A message to a friend on eternity's doorstep 19 JUNE 1998 Things were different at the Browns' house Wednesday evening, from the moment they warned us to step over the new oxygen tube across the doorway until we said good night in the lingering sunshine outside. The clear plastic hose running round the room from the air pump to Stephen in his recliner defined a new order of things in the comfortable, tidy room where we had gathered every week for the last year to share his one-way journey home. "Today is the beginning of the end," he told us while we passed the Kleenex box around. This was different. After his disappointing initial surgery and pessimistic diagnosis, much of the last 14 months had been about progress - about surprises, unexpected opportunity and even hope. When the first round of chemotherapy took hold, there were days and even weeks of golf and gardening - 6:30 a.m. tee times, lunches with old friends and weekend runs for barbecued oysters by the bay. There was a daily take-away latte in a tall cup and, when he couldn't put it off any longer, little pills to still the grinding in his stomach, a reminder of the cancer persistently at work in there. Our small support group concentrated on the good news during those months. Stephen and Carolyn handled the rough spots pretty much on their own, giving us a weekly report that might involve a sleepless weekend or fretful trip to the doctor, but usually including another insight and Stephen's frequent declaration, "I think I'm the luckiest man alive." None of us said "miracle" right out loud, but we were willing. And we knew we had to be willing - as Stephen and Carolyn were willing - for the opposite result as well. Steve had dodged another malignant bullet 20 years ago and he faced his prospects now with few illusions. "Thy will be done" is a simple mantra, but a potent one. And so on Wednesday we filled up their living room for about the 60th time and told each other stories, and we were ready, each in his or her own way, to hear Stephen announce "the beginning of the end." He had learned to play by the old chemo rules: repeated rounds of treatment, recovery and respite. He knew which days he needed to lay low and when to book a tee time. But now the cancer they discovered in his stomach has found its way up to his lungs, and the throbbing oxygen pump and the long clear hose aren't enough to keep the breath in him even on a trip from the recliner to the sink. "Until today we knew the way for Stephen to feel better was to keep getting stronger," Carolyn told us. "Today we realized that isn't true any more. He has to go the other direction to feel better now." Stephen says he's ready to let go - to say farewell to the chemotherapy and breathless nights and the constant struggle. I want him to go where he needs to, as well, but I'm honestly not prepared just yet to let go of the insight and inspiration he's delivered. Like most of the dozen friends who usually come by for the Wednesday meetings, I first decided to attend as a favor for Stephen and Carolyn. Of course, I've gained more from the sessions that I could ever have contributed. Gathering there to chart Stephen's illness and talk about "the now," I knew that once a week my own anxieties and disappointments would shrink back down to their right size. We discovered an authenticity there in the living room beyond any I have seen in a classroom or a chapel. On Wednesday we talked a little about timing. It looks like Stephen is going to get to the end ahead of the rest of us, but his destination is ours as well. We spend such energy denying death; if we could face it squarely, would we all find the peace Stephen brings to the room on Wednesday evenings? Could we find the warm, calm bath of light he tells about? As Stephen steps toward the tender embrace of eternity, those who wait behind can only send him on with the gifts we have to offer. This is mine. Godspeed.