My father was born on the 31st of January, 1931. Only days ago, in the early morning hours of October the 12th, 2016, I was with him as he drew his final breath. The reality of his passing has still not fully woven itself into my consciousness. Even now, as I sit in the kitchen of my parent's home of 45 years, the place that for me will always remain my own heart's home and the wellspring of most of my childhood memories, I wait for him to come and sit at the table with me. And I remind myself, again, that he is not coming. For those of us who loved him, an era has come to an end.
My father was an unusual man in so many different ways. I have never met anyone less attached to, or driven by the need to accumulate material possessions. As one of my siblings pointed out; he never coveted a new or even a better car, never had a hobby, never worried about the loss of what he did have, nor did he leave behind one significant item, not one, that we could say, "Let's keep this because it reminds us of Dad." The one thing he cherished was his home. It wasn't the sticks and shingles or the fixtures and furniture that he was enamoured with - the good Lord knows all that would have collapsed around his head years ago if Mom hadn't kept up on it - but what he loved was the essence of "home". His desire was to stay there until he died, and he did just that.
It wasn't as though Dad had no affections for this world or that he left nothing to us. He loved the beauty of creation and he imparted to me this same love and appreciation long before his passing. Each time I find myself marveling at the sheer beauty of a fire-wrought sunset, the vast sweep of valley merging into spired mountains or breathe in the summer-scented air of that golden hour of each day we call evening, I sense him revelling in it with me and through me. Dad loved adventure and travel and I too share with him the same wanderlust, the same restless spirit, the same desire to see what's around the next bend in the road and the willingness to go find out. These then are a part of my inheritance, and when I consider them I find them to be of far greater worth than a pocket watch, a table saw or a collection of CDs.
The greatest pursuit of my father's life was God. I wish that I could write that because of this he - and by extension, we, his family - had an idyllic life. Sadly, this was not the case. His quest for personal holiness not only lead us down some very difficult and heart wrenching paths, but actually caused nearly irreparable spiritual damage to my family that is only now beginning to heal itself. My father's minimalistic personality combined with his austere perspective of faith, eventually lead him to build a church and a life based on the doctrines and examples of the early Quakers, who he revered. Despite the fact that my father adhered to some very odd and somewhat works based beliefs, I know that for the past 55 years he loved the Lord and lived his life according to the light given him - as the Quakers would have said. Because of this, I respect my father and have assurance that he is in Heaven, and I want share the events that took place in the final week of my father's life. It is my own faith bearing testimony to the power of God at work.
Those of you who follow my blog are aware that we moved to Honduras four years ago. Having lived just down the road from my parents for years, not being able to drop by whenever we wanted to has been difficult. This past summer, I begin to feel an increased urgency in my spirit that I needed to visit them - soon. Because of this, I booked tickets for myself and Thomas several months ago, clearing our ever busy schedule for a two week visit. Four days before we were to leave for Maine, we received the shocking news that my father had only weeks to live.
The pillars of my life were shaken. I knew this day was inevitable, but this was so unexpected. My parents had been the one constant in my life for 53 years and now I was being asked to envision my world with a father shaped hole in it. On the flight from San Pedro Sula to Boston I selfishly worried about what I would say to him when I arrived. What does one say to someone, especially someone you love deeply, when they have just found out that their time on this earth is short? I'm sorry? I will miss you? This isn't fair? Every thing I thought of seemed shallow and puerile. I called several friends who I knew had themselves confronted this day, seeking advice. Each one said the same thing in different ways. "Mike, you are being given a gift that not everyone is given. You have the chance to say good bye, to remember the good times together and to be there for him. Just say I love you."
And that is what I did. I spent ten quality days with my dad. We spent time together. We reminisced. We visited the cemetery where he would be buried. We laughed together even as I tried hard not to cry. And I told him I loved him. On Saturday, just a few days before he passed, we had a family get-together filled with food and laughter and love. It was a beautiful New England fall day, crisp and cool, the trees a flaming barrage of color. My dad was feeling good and he sat on the porch railing and once again told us the stories of his life, of his and my mother's courtship, of his time in Korea and the early days of his childhood. It was a good day, a blessed day.
Thomas and I were scheduled to leave for Honduras on Wednesday. Dad was looking good and doing well, and I was fully prepared to fly back to Maine as soon as needed. On Tuesday, the day before we were to leave, Dad woke up feeling weak. Up until that day he had experienced very little pain, had been walking on his own, and was completely cognizant. At noon I helped him to the restroom, carried on a conversation with him and then helped him sit at the kitchen table. Shortly afterward, his conversation became jumbled and confused and within an hour he had drifted into a nearly comatose sleep. I called the airline and cancelled our flights.
Hospice delivered a hospital bed that evening and we made room for it in the kitchen, his favorite room in the house and the place that for years most of our family's indoor life had taken place. My sister, who has been a nurse for many years, warned us that Dad had entered that transition from life to death and that it could be several several days before he passed on.
At different times throughout the evening, we gathered around his bedside and sang his favorite hymns. Even from the depths of his sleep he tried to sing with us. We prayed together as a family. We took turns in private saying goodbye. We told him we loved him and that it was okay to leave us whenever he was ready.
As evening turned to night, several of us sat near his bed in the dimly lit kitchen, the house quiet except for the ragged breathing of my father. I picked up my Bible and began to read aloud some of the great passages of Scripture, those with a promise for all who believe in the Great King and in His promise of Life Eternal. I read, my voice breaking often as I tried to stem the tears, and as I read his breathing softened and lost it's harsh rasping. A peacefulness came over the room. Eventually, I turned to Isaiah the prophet and read that wonderful invitation given to each of us, we who have nothing to offer in exchange for God's grace and salvation.
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| One of my favorite photos of Mom and Dad, Aug 1952 |
My father was an unusual man in so many different ways. I have never met anyone less attached to, or driven by the need to accumulate material possessions. As one of my siblings pointed out; he never coveted a new or even a better car, never had a hobby, never worried about the loss of what he did have, nor did he leave behind one significant item, not one, that we could say, "Let's keep this because it reminds us of Dad." The one thing he cherished was his home. It wasn't the sticks and shingles or the fixtures and furniture that he was enamoured with - the good Lord knows all that would have collapsed around his head years ago if Mom hadn't kept up on it - but what he loved was the essence of "home". His desire was to stay there until he died, and he did just that.
It wasn't as though Dad had no affections for this world or that he left nothing to us. He loved the beauty of creation and he imparted to me this same love and appreciation long before his passing. Each time I find myself marveling at the sheer beauty of a fire-wrought sunset, the vast sweep of valley merging into spired mountains or breathe in the summer-scented air of that golden hour of each day we call evening, I sense him revelling in it with me and through me. Dad loved adventure and travel and I too share with him the same wanderlust, the same restless spirit, the same desire to see what's around the next bend in the road and the willingness to go find out. These then are a part of my inheritance, and when I consider them I find them to be of far greater worth than a pocket watch, a table saw or a collection of CDs.
The greatest pursuit of my father's life was God. I wish that I could write that because of this he - and by extension, we, his family - had an idyllic life. Sadly, this was not the case. His quest for personal holiness not only lead us down some very difficult and heart wrenching paths, but actually caused nearly irreparable spiritual damage to my family that is only now beginning to heal itself. My father's minimalistic personality combined with his austere perspective of faith, eventually lead him to build a church and a life based on the doctrines and examples of the early Quakers, who he revered. Despite the fact that my father adhered to some very odd and somewhat works based beliefs, I know that for the past 55 years he loved the Lord and lived his life according to the light given him - as the Quakers would have said. Because of this, I respect my father and have assurance that he is in Heaven, and I want share the events that took place in the final week of my father's life. It is my own faith bearing testimony to the power of God at work.
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| Dad and Mom (center) cerca 1977 |
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| Dad, my grandmother and Mom during the 11 years away from his church |
Those of you who follow my blog are aware that we moved to Honduras four years ago. Having lived just down the road from my parents for years, not being able to drop by whenever we wanted to has been difficult. This past summer, I begin to feel an increased urgency in my spirit that I needed to visit them - soon. Because of this, I booked tickets for myself and Thomas several months ago, clearing our ever busy schedule for a two week visit. Four days before we were to leave for Maine, we received the shocking news that my father had only weeks to live.
The pillars of my life were shaken. I knew this day was inevitable, but this was so unexpected. My parents had been the one constant in my life for 53 years and now I was being asked to envision my world with a father shaped hole in it. On the flight from San Pedro Sula to Boston I selfishly worried about what I would say to him when I arrived. What does one say to someone, especially someone you love deeply, when they have just found out that their time on this earth is short? I'm sorry? I will miss you? This isn't fair? Every thing I thought of seemed shallow and puerile. I called several friends who I knew had themselves confronted this day, seeking advice. Each one said the same thing in different ways. "Mike, you are being given a gift that not everyone is given. You have the chance to say good bye, to remember the good times together and to be there for him. Just say I love you."
And that is what I did. I spent ten quality days with my dad. We spent time together. We reminisced. We visited the cemetery where he would be buried. We laughed together even as I tried hard not to cry. And I told him I loved him. On Saturday, just a few days before he passed, we had a family get-together filled with food and laughter and love. It was a beautiful New England fall day, crisp and cool, the trees a flaming barrage of color. My dad was feeling good and he sat on the porch railing and once again told us the stories of his life, of his and my mother's courtship, of his time in Korea and the early days of his childhood. It was a good day, a blessed day.
Thomas and I were scheduled to leave for Honduras on Wednesday. Dad was looking good and doing well, and I was fully prepared to fly back to Maine as soon as needed. On Tuesday, the day before we were to leave, Dad woke up feeling weak. Up until that day he had experienced very little pain, had been walking on his own, and was completely cognizant. At noon I helped him to the restroom, carried on a conversation with him and then helped him sit at the kitchen table. Shortly afterward, his conversation became jumbled and confused and within an hour he had drifted into a nearly comatose sleep. I called the airline and cancelled our flights.
Hospice delivered a hospital bed that evening and we made room for it in the kitchen, his favorite room in the house and the place that for years most of our family's indoor life had taken place. My sister, who has been a nurse for many years, warned us that Dad had entered that transition from life to death and that it could be several several days before he passed on.
At different times throughout the evening, we gathered around his bedside and sang his favorite hymns. Even from the depths of his sleep he tried to sing with us. We prayed together as a family. We took turns in private saying goodbye. We told him we loved him and that it was okay to leave us whenever he was ready.
As evening turned to night, several of us sat near his bed in the dimly lit kitchen, the house quiet except for the ragged breathing of my father. I picked up my Bible and began to read aloud some of the great passages of Scripture, those with a promise for all who believe in the Great King and in His promise of Life Eternal. I read, my voice breaking often as I tried to stem the tears, and as I read his breathing softened and lost it's harsh rasping. A peacefulness came over the room. Eventually, I turned to Isaiah the prophet and read that wonderful invitation given to each of us, we who have nothing to offer in exchange for God's grace and salvation.
"Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters;
and you who have no money, come buy and eat!
Come, buy wine and milk without money and without cost.
Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy?
Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good and delight in the richest of fare.
Give ear and come to me; that your soul may live."
I continued reading into chapter 56, my ear tuned to his now peaceful breathing. I read these verses:
"And foreigners who bind themselves to the Lord to serve him,
to love the name of the Lord, and to worship him,
all who keep the Sabbath without desecrating it and hold fast to my covenant" -
And as I read the following verse, I heard him breathe his last, a breath and a half, and his spirit left his body and winged it's way towards heaven, lifted and carried higher and higher by these words.
"These I will bring to my holy mountain
and give them joy in my house of prayer." (Isa. 56:7)
I knew he was gone, but I continued reading not wanting that moment to end. All that week the tears and the sadness had lingered just below the surface of every conversation, of every thought, but the moment that my father's spirit left his body I was filled with an inexpressible joy that filled my being. It was heaven's own joy and it was for my father, because I knew that for perhaps the first time in his life he was happy and at peace. The gloriousness of what he was experiencing was made real to me in that moment and it was as though I could see my father leaping and bounding towards the One whom he had sought for so long. All of his questions and the imperfections that had plagued and driven him for most of his life were being answered and washed away. The verse in 1 Corinthians 13 resounded in my head, "For now we see as through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then I shall know even as also I am known." (vs 12) My father was seeing face to face the great Creator!
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Note: I wrote much of this post shortly after Dad's passing. I have waited to publish it because I wanted to hold my memories to myself for a time, to cherish them. I wanted to return to my wife and two sons who could not be there with us and share with them the intimate details of those final days. On our return, we set apart an evening to spend together sharing "Papa" memories. I told them this and other stories of his last days and moments on earth, as we laughed and mourned together. Today I share this with you. If even one reader finds peace, or wisdom, or comfort, or hope, or solace, or joy, or salvation through this account, then I gladly open my heart to you.
My father was far from perfect, but I learned to love him through and in spite of his faults; and that is perhaps the greatest love of all. Even as I put the finishing touches on this post, I do it through a blur of tears. As I write, I have stopped often to weep and to mourn again my father's passing. I mourn for what could have been and I mourn for what was and what is lost and what will never be. But, I rejoice in knowing that he and I will meet again, and that all my own imperfections and the things that at times make me unlovable will also be washed away, even as his has been. I rejoice in knowing that his death has brought me and my family closer together than we have been in years. And I rejoice that God's Word is proved true and trustworthy.
