One Month

Yesterday was one month since my father passed away.  I was fairly occupied for most of the day, so I didn't get caught up in excessive ponderings about what should or could have been.  I marked the date down and again realized the potential of relief that can come when someone has been sick for a while.  My approach towards yesterday was very different than my approach had been just a month after my mother died.

In the past month, there have been numerous times that I reached for my phone to call and check on Dad.  I wanted to hear his voice and to assure him that everything was okay with me.  I wanted to know that he hadn't fallen or had any other mishaps.  But all of that was unnecessary.  He's gone.

Time can be both our friend and our enemy.  When we need more of it, it seems that it works against us as a foe rather than an ally.  When we work with it, it can be a constant companion to us, helping us along the way, pushing us towards promptness and responsibility.

This morning I read a quote which has stuck with me from Mark Batterson.  He wrote, "Hurry kills everything from compassion to creativity."  Every day, that lesson becomes more and more apparent to me.  When I am in a hurry, my patience runs thin, my attitude worsens as I find myself rushing to get done what I need to get done, regardless of who is in my way.  In fact, if you're in my way, you will most likely get run over.

This lesson become so readily apparent to me over the last year or so spent with my father.  I could never visit him while in a rush.  I could never take him out or engage him in conversation if I had to quickly move on to the next thing.  His pace slowed down which subsequently slowed me down.  And I think that was really good for me.  It helped me to realize what was important.

Of course, today, we can easily accomplish multiple things at once as we multitask our way through life with smartphones, tablets, and other technological resources.  Not only is there a need for us to slow down but also to intentionally disengage.  This is a point of growth in my life, a place that needs some focus.  It's too easy to "just take a second" and check my email or social media, yet what am I missing in the midst of those "seconds" that I am away.

Time is not moving backwards.  We can't turn back the clock.  I can't have my father back, but I am grateful for the many life lessons that I learned from him, directly and indirectly.  "Ruthlessly eliminating hurry" is a noble task to undertake, but it needs consistency and accountability as well.

My dad is gone and I miss him terribly, but the lessons that I have learned can help to keep his legacy and memory alive.  Months will pass, anniversaries will creep up, and I will deal with them all.  Remembering all that I have learned will bring a smile to my face as I realize that even out of darkness, light can come.  In the midst of sorrow and pain and mourning, new days will rise.  From out of the ashes, like a phoenix, rises life.  How can I make sure to live into that legacy?  Let those lessons not have been learned in vain.

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.

Fuel For the Fire

Writing is therapy, at least it seems that way to me.  I find it interesting that my wife had prodded me to start this blog years before it really began to serve a different purpose.  Writing gives me the opportunity to thoughtfully express what I am feeling inside, to transcribe the raw emotions that I am experiencing, and to share with honesty and transparency.

My last two years have been incredibly difficult.  In the midst of losing both of my parents, I have had to finish my seminary degree, have had a third child, have been involved with a church split, have been part of a church plant, have been executor and keeper of my father's estate, and have had various other challenges that have faced me directly or indirectly.  The old adage that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger has seemed more true than ever.  Only by the grace of God can I stand.

All of this is just fuel for my writing fire.  I will continue to write to bring healing and restoration to my soul.  I believe that we are a storied people, and while we have lost much of the tradition and heritage of stories within our own culture, we still cling to the power of story as we watch films, read books, and seek out anything that seems interesting, inviting, and even similar to our own lives.  Story makes an impact on us, especially when we find that we can relate to the story being told.

My hope and prayer is that God might use my story for the sake of healing in others.  I am not the only one who has experienced difficulty.  I am not the only one who has struggled through hard times.  But when we come together and share our stories, we realize that we are not alone.  We realize that we are together in situations in which we thought we had been abandoned.

There is much more to write and I will do just that.  I will write as much and as long as it takes.  My father was always one to tell stories.  I always loved to hear him speak of his years of growing up or the trip that he took to Europe while he was in college.  He could tell stories and I loved them, even the parts that seemed so dated and hokey.  It was those stories that really revived him towards the end. 

One of the last times that he spent time in the hospital, I remember how one of the nurses and the chaplain spent about an hour with us as Dad just told story after story after story.  He loved having an audience and he would craft the telling of the story according to the reactions of his audience.  In that way, I am my father's son.  I do the same thing.  After Dad had exhausted himself by talking, I remember the look on the face of the nurse as she told me how amazed she was by the life that she had seen in Dad.  It had been missing for so long, but these two beautiful people had given him ear to weave his stories, they had shown him respect and love, they had given him the gift of presence and of time.

We all need to be loved and needed.  In so many ways, that's what I realized that Dad needed more than ever towards the end.  There were stories that I wanted to know more about, but I also knew that he just needed to be loved.  He had lost his companion and his partner amidst one of the most grueling journeys that he had ever been on, and he felt alone.  In the end, my prayer was that he would not feel that way when he died.  It broke my heart to think that he might die all by himself in his room with no one there with him.  What a gift from God it was to both of us that we were together when he passed through death into life everlasting.  I love you, Dad.  How precious it was to spend those last hours with you.  I can't wait to hear your stories again and to give you a great, big hug.  I miss you so much already.