December 26, 2009

Dear Dad,

The last time I wrote, you were waiting to go home.  It never happened.  In fact, you were transferred to a rehab facility.  You were in such poor condition, we wondered daily if you would survive the night, and when the morning came, we were surprised.

And we started the day all over again.

Christmas Eve, my wife and I went to see you.  We talked ...really, I talked, I don't even know if you listened.  I don't know if you were really there.  You ate very little that day,  I had to feed you.  The three bites of scrambled eggs were all you had.  You told me "no more" as I fed you, wondering how it felt when you fed me, as a child.

The difference is you had hope for what I was becoming, dreams for my life.  With every bite, I was an astronaut, a teacher, a lawyer, an engineer.  With you, every bite is one step closer to what you are becoming,  something new, someone else...someone not here.

One of the wisest people I ever met told me with every change where you are farther from us, you become closer to Jesus. It is comforting to think that you are moving to something better, that the only ones losing anything or anyone is us...you are gaining.

Christmas day arrived and we visited you.  It was sad, but I am glad you never knew how it hurt to see you this way.  You were immobile, could not move your arms or legs, and when I talked with you, you could not answer except to say "yes" or "okay".  When I called your name, you would open your eyes, then close them again.

Once again, I fed you.  I gave you bites of cheesecake, and you savored each bite as if it was a gourmet  dish. You were unable to suck water from a straw, so I poured a little into your open mouth. You swallowed a few mouthfuls and then you closed your eyes, you were through.

I left, took my family and we drove to our Christmas celebration.  It was good to be with more family, the family you enjoyed so much for so many years.

It was good.

My brother called me from out of state.  He talked with you and had prayed with you.  He is a pastor, and was preparing for his Christmas message in the small town in northern Missouri, struggling as his father lay dying in Texas.

The snow was so heavy, they were probably going to cancel the service, and he could not make it to Dallas to see his father.  He cried with me, and I just listened.

We were little boys once again, standing together at the airport, saying goodbye to our father as he was boarding the plane to places unknown, hopefully to see you again one day.

Although this is not new, it never gets easy.

Today, the day after Christmas, we went to see you again.

I expected to see you pale, withering, and helpless.

You were laying on your bed, arms crossed behind your head, dressed and awake.

You were weak, but you were there.

You asked questions, why you were there, how long you would be there.  I answered you and told you this was just to give you the strength to go home.

You are not out of the woods yet, but it was a small miracle.

For a while, you were almost back.

I pushed you around the place in a wheelchair, showed you the dining room, and the area where you have church services.  You asked me if you were going to get to go home, I said, "yes."

Of course you will.

There is no way we could ever keep you here.


Good night Dad, I'll be there again tomorrow.