A Good Death

Last time I wrote, I penned these thoughts about my aging parents: "I don't say all the things that I need to say. Maybe if I don't say them, they won't leave me." I wrote those words in haste at my Daddy's desk two weeks ago. I was compelled to run to their house that day for some reason. I had not written my article and remembered that it was late...so I hammered it out quickly that morning at their house and then lounged for hours with my folks, talking about everything and nothing, listening to my Daddy pray and read his Bible to Mama at their kitchen table. Little did I know that this would be the last time I would hear his voice, hear him spontaneously laugh, be hugged by him. It was a gift from God. 

Only last week, he died in the good way, quickly and with no apparent pain. He had mown his and his neighbor's grass, taken a shower and sat down in his recliner. He had his hand in his popcorn bowl (one of his favorite places) when his heart experienced some sort of arrhythmia and he slipped away, was revived by paramedics who got his heart pumping, but never regained consciousness. Three days we sat by his side, holding his sweet hands, speaking our love, regrets and hopes to him. He was surrounded by his multitude of children and grandchildren, who sang Amazing Grace and cried like there was no tomorrow. I'm sure the ICU staff at Kennestone Hospital was inconvenienced by our huge and loud family, but they treated him and us with so much respect and kindness, I will ever be grateful.

My stomach turned to stone, each swallow like acid spilling down a tube. The devil attacked my thoughts, bringing a thousand questions and demon regrets, lies. I had no idea it was like this. All the weak places in my constitution were fair game, the people around me a fog. I wanted to lie still, still on my bed and never move, my legs leaden and useless. I knew that there were others who needed my help, my compassion, but all thoughts turned inward to the loss of my Daddy hero, a man whose death I always dreaded. He was too alive to be dead. He loved me too much to be gone. He loved life more than anyone I knew. His delightful spirit lit up every room he ever entered. How could he leave? How could he be gone when his hat still smelled like him and his gloves are still on the patio where he left them?

We are still numb from the outpouring of loved ones. Raw from the quickly planned and executed funeral. People from three and four decades back showed up and hugged us, spoke of his character and his love, what he meant to them. The weekend afterward was full of more food, more relatives, more talk, more hugs. But tomorrow the alarm rings and life has to resume. Without him. Survival requires the march, paying no heed to the fallen. 

Our eldest son asked me a question, after it was all over. "Mom, are you better off now? Can you see where the places it might be better now that he is gone?" What a seemingly cruel question, until I ponder it deeply. Eternity gaped before me. I searched my soul in ways that I had not for a long time. I reflected on his life, on what was important to him and to me. I thought about how I can honor him better, going forward. And especially, I considered heaven, God, and Daddy's deep and rich love of Christ. He lived as a true Christian, simply and faithfully. Not a hypocrite. Not proud. A light in darkness. He loved all the folk God put in his path. His body is deep in the earth but his spirit has flown to his Savior. Death be not proud; death is swallowed up in victory. I love you Daddy. I'll see you on the other side.