Early one morning in the week after Dad's death, I crawled out of bed in the dark, unable to sleep, with the following thoughts unfurling in my head. One by one, other siblings emerged out of sleepless beds to process our new reality. Here are the words I gave at his memorial service:
Today I wear black because the loss of a parent leaves an
irreplaceable ache in life. For my Mom and Dad over the last 11 ½ years, there
have been many, many losses. I watched them lose earthly dreams, joys,
pleasures, freedoms, innocence, identities, opportunities, status and more.
However, while Mom and Dad were plunged into this
life-changing trial of unending lurches, suffering, trudgery, loneliness, and
blockages, I marveled at the new life--True Life--that they together and
individually allowed to spring up in them. And for this reason today I also
wear green.
I watched my parents grow- not stagnate--in their empty nest
years. In the crucible of suffering, the Spirit of Life fruited in their lives
and healed others. Their capacity and patience and compassion grew to
unspeakable endurance. They used honesty to diffuse the anger and the power of
God kept them when disappointments were overwhelming. The web of love and the
family of God became deeply precious to them.
Now, to know my Dad, you might have found him to be more
comfortable 'outside the box' whenever possible and all his children got that
trait 'fair and square' (pardon the pun). So, not to his glory, but to honor
his character, I must say that he lived that way to the death. The surgeons, oncologists,
doctors, and Hospice nurses shook their heads over and over with this phrase:
“He has defied everything we expected. He is not a typical case.” A significant
root of his tenacious health came from my Mom and her unflagging loyalty and
love in nourishing him through his constantly changing eating abilities for
more than a decade.
Honesty is not always appreciated at first and likewise my
Dad's frankness, but he delivered with love and respect for human life—never
maliciously, often with humor--and in the end, it was refreshing in a world
where cover-ups and empty pleasantries are the superficial culture. He would
hardly spend a dime to polish his own image, but rather he saved to provide for
Mom and us and to give copiously and joyfully. I'll never know how much he
earned because he intentionally never told us, instead teaching us to live
within our means, to be grateful, and to love to share.
In the last days, Dad's tenderness exuded to his family and
anyone who came to care or visit. For the 8 days when he could no longer stand
on his own 2 feet, he was fully aware of his condition and the need for
complete care. He knew each of us by voice and face, could do mental math and
ponder his kidney function and tell us how to fix the mechanical bed. He
remembered family jokes and could concoct in his mind flavors that would taste
good in the ice chips he sucked on. Even so, he faced each step of his failing
functions with grace, humility and appreciation for care. It was an incredible
privilege to care for my Dad and to the very last hours, it seemed that his
life showered us back with gifts.
When Dad's body died, it took some time to accept that he
was suddenly gone and if the house weren't so full of family, the lack of his
presence would be achingly real. But as the people came to pick up his body,
donated for improving the health of others, the birds were singing in the dawn
of a new day and it was clear that Dad
was at peace and no longer in his body shell.
The reality of losing Dad will break over us in the days and
years to come, a season that none of us wants to face. But when I stop to
realize it, the cancer that changed the course of his life and ruined his GI
system, when it finally stopped Dad's heart, that cancer died! Hah! The cancer
is dead...but Dad, set free, is more alive than ever! What a fabulous,
miraculous, mysterious reality. Hallelujah.
