This week my dad would have turned 88. He’s been gone from us for more than 7 years now, yet as my thoughts have focused on Grandpa lately – who I hardly knew…I can’t help but meet more of my entire Dad in Grandpa’s stories. I learn more about his unusual upbringing and I’m discovering the stories that helped faith take root in Dad’s life at an early age. Since my dad is a key link between Grandpa and me (obviously), during this week it seems right to bring him into my blog.
Like me, Dad was far from perfect. Nevertheless, he taught me much, for which I’m eternally grateful. I’m going to tell you about the last lesson Dad taught me. And incidentally, or perhaps significantly to my story, I wrote the following eight years ago, in the immediate weeks after Dad’s death, and long before this blog…
It was about how I imagined death. The man is 80 years old and lying on a nursing home bed. His closest family is with him. They tenderly pat his head, caress his hand, and whisper final words and prayers. Then it happens. His slowed, shallow breathing ceases. And he is no longer with us. Death is the critical point where you discover if your beliefs were correct. It is the moment where one’s faith, or lack of it, is rewarded or penalized. It is the moment of truth for every human being. The man was my Dad and his death was an unforgettable lesson of truth, faith in God, and God’s faithfulness to those who believe. It is a lesson to tell, to live by, and to die by.
My dad had prostate cancer. Cancer, that dreaded, miserable, disease. Though the disease didn’t take Dad’s life for about 10 years, it definitely changed his life, as complications from radiation treatment transformed him into a person with disabilities.
My mom, my two sisters, and I, were with Dad when he died. That was an answer to prayer, and no small answer, either. One of my sisters is a missionary, and spends three of every four years in Papua New Guinea, but perfectly, she was home on furlough. I was supposed to be playing keyboard in the worship band at church the morning Dad died. I came so close to keeping my morning commitment, thinking, “it is only for an hour… What are the chances Dad will leave us during this one hour?” But God intervened and I was clearly led out of my morning responsibilities to spend that hour, Dad’s last, in a worship service with him. I will never forget that morning, or the memorable days leading up to it…
It was a summer evening in 2003 and I dropped in to Mom and Dad's condo for a visit. When I arrived, Dad was home alone. He greeted me from his electric recliner, the chair he virtually lived in day and night, with his usual “hi” and smile that sparkled across his face, beaming straight from his eyes into mine. He had a way of making you feel that you were the most special, significant, person on earth. Once we began chatting, I realized he was troubled. He began sharing his concern with me: he was worried he would need to go to a nursing home soon, and for the rest of his life. The reality that he may have to leave his own home was not what was discouraging him. Rather, it was the possibility that his stay in a nursing home would drain Mom of all financial assets so she would not be able to live out her life comfortably. He was a man of genuine concern for others, and he dearly loved his wife.
Before long, Mom arrived home and joined our conversation. She told Dad he was worrying too much, and encouraged him not to. As I was getting ready to leave, I realized that I was now troubled, also. Dad had always been a man of strong faith; it was difficult to see him in such turmoil. “Do you want me to pray with you before I go?” I asked. “Yes, please,” he replied. And I continued, “Anything you’d like me to pray for, specifically?” I did not anticipate his reply, nor was I ready for it. “Please pray that I will go; that God will take me,” and then, as if that wasn’t difficult enough, he added, “and pray that it will be soon.”
Wow... Dad had done so much for me throughout my life, is there any way I could not pray for his request, one that he longed for, but also one that would take him from me? He wanted to go home. Home to his Heavenly Father... Home to His Savior… He had fought the good fight and now he wanted the fight to end. He was ready to rest and receive the prize - life eternal through the grace and mercy of the one true God – a promise he fully accepted and believed. His eyes were full of tears, and mine were overflowing as I prayed that God would take my dearly loved Dad home to be with Him, and, “please take him soon.”
After the “amen” Dad immediately quoted, in a hoarse voice, “Where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I in the midst.” A peace came over him and I left, comforted that he was a calmer man than when I arrived that evening. As I drove away though, I couldn’t help but think how Dad’s health had been fairly stable, and his body seemed to fight and overcome almost anything. I didn’t think I had enough faith to believe that God would answer that prayer and take him home soon. He had survived so many things, how would he actually ever go? And quickly? It would take a miracle… My lack of faith was discouraging because I had just left a man’s side who clearly believed God was going to answer that prayer.
(Continued in the next post…soon…)
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