They didn’t make it another year together. Since then Dad has been dying. Slowly. Two immensely strong trees grown together and ripped apart in one of life’s storms (dad’s words).
I mourn for mom in passing. I mourn for dad as pieces of his life pass. He might not fish or hunt again and I mourn. Walking the woods and hunting together is past and I mourn. Eating food is hard and firing up the grill or smoker for dad has lost it’s enjoyment. I mourn that. Enjoyment itself seems to be passing like a salmon arriving at it’s birth place, there is no more will to fight the currents.
The hardest thing for me to see dying is the wilting of relationship. We are turning our heads away from each other viewing the tasks of making it another day, week, month and secretly Christmas. There is a shadow, a dark cloud in the way of supping with one another and I mourn. Dad has turned his head toward eternity. Like a horse headed to the barn (one of his old farm, can’t wait to get there, expressions).
Today, I’ll get in the car and drive a few hours to see dad. It’s possible he may have much or little time left. I may have many or few visits left. I may have a weeks vacation left with him on the old place. I don’t know. All I know is that Dad is dying in dozens of ways, and that’s hard. I mourn.
I do take comfort in the fact that dad see’s eternity and there is light. The door is cracked open enough for light to spill out but he cannot look inside, yet. He seems to be parked by the door and I want to take him for another boat or ATV ride. Oh, he can still do that physically but it’s not the same. He wants to see Jesus and hug mom again. I don’t blame him but I mourn.
This morning I gave him to God. I sat on the screen porch watching the rain in 50 degree weather with the hummingbirds chasing one another and three rabbits in the lawn in front of me and I let a piece of me die. He is God’s you know. He knows. He always was Gods as long as I have known him. I’m dying too, and I mourn that.
Dad and I have something in common. We know Jesus. Personally. Relation-ally. We will both live forever. We both know this “eternal life”. Without Christ we would die forever.
I will give dad a hug, say “bye for now dad” (you know just in case I need to wait for eternity to see him again), get in the car and make the 5 hour drive back home. Man I miss dad! but not forever.
Whoever has the Son has life; whoever does not have the Son of God does not have life. (1 John 5:12)
Dad and I would really like to see you there, please don’t die forever.
Update: Rest in peace dad (February 13 1933- July 2 2019) Bye for now dad. I sure do miss you and mom.