was remarkable and reverent.
As the years went on, Matt was often in on our wild college adventures,
stories I have for years told my children whenever I recount tales of
adventures in higher education.
There was the time we went roller skating. Oh yeah. Notice I
said THE time. In retrospect even as a 20 year old, it probably wasn’t our best
idea. The handful of us that lived far away from home and didn’t escape campus
on the weekends had to invent our own fun, for gas was expensive, Hot Springs
was sometimes too far, owned movies too often watched. The weekends cried out
for a little mischief, levity, and good old-fashioned fun. One Friday someone,
probably David, had a stroke of crazy brilliance to try out the local skating
rink. In Arkadelphia, Arkansas, on Friday night. A place were few locals over
the age of 12 ever frequented. Well, there we went, Matt on one of our arms, and
decided to storm the joint. As we wriggled our feet into musty brown rented
skates a little boy cautiously sidled up to Matt, giving him a very suspicious
side glance once-over. Matt of course had no idea, and I tried not to laugh as
the boy grudgingly appraised him. Finally he got the nerve to ask in deep
southern drawl, “What’s that stick fer? Are you, like, a dog catcher or
somethin’?” eyeing Matt’s folded cane next to us on the bench. Delighted to
engage with the preteen natives, he very kindly and openly replied “Why no,
young man, I am blind. That is my stick that helps me find my way around so I
don’t fall.” As he pulled on a pair of skates. That rolled. And left his cane
behind.
As we repetitively rounded the loops of the rink, Matt
wedged between Andria and me, we couldn’t help but throw back our heads and
laugh. I liked the sound of Matt’s laugh
– it was sudden and hearty, and often sounded almost as if it caught him by
surprise that he should find something to laugh at. We heard it a lot that
night, that laugh of his. I had only one moment of grown-up concern, as we
rounded the loop a little too fast and he slipped and nearly fell. We scrambled
to keep him upright, and it was then that he said, an impish grin barely suppressed
at the corners of his mouth, “You know, if I fell and hurt my arm, my mother
would be quite put out.” I had
forgotten about his left arm, yet another causality of his battles with
cancer. The cancer that took his eyes by
the time he was five had reappeared as a rare form in his teens and had nearly
cost him his left arm. The surgery to
remove the cancer from most of the soft tissue and bone in his upper left arm
didn’t leave much to work with when an amazing surgeon fitted it back on with
steel parts and by some miracle was able to spare his nerves. The fact that he
even had an arm, much less, play the organ like a boss, was nothing short of a miracle. A miracle
that I very much did not want to blow on the floor of the Skate World in
Arkadelphia. We slowed down after that,
but it was so worth hearing his startling laughter, full of life, stemming from
surprise at the sheer joy of it all, as we circled the rink and tried not to give
Tenna fair reason to murder us in our sleep.
One fine Arkansas spring we decided it was time to put to
rest the dreaded PE requirement in our degree plans and were very delighted to
see that our prestigious school had decided to buy archery equipment. Oh yeah, several of us signed up for archery with Matt in tow. The moment I walked in with Matt on my arm is
one I like to replay in my mind for the sheer glee of it. We trounced into the
gym, a pack of goofy Fine Arts freaks and saw Coach Murders at the front (she
actually often said with relish: “If you don’t take this serious I’m gonna kill you” so thus, perfectly named) and a
dozen or so students already in the bleachers giddy for medieval weaponry. As
we entered, I swear there was an audile gasp and I caught a glimpse of a few
students take a quick, nervous look down at their schedules. Oh yes,
I delighted in thought: muwhahahahahahaha,
we brought the blind dude, and he is
going to own this. Just watch and learn,
people, watch and learn. And, in true Matt fashion, he tackled the
class and the sport with a determined dignity, and honestly was a better shot
than I was. It, of course, probably helped when Andria or I would wrap our arms
around him from behind, help him aim and pull back the bow and then tell him to
let it fly. For some strange reason only the chicks in our gaggle of friends
seemed amicable to helping him in that manner. It was quite possibly the only
time I saw him blush.
And then there was the playing of Sardines. I am fully aware
that I am about to incriminate myself, but the story of Late Night Music
Building Sardines playing must be told. I refuse to say whom, but it was passed
on to me by good authority that my key, which allowed my access into the Choral
Library, would also allow passage into the main doors of the music building. So,
the games began. I can accurately say IT WASN’T MY IDEA, but it turned out to
be so much fun, I wish it had been. We began playing Sardines in the music
building after hours, long after
hours.
What is Sardines, you may ask? Well instead of hide-and-seek,
it is seek-and-hide in the dark,
with one or two individuals going to hide, while the rest of us counted to a
decent and fair number and then went off in pairs or small groups to seek in the dark. When the original hiders
were found, you simply hid along with them in
the dark, thus the name Sardines, because depending on the chosen hiding
spot you could be quite packed in, you know, like a can of sardines, by the time the last stragglers discovered
the covey of sweating, trying-not-to-pee-our-pants, giggle-snorting college
students. It was great fun. But every time Matt Lyles played, he brought an
advantage that was more than unfair. Allow me to paint a mental picture.
Imagine this: you take off to hide with a couple of best girlfriends,
or very occasionally your flavor-of-the-semester boyfriend, and try to quickly
locate a spot you think no one will ever think to look. There are many
possibilities: countless practice rooms, nooks and crannies of the recital
hall, closets and storage spots of all kinds, the only rule being it must be in
the actual confines of the music building. That left four floors and nearly endless
choices. You sequester yourselves away in
the dark, and settle in for the long haul trying not to laugh or sweat too
much because in the next half hour, the likelihood of being stuck in there with
15 of your friends is a certain reality. You feel quite smug and think this spot is air tight, man, and
then you hear it. The Tapping.
It’s like something right out of a horror movie, and I know
he knew it. The Horrifying Effect of the Tapping. It honestly seemed like he was trying to make
it sound…ominous. In the
dark, I swear Matt’s cane tapping was borderline sinister. There it would
be, drawing ever closer, seemingly following your scent or even your very
frenzied thoughts, like a missile honing in on your sheer dread that he knew right where you were hiding. He was
coming for you, and The Tapping only apocalyptically heralded it and prolonged
your agonized suspense. Matt Lyles was a
Sardines playing machine. The virtual Terminator of Sardines. It seemed
impossible to hide from him, we were playing on his turf, trying to find our
way stumbling around in the dark, a place where he was right at
home.
These are stories I have told and retold, memories that have
made my kids and family laugh and delight at our slightly reckless shenanigans,
but today I did a very hard thing and dug a little deeper. I knew they were
there, these letters now spread out on the table before me. I knew they were tucked
carefully away. In my file of Very Important Things, hanging somewhere between “Kids
Shot Records” and my “Official Transcripts” is a folder I have labeled
“Encouragement”. In this blue folder are some of the most treasured things I
have, thoughts from friends, hand written or typed, all carefully preserved. I
rarely visit this file, but I did today because I knew it held actual words
thoughtfully typed, printed, folded and sealed by my friend, Matt Lyles, whom I
will not see again on this side of eternity. I am so glad I did.
The Kristin Maddox who met and began a friendship with Matt
Lyles in 1995 was a very different person than the gal typing this right now.
In fact, he captured it well in one of his epistles: “I’ve always known that
beneath that cheery, charming image is a hard frame of steel. Occasionally you
show that…” As Matt and I got to know each other his uncanny insightfulness
began whittling away at my carefully constructed demeanor. We shared most meals
together in the school cafeteria, and Matt was impossible to fool when I was
upset in any way. This was unnerving to me. I had grown up in a family
situation that unfortunately provided really good training in the art of social
deception. I had a knack for keeping things quite tidy and gleeful on the
surface, even when things were not at all that way beneath. I was a master at
spin and glow, neither of which Matt was fooled by, ever.
I didn’t remember this until I sat on the tile floor of our
basement storm shelter and read some of these notes. You see, at first I
couldn’t just dive right into the Matt letters, my heart failed me. I found myself
reaching for little cards from other friends. Many of them are notes James and
I have received from friends with whom we have had the privilege of being in
what our churches over the years have called “small groups”, “growth groups”,
“community groups”. Call them whatever is in vogue at the time, but the purpose
of these intentional gatherings with a committed group of people has always
been the same: to share life, openly, honestly, and with great vulnerability
for the encouragement and growth of us all. In all our years of marriage, James
and I have found some of the deepest and dearest friendships around kitchen
tables and living rooms in these very purposeful meetings.
All in all, I marveled at a common theme in most of them
written to me. Phrases like “open, honest, and vulnerable” cropped up again and
again. Friends confessing that they felt safe and accepted by me, never afraid
to really say what they thought or how they were feeling, no matter how ugly,
raw, or broken that might be. I love these words, they the highest compliment
anyone could ever offer me. I have lived many chapters of broken, ugly and raw,
and someone entrusting their own brokenness to me is the most valuable gift
they could ever give. Fortified by these words of love and acceptance, I turned
my face towards the gift and difficult task of more fully remembering and
mourning my friend, Matt, through his words and missives to me, now so long
ago.
I am at a loss to fully explain what I found. God used Matt,
his years of friendship, his modeling of honest self-awareness and frank, yet
gentle, truth-telling to teach, mold, and invite me to be a safe person for
others. Each letter, clearly and gently, called me to more honest
self-appraisal and more open dialogue than I ever thought I would be capable
of. Already in his 18, 19, 20 years of life he had endured, survived and
thrived despite great hardship. He had suffered physically in ways I can’t
imagine. Cancer had cost him his eyesight when has was just a small child and
then nearly cost him his arm as a teenager. He had spent months, probably
totaling years, in and out of hospitals and clinics, undergoing dreadful
treatments to rid his body of the vicious disease that he, according to his
mom, had very likely been born with. He had learned to live with a “disability”
that he never once in my recollection allowed to slow him down or keep him from
trying anything. (Case in point: archery.) He was always up for whatever
adventure we had in mind, delighted at having been invited to anything,
anywhere. He did not reek of bitterness in any way, and embraced my friendship,
inviting me, even pushing me gently, to this previously unknown place of true
authenticity I now dwell.
There were things in those letters I did not recall, like his
confession at being disgruntled and apologizing for being angry at not having
been invited on a spur-of-the-moment Spring Break adventure to Corpus Christi
our Junior year (why had I not thought to ask him??). He shared with great
self-awareness the reason for his behavior from his personal journey, “God has
actually done a great work in my heart since I came to Ouachita! I was so
cynical and hardened! But people like you and others have made me fell welcome
time after time with nothing to gain from it.” And even welcoming me into the
process of him learning from this misunderstanding, “I want you to do
something. Next time you know I’m reverting to childish mode, I want you to
confront me and say so. That’s the best possible thing you could do, because
you’d be entirely right.” And he lamented in another letter, “If only we
Christians were more open and honest with each other, we could draw strength
from our Christian brothers and sisters. That’s how it should be, but it’s very
rare. We miss so much by remaining behind our protective walls – which are
actually our prisons.”
This kind of transparent living was new and overwhelming to
me at the time! Tell another my weaknesses? No way, man! Confess character
flaws and ask for accountability? Terrifying proposition! Ask another how they
are doing and really want and even press for an honest answer? Incredulous!
Who was this insightful, unabashed, blind Hobbit-man and what was he doing all up in my stuff? But he even pressed further.
Shared deeper. He endlessly encouraged and challenged me over four years of
shared meals, transcribed chorales, bible studies at favorite professors’
homes, all manner of classes, walks to and from chapel, and in letters. Letters
I can still hold and reread and laugh and weep over. And today I marvel, with
better clarity than ever before: Matt Lyles taught me how to live in authentic
community long before there were trendy names and t-shirts printed for such
gatherings. Long before it was the IT that churches were into. Long before
there were books and bible studies aimed at making it happen. Matt welcomed me,
and many, to live transparently and humbly. Matt Lyles was my friend.
As I said before, I have often recounted to my children and
friends the wild fun and adventures we shared, but after revisiting his letters
and thinking long on the deeper story they tell, perhaps those crazy exploits
with my friend and the delightful memories they hold aren’t the most sacred
gift he gave me, all those years ago. He spoke words of deepest challenge,
richest grace, and mighty hope over very hurt and covered up places in my
heart, sharing openly and freely from his own hurt and pain. Matt Lyles was
used by our good and great God to turn up in my heart some very hard soil and
invite me to bend low, dig deep, and plant things that had much more lasting
value. He modeled for me virtues that I did not at the time posses, but beautiful
qualities that over time, have taken root and grown my heart and our home into
a safe place for the gathering of many people, broken ones especially.
Matt never stopped welcoming me into his life. Over the
years we pursued our separate adventures. James and I married and moved a few
places. I laughed heartily through snot bubbles when I reread the letter he
wrote detailing why all the other boys I had dated had been so very wrong and
finally giving a very detailed blessing as to why landing on James Cheng was such
a good idea. (He could be such a bossy-cow, sheesh.) Matt went on to study
theology at Yale Divinity School (yes, Matt, go big or go home. Ivy League,
brother) and I am sure spent the next decade and a half challenging and
inviting any he encountered to the same place of authentic relationship. I’ve
read many such Facebook accounts that testify to this. He visited us once when
we were living in Rochester. James was in grad school and I was enormously pregnant
with our second baby. He was up for anything: playing on the floor with our 16
month old, Kate, who was enthralled with his cane, touring the George Eastman
House, riding the ridiculously loud turn of the century Carousel at Charlotte
beach on the shores of Lake Ontario, and meeting our friends. He even endured
and ended up laughing that hearty, surprised laugh at my invitation to feel the
baby in my womb do his evening workout of rolling and kicking. “How do you
endure such travail?” he asked between the baby’s kicks and his incredulous laughter,
“That’s nothing, Matt, just wait until I gotta push him out.” Perhaps that was
the second time I ever saw him blush.
I was aware that Matt had another recurrence of cancer when
we were 34, but sadly, I did not reach out. And this most recent diagnosis, the
one that ended in his death, I watched with very little interaction, save for a
few notes back and forth on Facebook. I was not surprised when every one of his
updates and posts invited others to join him in prayer for his healing and come
to services for their own healing and freedom. In the face of sickness and
struggle, he was always urging all to come to spaces and places of greater
freedom. Yes, he used every bit of attention this illness brought to point
straight to the cross of Christ.
On August 1, a mutual friend wrote a very hard message to
many he knew to be close to Matt. I am so grateful he did. I had been praying
all summer that God would let me know when it was time, time to go say goodbye
to my friend. To thank him and honor him. This was my answer. I called his
mother and ensured it was ok to visit him in this most recent hospitalization
in Little Rock, and left the next day.
I met three other friends at his beside. We gathered
together and what those hours held was no less than sacred. It is hard for me
to describe how an experience can be so painful yet so beautiful, well, not
unlike birth. Yes, that afternoon birthed something fresh and sweet in all of
us. Throughout the afternoon, I fought grief, thick and hot, at the base of my
throat, and prayed that it would not find its expression until later. Yet we
laughed, hearty and deep, at shared memories, marveled together at similar life
lessons learned throughout the years we’d lived apart, and caught up on all the
people and happenings we had in common. And sang, yes, we sang songs at his
request at his bedside. A requiem. To remember together ancient words of hope
and promise that seemed hard to believe, but very necessary to cling to.
Matt had received that morning the news that he was not able
to handle any more chemotherapy. He was faced with the choice, which really was
no choice, to go home with Hospice. His mother had told me before I arrived,
and asked that I not say anything about the treatment plan, or prognosis.
Unspoken between us was an understanding. Our job was to go and touch and love
and be with and remember. It was a gift. I think that together, we savored one
of his best remaining afternoons. What a gift.
Matt allowed me the privilege of helping him with his dinner,
and I tried my best to stuff his frail body with as much nourishment as I could
as Ben, Misha, and Whitney filled him in on all things Ouachita, old and new.
At his request, Ben and Misha began to sing hymns, and silent tears slid down
my cheeks at the holy beauty of their mingled voices. It had been such a long
time since I had really tried to sing, a very long time. Misha began the song “Be
Thou My Vision”, and found I could no longer keep quiet. I joined in, low and
hoarse, trying my best at the bedside of my friend, wanting so to be in on the
offering. It was then that the surface cracked, and while our reunion had been
sincere and meaningful before, it was then that he broke open, ushering us into
the holy hurt of his heart.
He told us that that hymn had always been a favorite of his.
The words had always held such deep comfort, and that today more than ever, he
needed the comfort they provided. He confessed that he had been given a very
hard choice, to discontinue aggressive treatment and resign himself to comfort
care. He voice broke over these words, as did all our countenances, and
together we wept, silently struggling with our friend as he wrangled with the
truth that, barring a miracle – which he had experienced many times before –
this would be the illness that would be the end his earthly life and birth him
into life eternal. Being with him there in that moment was nothing short of
holy. I will remember it for the rest of my life.
Those hours spilled out like Holy Communion. The bread
broken was the very flesh of our own crushed hearts, the wine spilled was our
hot, agonized tears slipping down our cheeks, dripping from our chins. We
shared openly, laughing and crying together, and all of it was an offering. He
allowed me to rub his swollen feet, to feed his frail body, and to hold his
shaking hand. All too soon he tired, and we made him comfortable and left
together, finally giving full expression to our grief in the elevator and
parking garage. Oh, the tears shed in hospital elevators and parking garages.
The next morning, I went back to stay a little longer before
beginning the long journey back to my family. I was again given the honor of
helping him eat, his mom Tenna helping me fix his pancakes just the way he
liked them. She slipped out to arrange an appointment and left me for a few moments
alone with him. It was then that he asked me for forgiveness, for a burden he
had long carried.
You see, just after our senior year, I was in a terrible
accident. Along with nearly thirty other
Ouachita students and professors, I was in a plane crash. I was traveling with a
choir from our school. We were returning from a choral tour, a mission trip of
sorts, when our plane crashed in Little Rock while trying to land in a terrible
thunderstorm. We lost two from our group, a dear friend and peer, and our
director’s daughter whom we all loved like a little sister. Many of Matt and my
closest friends were rendered completely traumatized. I was so badly injured I
couldn’t return to campus the next fall and they retuned to campus as nearly
walking dead, injured in very real ways both visible and invisible to the eyes.
But none of it was invisible to Matt.
I had sustained extensive injuries, injuries requiring a
nearly two month hospitalization, complete with a brief stay in ICU on a
ventilator, two skin grafts and all the resulting trauma you could expect from
such an ordeal. The lasting damage though, the thing that scarred not my body
but my soul, was the loss of my singing voice. The thing for which I thought I
had been created. Although my body would eventually heal and my lungs would
decently recover, my vocal chords bore terrible scars from smoke inhalation and
intubation from which they would never heal. Over a year later, I prepared for
trial against the airline and my attorneys asked me for a list of my closest
friends. They contacted these friends to use as witnesses.
They, of course, contacted Matt. They wanted Matt to
describe in detail the person I had been, compared to the ghost of a person I
had become because of the trauma and loss. They wanted him to recall the beauty
of the voice I had once possessed and lament the cruel loss of it. They wanted
him to paint a picture for a jury of my peers of all the fun we had shared and
the happy, talented, vivacious person I had been and then point to the broken,
scarred, bitter, hollowed out shell of a person I was then.
He had refused.
That morning, as I tried to stuff him with hospital issued
pancakes, he confessed all this to me. He, sitting there shrouded in a thin
white hospital gown and riddled with terminal cancer and me, trying not to
loose it. He had carried this burden in his heart over 15 years, and asked me
to forgive him for not agreeing to testify. He said he had felt like he had
abandoned me in my hour of greatest need, and had not stood by me when I most
needed a friend. But the reason for
the seemingly betrayal is one I will never get over.
“Kristin, I simply couldn’t testify to these things because I refused to believe it. I refused to believe
that you would never get better, that God wouldn’t miraculously heal your
beautiful voice, that he wouldn’t deliver you to sing again with unbridled
passion.” And he asked for me to forgive him.
He asked for my forgiveness. Forgiveness for hanging
on to the sacred hope that one day, I would be made completely whole.
Thirteen days later, my friend Matt Lyles died.
I can honestly tell you God used my friend Matt Lyles to
heal me in many ways. As I sit and reflect, carefully recording our adventures,
looking over his letters, and recounting the precious gift of being at his
bedside, I can’t help but be amazed. Amazed. Tracing the thread of his life
intertwined with mine has been exquisitely painful and exquisitely beautiful.
Matt invited me to transparent living, lived before me an example of a gracious
life free of bitterness in spite of physical pain and brokenness, welcomed me
to the bedside of his own last suffering and lastly, held out absolute hope
that I would be made completely whole and asked me to forgive him for not testifying to the contrary.
I’ll close with a line from one of his letters. It is the
only fitting way to end, with real words from the heart and mind of my friend. In
this particular letter, he had just confessed he was definitely called to
single living, after telling me he was quite relieved a certain relationship of
mine hadn’t worked out (and that he really had seen it coming and a few very
insightfully detailed reasons as to why). Now I read these words as if he is
speaking them to me over his recent home going, knowing that he waits for me in
glory. I cannot wait to see his beautiful face, an impish grin twitching at the
corners of his mouth, and maybe hear one of those deep, hearty, surprised-sounding
laughs when I tackle him in gleeful greeting. In fact, I’m counting on it.
“I hope you won’t fret over this; God’s plans are mysterious
but always good. As for me, I’m grateful to God to know you and call you a
friend.”
I couldn’t agree more, Matt.
Matt Lyles is my friend, and I will see him again.
There are many medical bills remaining from his battle with
cancer, click here to consider helping lift the burden from his family:
And, nothing short of magnificent, here is his obituary. He
wrote it himself.
