As a Father Lay Dying

Note: I do not actually know how close my father is to falling asleep in Jesus. His hospice nurse informed us today that she did not believe it would be long. So I wrote down some thoughts as I sat with him today . . .

Sitting at the bedside of your of dying father, many thoughts cross through your mind.

You see the ravages of sin.

You see a man who served in World War II.

A man who always wondered how he got so lucky when he married his wife.

The man so strong when I was young, now so frail, fighting for every breath.

The man who took care of my mother when she herself lay dying with cancer.

You think about all this man did for me when I was growing up.

This day is like the Tower of Babel - he is trying to communicate with me, but I cannot understand what he's trying to say.

You see him looking . . . but what is he looking at?
What is he thinking about?

He's comforted by my being there. I know that. He reaches out for me. Often. Wants to know I'm there.

He's tired. And not just from this sickness, but from 95 years of life.

Most of me wants him to have his rest, to fall asleep in Jesus. But part of me wants him to stay.

His father died before I was born - how was that for him?

He's the youngest in his family, and the last to go. Soon a whole generation will have moved on. It's a new time in life for me and my brother and sister. We're the oldest now. Or soon will be . . .

The last six years, caring for him, I've learned a lot. But I learned a lot from him my whole life.

He taught me how to play golf, and to be honest doing so.

He taught me how to build with wood, and how to garden.

He taught me doing repairs around the house.

When I was in Junior High, he once drove me two hours to a band competition after I was late and missed the bus for it.

I remember him praying in the wee hours of the morning before going to work.

I remember family devotions after dinner, every night.

I remember the special, handmade valentines he made for my mom.

I remember stringing Christmas lights with him, then for him. And decorating the Christmas tree every year.

He served in the church in just about every role he could, including congregational president, head elder, trustee, and more.

I remember sitting out in the backyard with him after dinner. He'd sometimes smoke a cigar and we'd just sit and talk.

I remember the surprise retirement party we threw for him.

I remember how he taught me that family always comes first.

The last six years haven't been easy, but I'm glad I got to give back some of the care he always gave me.

Like when I was in college and he was unemployed my last two years. He was just about down to his last dollar, but he got me through - and never even told me how close it was until years later.

He kept a plaster of paris handprint I made for him when I was 5 or 6 years old. It's still in his dresser - we saw it tonight!

It's funny the things you think sitting by the bedside of your dying father . . .

Thank you, Lord, for giving me such a father.

Lord, let at last your angels come . . .