The Messenger and a December Monday

“Your dad is in the hospital and not doing well at all.’ My stepmother’s voice on the other end of the phone spoke with somber tone.

After questioning her and learning that I did not need to leave immediately, I set about planning to go to the hospital and spend time with him.

The recipe for applesauce cake that I wanted to bake and give him for Christmas lay unused on the table. I had planned a visit with him after the holidays.

As an afterthought, I remembered the gingerbread men I had baked and wrapped up several of those.

I began to recall my most recent visit with him; his appearance when I went in to his room was etched upon my mind:

Long before disease invaded his body, his vision and hearing had begun to diminish with age. When I arrived, I found he had "taken to his bed." Never a good sign when someone is ill for it signals that they have given up their fight.

His emaciated form revealed the ravages of lung cancer, black lung and aftereffects of radiation treatments

He lay sleeping and I moved closer to his bed and kissed him, told him that I loved him and patted his hand to make him aware of my presence. His chest rose up and down with labored effort. Not wanting to disturb him, I sat by his bed in a chair and began to reflect on my childhood. Dad was never one to openly display his affection. I found myself still wishing that I could have known what it was like to climb up on his knee, to be cuddled in his arms and hear him call me ’sweetie” or “honey.” I found my emotions bordering on self-pity, how absurd! My dad was lying here with his life ebbing away and I’m thinking of myself.

From my viewpoint, eighty years is still too young in a daughter’s eyes for her dad to leave.

“Give me the lotion and I’ll massage Dad’s feet, I said to my stepmother.” She told me he had been complaining of dryness and itching of his feet. I removed his socks and inspected them. The dry, cracked and peeling skin proved that disease and malnourishment had taken their toll.

I gently massaged his feet and his fragile legs. However painful it was to see his body wasting away by illness, I treasured these precious moments I could spend with him and bring him a measure of comfort.

During his illness, when I could visit him at home, I carried homemade soups and breads to nourish him and seasoned them with heaping measures of a daughter’s love. Grateful was I for every opportunity to reach out to him...

I arrived at my dad’s hospital room to find his color had become ashen. Oxygen tubes were connected to his nostrils.

I went to the nurse's desk to request a cup of coffee for him to enjoy with his home baked gingerbread men for he told me he could eat one right then as he waited for his evening meal.

Although his appetite had been waning, when he saw the food on his supper tray just delivered, he became ravenous. I arranged his food within easy reach, cutting the beef in small pieces, buttered his roll and added milk to his coffee. He wanted to know if he had jelly on his plate and I told him no, and convinced him the Jell-o would be an acceptable substitute. We made small talk, reminisced about his early days of work in the coal mines, and laughed as a spoon of Jell-o bounced off his plate and rolled down onto his bed covers.

When I felt it was time to leave so he could rest, I smoothed his bed covers and pinned his call button to his sheet keeping it within easy reach. Turning to go, I paused to offer a prayer for dad before I left committing his life into God’s care and keeping through the night.

I called across the room as I left, “And, oh yeah, Dad, Merry Christmas!”

“It’s merry he said, but not Christmas.” It was December 27th.

My phone rang around 3:30 the next morning....”A nurse just called to say your dad died during the night.”

I was astounded at the news! We had talked, he ate well and was in good spirits when I left him. I looked forward to another visit and felt hopeful that we would have more time together...time to gather fragments from the missing years and fill them in with the missing puzzle pieces.

Soon after Dad’s death, I recalled a patient from the doctor’s office where I had worked as a nurse. Many of our patients came for treatment of lung problems, consequently we saw many coal miners who had contracted black lung disease. On one occasion I met a kind African American man named Leonard, who, I learned through my questioning, had worked at the same mines where my dad worked as a welder. I asked if he knew my dad. He replied, “Yeah, I know him. How’s he doing?”

I informed him that I had not heard from Dad in several years. I quietly tucked that thought in the back of my mind because, since my parents’ divorce, I hadn’t made any effort to get in touch with him.

Months passed and Leonard was back in our office. Naturally, he asked again about my dad. “He’s never called me yet, I said.” And with that this elderly gentleman said, “Well, maybe you should call him.”

When he left the office, I began to mull his suggestion over in my mind. In my spirit I knew that I was to initiate contact again with my dad. I followed through and from that point on, I began to make the effort and take the time to let my dad know that I loved him. I phoned and/or sent cards on his birthday and Father’s Day. And later I learned that he had come to expect them.

Looking back I realize that had I not gone to nursing school, I would not have been working in the doctor’s office and met this “Messenger” who suggested that I should take the initiative and get in touch with my dad.

Sitting in my darkened living room one winter morning after my dad’s death, questioning(as many of us will) why it happened so suddenly without my having more time to catch up on bygone years, I recalled a passage from the Scriptures, As for God, His way is perfect, the Word of the Lord is proven. He is a shield to all who trust Him.

2 Sam22:31

During my grief, those words were the compelling force that moved me forward and helped me to heal. Realizing the need to accept Who is Sovereign in life circumstances.

Many days later, I looked up the “Messenger’s” phone number and called him long distance to thank him for his gift of words that prompted me to be a part of my dad’s life again.

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