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