Kiss Your Miracle

On Saturday I went to my father’s funeral. Six weeks before his death when he was first diagnosed with cancer, I was gripped with an overwhelming fear that it would kill him. And with each new test he had, those fears only intensified. My parents heard terrifying new words and phrases at each appointment – stage four, pancreatic, metastasized, terminal. At first it didn’t seem real; my father was still putting in full work weeks as a Chicago lawyer. Could it really be true? Was cancer really spreading quietly beneath his skin, throughout his internal organs, his blood, even his bone marrow?

Soon it wasn’t quiet anymore. The cancer attacked my dad’s body in every way and we saw new results of it each day. Within a month he was too weak to stand without help. He completed radiation, which the doctors only said might buy him a little time, and the day he finished treatment, hospice took over.

Over the past few days surrounding his visitation and funeral, my family – my new family, the one without my father – has spent hours talking, wondering, praying, and crying. In the words of a family friend, my dad’s cancer was horrific. We are all shaken by what happened to him, and how helpless we were to do anything to stop it.

At the same time, God feels closer than ever. He may not have physically healed my dad here on earth, but he has answered many of our prayers over the last few weeks. Before the cancer took over my dad’s mind, we had the chance to talk and hug him, to make amends for any regrets. We got to thank him for working so hard for his family. Though he battled intense pain during his last week, he spent his last twenty-four hours sleeping peacefully. We were all together in the house when he died and my mom was holding his hand, something she’d prayed for many times. The funeral details came together quickly, and even the largest room didn’t hold enough chairs for everyone who came to honor our dad. And though it’s November, we ended up standing by his grave under a sunny sky, no coats needed. God held our hands through each phase of the day.

When we finally got home that night, I felt spent. More so than I can ever remember in my life. Just walking upstairs took all of my energy. I guess sadness that heavy is bound to weigh you down. The Bible says that people are like flowers in a field. We’re beautiful, but only for a little while. We don’t like to think about that, but on the day of a funeral, it can’t be avoided. We have to acknowledge that life is temporary and one day we won’t be here anymore. “Your father was told he wouldn’t live very long. He was virtually given a date on the calendar for his death,” my Mom said as we drove to the funeral. “But we all have a date too. It’s just written in invisible ink.” It’s a difficult fact to consider, especially when I look at Adam and Skylar and others I can’t imagine living without.

From where I stand right now, death is awful. I hate knowing that my sisters won’t have my dad around to walk them down the aisle at their weddings. I hate that my mom is now a widow. But being a Christian means trusting the Bible over my own emotions, and it says that on earth we only see things dimly. It also says that God can bring renewal to our spirits even as our bodies are wasting away. So for now, I’ll hold onto those promises and trust that God knows what He’s doing. And while I’m still living in the shadows where life is hard to understand, I’ll do everything I can to love the family God’s given me and appreciate each day I have with them.

“How frail is humanity! How short is life…” – Job 14:1-2a

On Tuesday night, November 3^rd, my father left his life on earth and headed into eternity. It happened around 8pm, just as our family was getting ready to eat dinner. My mom, all seven children, two spouses, two grandchildren, and my Aunt Mary were in the house. A few minutes before, we’d stood in the living room a few feet away from my dad’s hospital bed while my mom read aloud from a sweet card that had arrived in the mail that afternoon. Then we prayed for the food and went into the kitchen to dish up. My aunt and mom went back into my dad’s room for a bit.

A few minutes later, my aunt called us into my dad’s room. My father lay perfectly still in his bed, and my mom was draped across his chest. Her hands were on his neck, her face against his. His cheeks were wet from her tears and kisses as she whispered to him, “It’s all done now and you can rest. You did wonderfully. We love you so much. I love you.” We all stood together and cried quietly.

Then my mom turned to us and began to remind us of heaven, and once again, of God’s blessing on our family. She pointed out how peacefully my dad had died – there was no struggle, no last bit of pain. He simply exhaled for the last time. We were all at the house together, and my mom was able to hold his hand as he passed, just as she’d wanted. We all nodded and kept crying.

We know we are blessed. We don’t grieve like those without hope; we understand that we’ll all be together again in heaven someday. But for now, we are sad. My dad isn’t with us anymore and our family feels very different without him. It seems like any minute he should walk through the door with the Wall Street Journal tucked under his arm and a bag of pastries from his favorite bakery, asking us about our plans for the day and sharing a little random trivia the way he always did. But that won’t happen, and knowing it makes us all ache.

I’m glad Jesus cried over his friend Lazarus’s death, even though he knew there was a happy ending in the works. It lets me know that crying for my dad is okay too. As we head into his funeral this weekend, there will be smiles as we remember his life and many, many more tears.

I can’t end this post without mentioning my mom’s blog. I know plenty of you are already reading it, but in case you’ve been missing out, here is a link to her site, www.gettingthroughthis.com. She has faithfully updated her blog every day for the past month, even though some nights she didn’t get around to it until 2am. We encouraged her many times to take a night off and go to bed early, but she never has. “Linnea, it’s an act of worship for me,” she said of her writing process the other night. I am thankful she’s let me and so many other readers in on her worship. Over and over her words have shaped my perspective so that I’ve ended up looking for God’s nearness during this time instead of losing myself in the sadness of my dad’s disease. Growing up, I had plenty of problems with my mom and dad. But lately when it comes to my parents, I find myself unable to thank God enough for putting me in this particular family.

I’m sitting at my dad’s bedside this afternoon, and right now the two of us have the room to ourselves. My mom finally agreed to go upstairs for a nap and my aunt Mary headed home for some rest and a shower. Neither one of them has left my dad’s side for more than a few minutes at a time recently, and my guess is that they’ll be back soon. The rest of my family is around too, some in the next room, and some outside getting a bit of fresh air. But for now, I sit in this room alone with my father, marking these moments in my memory.

Yesterday morning was difficult. My dad was in pain and nothing seemed to help. His pulse was fast, his breathing was raspy, and he couldn’t stop moving around in the bed. Finally, after multiple calls and visits from the hospice nurses, a continuous care nurse arrived, and by 5pm or so, my dad had settled into a deep sleep. Our nurse said she thought the end would come soon, maybe that evening or during the night, but of course, no one except God knows for sure when that moment will happen. We all gathered around his bed and took turns praying for him and thanking him for loving and taking care of us. We passed around plenty of Kleenex.

But we haven’t just been crying. We’ve been laughing too, and telling lots of stories, and looking through old photo albums. The babies have been in and out of my dad’s room, chattering away like they always do. Last night neighbors brought us creamy chicken and rice soup, bread from Panera, fresh apples, and chocolate chip cookies. No one wanted to go upstairs to bed; most of us drifted off in our chairs instead. Throughout the night, my dad remained in the same quiet position that he is still in now. His blood pressure is extremely low and his pulse is faint, but he continues to sleep peacefully, taking in slow, shallow breaths.

My dad is dying and that in itself is awful, almost too much to stand. But that horrible pain from yesterday morning seems to have faded, at least for now. We are hoping and praying that his last breath will be peaceful, and right now it seems like that is a very real possibility. My family is still together, and we’ve all had plenty of time to hug and kiss my dad, and to say goodbye. The tears and the laughter are both sweet in their own way. How gentle of God to give us both.

It’s been just over five weeks since my dad’s terminal cancer diagnosis and our emotions have rolled us in every possible direction, sometimes all in the same day. But as the cancer has spread and my dad has grown weaker, his pain steadily increasing, we have come to a place where we are starting to see his death as a release from the trap his body has become. As Christians we know that my dad’s soul is eternal and isn’t harmed by the cancer.

Still, the sadness is overwhelming. I find myself extra sensitive these days. We’ve flown in and out of Chicago several times this past month and I can’t look at its familiar, sparkly skyline without crying a little, thinking of how my dad has worked in his office on Wabash Street for years, but won’t be back again. Lately everything seems to remind me of my dad. And everything makes me miss him. He is still here in a sense – his heart is still beating. But he is not the same Papa who raised us. As the hospice workers have pointed out, “He has one foot in each world – ours and eternity.” Just breathing consumes all of his energy. He is now past the point of eating, talking, and even being awake.

This past week Adam and I flew back to Florida for a few days, and on Wednesday Adam’s grandma, uncle, sister and parents came over for dinner. I was happy to see them, but to be completely honest, a little tense too. I figured they would want to talk about my dad and I wasn’t sure I was up for it. I tried to be normal as they arrived, but found myself more comfortable working in the kitchen while they chatted in the living room. I was standing by the stove when Adam’s parents showed up. John, my father-in-law, immediately walked over to me and gave me a hug. Then he said, “I just want you to know how sorry I am that this is happening to your family.” His eyes filled with tears and he went on to specifically describe how my dad had encouraged him a few months back. My own eyes filled with tears and then he hugged me again. I felt my body breathe a sigh of relief and my tension faded. The whole interaction was probably two minutes long, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.

Later that night as Adam and I gave Sky a bath, I told Adam what his dad had said. “I don’t even remember his exact words,” I said. “All I know is that they were perfect.”  When I thought about it more, I realized that what John didn’t do was just as powerful as what he’d done. He didn’t asked me a series of questions. He didn’t pressure me to explain my feelings and he didn’t give me any advice. He didn’t tell me to try this or try that, or to pray this or pray that. He didn’t start talking about himself and his experiences or tell me that he understands how we feel. What he did was deliberately, sincerely acknowledge my family’s pain. And then he stepped back. We spent the rest of the night talking about other things and that was exactly what I needed.

I hope that the next time I’m close to someone in a crisis, I remember John’s example and how his nearness, his carefully chosen words, and then his space showed me the meaning of the word sympathy.

“A word aptly spoken is like apples of gold in settings of silver.” – Proverbs 25:11