Statue

I had to go to the circuit court last week to take care of my dad's affairs in probate.  The woman who helped me was so kind and caring.  She made small talk with me and the process was much less painless than I had thought it would be.  I thanked her for making it simple and she told me I should thank my dad.

The process was painless until I got outside.  As I exited the building, an overwhelming feeling of loss came over me.  Every last thing that I do is exactly that, the last thing.  I am taking care of things for my dad for the last time and the gravity of the moment was intense.

Melancholics don't need glum and dreary days to feel pensive.  It was a beautiful day and the sun was shining.  It had actually been dreary earlier on, but the skies opened up and the sun shone down as I approached Williamsburg (was there a hidden message there for me?).  As I approached my car, I passed a statue of a Native American.  I put some of my stuff in the car and I wanted to stretch the moment out longer.  I wanted to sit in the sunshine, soak it in, sit in my sadness and let it wash over me for a few moments longer.

So, I went over to the statue to read the plaque underneath.  It was Powhatan, whom the plaque said was responsible for the survival of the first settlement at Jamestown (do you think his ancestors might be pissed?).  Here was this statue, life-sized, standing above all who would come within its vicinity.  A man whom we read about in history books, at least if we're from Virginia.  He played an integral part in survival for many who would go on to take advantage, abuse, and steal from his tribe and many others, or at least pave the way for more to come who would do those things.  But I digress.  Powhatan marks that spot and that statue will be there for a long time.

The contrasting picture was my visit to the cemetery later on.  As I approached the crypt where my parents are laid, the flowers were gone.  There was no evidence that just a week and a half ago that crypt had been opened to receive its second guest.  All that was there was a plate which still hadn't been completed.  Names.  Dates.  A verse.  A cross.  Praying hands.  A saying.  That's it.  No statue looming over all who would come near.  Not description of what these two people had done.

It seemed a little unjust to me.  I didn't know Powhatan.  How could I have?  He lived way before my time.  But I did know my mom and dad.  They had an influence on me and on many others.  Could we have said more on that plate than what we did?  Could we have given people a better picture of all that they had done?

Then I began to think, that's not the job of a grave plate.  That's my job.  That's my legacy, actually, it's their legacy living through me.  I will not forget.  I will remember.  I will live out that legacy and let others know the contributions that they made in my life, and so will others.  A statue is tall and cold, lifeless, unspeaking.  I am living and breathing, proclaiming, exemplifying what was invested into me by my parents.

There is no statue, but there is me, there are my children.  We are the monuments, the memorials of my parents as we live our lives through what they taught me, taught us.  My parents invested into people for the sake of Jesus Christ.  I invest in people for the same reason.  Christ has made a difference in my life, he made a difference in the life of my parents.  It would be a crime for me not to proclaim something that has had such a significant impact on me.  I am a living legacy.  If you want to know my parents, get to know me.  I can tell you stories, or better yet, I can live out what they passed on to me.  That's much better than anything a statue can do.

Relief

Although not many people may talk about it, when a loved one dies after a long illness or battle, there is a sense of relief that comes for family members.  It may not be overwhelming and it certainly doesn't lead to ecstatic feelings, but it's relief nonetheless.

In the 2 weeks since my dad died, I have come to realize just how on edge I had been.  I was sleeping with my cell phone next to my bed.  I was like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs every morning as I waited for the phone to ring to tell me that Dad had fallen or, worse, that he was gone.  There was a constant anxiety of what to do, when to go see him again, of not being able to do enough.

In my trips back and forth to Williamsburg since Dad passed away, I have pondered about my state as I have driven.  Over the last 2 years, so many of the trips that I have taken over to Williamsburg have been taken in uncertainty.  I had no idea what I was going to face.  The times that I took Dad to the doctor or out to lunch, I wondered how engaged he would be.  As I drive over these days, there is none of that feeling, just a feeling of relieved emptiness.

The problem is that the process can't be complete and finished for a while.  Now starts all of the legal affairs that need to be settled.  Set things up for the estate.  Settle all of the insurance.  Clean out the house and get it on the market.  It's helping me to see some helpful things that I can do for my own family to simplify things for them.

A year ago this month, my father's cardiologist told my aunt and I that he thought my dad had weeks.  That was a fairly difficult blow to me.  While I knew that he was not doing well, it hardly seemed so imminent.  I decided that I was going to do my best to simplify things.  So, as morbid as it sounds, I went over to the funeral home that we had used for my mom and pre-planned Dad's funeral.  They made things fairly simple for me and I thought that it would be much better to do it all while I was not in the throes of grief.  I never told my dad.

I like closure.  I can't handle too many unresolved things hanging around in my life.  I've gotten much more flexible as I have gotten older.  Being married and having kids has that impact on people.  2013 has been a "hanging" year for me.  There are a number of things that need resolution that might not come for some time.  I just have to live with them and make the most of what is before me.

That's kind of the way life is though.  Does anyone ever feel as if there is a constant state of resolution and relief in their life?  I have a hard time projecting that and I think that it might be a pipe dream, so I won't get my hopes up.  Roll with the changes, isn't that what REO Speedwagon says?

Today is a new day.  2013 will come and go, but I can't wish for it to end.  Wishing your life away is a surefire way of missing things, letting things pass you by.  I do not want to regret missed opportunities.  I don't know what tomorrow brings, heck, I'm not even sure what will happen today, but does it matter?  My responsibility isn't to know everything, it's to trust the One who does.  If I really believe in the sovereignty of God, it's time to put my money where my mouth is and live it out.

Letting Go - Part II

The day that my father died, except for an hour or so for lunch, I was with him the whole day.  I knew things weren’t good and that it wouldn’t be long, but I had no idea what the timeline was.  I was numb and probably in disbelief.  It was hard for me to wrap my head around everything that the last few years had held for me and my family.

The pastors that I work with had driven me down to Williamsburg and my wife met us at the facility where dad had been.  She brought our daughter and stayed for a few hours.  After lunch, my fellow pastors left and I had the whole afternoon by myself.  I was expecting that someone might come to visit, but I remained there by myself.  I just continued to love on my father, reading Scripture to him, singing songs over him, and assuring him that we would be fine.  He had done a fine job of raising his two sons and he had fought long enough.  He needed to hear that it was all right to leave us.

Many times throughout that afternoon, I cradled his head in my hands and kissed his head.  I whispered that I loved him in his ear.  I told him how I couldn’t have asked for a better father.  Having been on morphine since that morning, I knew that his consciousness would most likely not return.

Taking a break from reading, singing, and speaking, I decided to write in my journal.  Little did I know how the words that I would write and the prayer that I would utter would come true.

“It’s hard to express how it feels to lose both of your parents before your 40^th birthday.  I thought that I would have had so much more time with them, but God had other plans.  When Dad is gone, there will be a finality to things that is seemingly unbearable.  I know God gives strength, but I am taking it moment by moment right now.

It’s so hard because I feel like I’m reliving my life from 2 years ago.  Just watching Dad simply breathing in his bed is reminding me of Mom’s last days.  Lord, please take him quickly.”

It would seem that God answered my prayer as Dad passed within hours of my writing.  Part of me thought that I should have been more careful of what I asked for, but then I realized that this was better.  I didn’t want him to die, but I also didn’t want him to “live” a life like he had been living.  In actuality, what he was experiencing could hardly be called “living.”

One of my prayers after my mom died and as my father’s health began to deteriorate was that Dad not die alone.  He felt so lost and alone when he left Connecticut.  Losing Mom just pushed him further into that darkness and it was hard for me to bear.  With a full-time job, 3 kids and a family, seminary studies, and various other things happening in my life, it was hard for me to spend as much time with Dad as I wanted.  I did what I could, but even when I wasn’t there, I couldn’t help but think about the sad picture in my mind of him being in there all alone.

I know that people die alone every day, but it seemed unbearable for me to think about that happening to Dad.  I couldn’t imagine one of the nurses walking in and finding that he was gone and yet not knowing exactly when he died.  That seemed so harsh, even though I knew it was possible.  But I held out hope that it wouldn’t happen.

When he finally went, it was all so painfully familiar to me.  Just as I had watched my mother’s neck for a sign of a pulse, I watched my father take his final breaths, wondering if each one would be the last one.  When that last breath came and went and I knew that he was gone, I simply sat there for a minute.  I don’t remember exactly what I did, but it wouldn’t be a surprise to think that I might have prayed a prayer of “thanks” to God.  Like I said, it wasn’t because I wanted Dad to die but because I didn’t want his suffering to continue.  Mom suffered for 6 months.  Dad had suffered for far longer.

While there is a sense of relief to me that his suffering is gone, the pain of dragging this out is so fresh.  It’s hard to let go.  It’s hard to break free of the numbness that I feel.  It’s hard to come to grips with the reality that is before me.  Yes, time heals all wounds, but the scars never go away.  They remain, reminding us of the pain that we have experienced, calling out, sometimes screaming, to us not to forget how they go there. 

Right now, the bandages of loved ones and friends have covered up those scars, at least temporarily.  Each day, I lift the bandages to reveal what’s underneath.  Each day, I wish that I would lift the bandage and find that it has all been just a dream, but the scars remain.  Each day, I wish that I could just make that one phone call, but realizing that is impossible, I simply reach for my phone to listen to voicemails that I have saved.  Hearing the words “I love you” from both my mom and dad in the form of a voicemail recording will have to suffice for now.

In the meantime, I press on.  Life goes on, people forget, but I refuse to do so.  Mom and Dad have left indelible marks on my life and the lives of so many other people.  I am a living legacy, so may the mark that I leave be just as long-lasting as the ones left on me.

Letting Go - Part I

The week before my dad died, I got a call from my aunt to let me know that he wasn’t doing well.  She felt like his breathing stopped while she was sitting with him in his room.  I wasn’t sure what to do.  We had been through so many false alarms before but my aunt is a nurse, and I trust her judgment.  I continued with a rehearsal that I had scheduled and then I had to cancel a meeting that I had.  After my rehearsal, I drove over to Williamsburg.

I got to the place where my dad was at about 9:30PM.  He was resting, so I just sat there.  When he opened his eyes, he didn’t seem as surprised as I thought he would that I was sitting next to his bed.  We engaged in some small talk and I told him that I had come to check on him because I was concerned.  He was in and out of sleep for most of the 3 hours that I was there.

My journal entry from that night reads:

“It’s 10:05PM and I’m sitting at my dad’s bedside.  My aunt called me earlier to say she didn’t think he had long.  It’s hard to say where he is in this process.  He’s certainly not doing well and I really don’t know how long he has.

With Mom, we always held out hope for a miracle.  With Dad, it almost feels like the miracle would be God mercifully taking him.

Hard to say goodbye when I feel like there’s so much else I need to say.  He has enough of his wits to have asked how Carrie and I were doing. 

I’m supposed to sing at a funeral on Thursday but just don’t know if that will happen.  Have a backup plan.

I just wish Dad didn’t have to go like this.  Wish I had more time with him.  I selfishly want to talk to him more, but don’t want to keep him from resting.”

It was a long night, but time seems suspended when one is in the grips of situations like this.  I was so unsure what to do.  I didn’t know whether or not I should try to sleep in the chair or if I should get back in my car and drive the nearly 60 miles home.  In the end, I drove home, but I was glad that I had come. 

I’ve mentioned before that my litmus test for going was whether or not I would regret it if something happened to him.  Those three hours weren’t filled with lots of talk but the gift of presence speaks volumes more than words.

I had no idea that I would lose Dad in a little more than a week, but based upon my journal entry, I was beginning to seek God’s grace in letting Dad cease his suffering.  He had been through enough and it didn’t make sense for him to continue as a shell of who he had once been.  The biggest question was whether or not I was ready to let him go.