My dad is dying. I have now put those words down, and they must become real to me. So far, I have thought about it over my meals, discussed it with my family, and pondered it as I lay in bed at night unable to sleep. But I have not put it into words to make it real. My father is dying. There are words floating in the air like "Living Will" and "End of Life", heavy with meaning and thick with emotion. For some moments, I am rational, almost detached, as I think about what is the right thing to do. Others, I am a small child, walking with my Daddy through the woods in December, searching for a Christmas tree. Only this time, when I turn loose of his hand, he will be gone forever. Memories come to me at the strangest moments, of things I have not thought about in years. Snapshots in my mind of little things he said or did that somehow found a home deep inside my brain and now, of all times, are forming a slideshow. Remember? Remember?
What is it about the human mind that can turn against you and make a bad situation almost unbearable by not shutting down? Remember when I broke my arm and I was scared, and the only thing that made me feel better was when my daddy told me to wrap my arm around his neck? Remember when my Mom was diagnosed with breast cancer and my daddy was unafraid to be vulnerable and admit he couldn't make it without her? Remember the time Daddy took us to the airport in Reidsville and we got to go up on the helicopter? Remember when he told you that you had a green thumb, just like his mother, and you were so proud? Remember? Remember? Why must I remember all those moments. Why can't I shut it off at all?
The suble beauty of my father was not in his softness. He was a hard man, who worked hard his whole life, and perhaps he didn't take the time for "Disney" moments with his kids. But there was never one moment that I doubted that he loved and lived for his children, that he'd done all he'd done in life for them, and that I could count on him for whatever I truly needed. The subtle beauty, though, was in the simple way he went about living his life so that we could have a larger than life example of how to do it. Honestly, fully, and respectfully, but without regrets. Maybe I didn't understand that greatness as a child, but it didn't take long to see that my father was a great man. That I was the lucky one. That not everyone had what I had growing up. He made me who I am. I learned it all from him. Who will teach me now? Remember? Remember?
When I lie in bed at night and think painfully of the hole his death will leave with me, I try to grasp little treasures of happiness. He will be sitting on a front porch soon with his sisters who've already gone, laughing and playing referee. He will have the pleasure of talking about God with his old friend and pastor, Grady Lackey, who paved the way. And the one that makes me smile, that silly old dog, Trouble, who he loved so much, will meet him at the end of the road, and trot beside him for his long walk home.
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