Written: April 1994.
Updated: March 1, 2009.
Reposted: August 23, 2020.
“When I die, please don’t cry for me. It is not worth it.” The memory of that conversation appears unbidden in my mind, on this warm September Saturday afternoon. We are visiting my father in the Washington Heights section of Manhattan, and those words are echoing through my head as a tear rolls down my cheek. Furtively, I struggle to wipe away the tear without Dad noticing. I don’t want to disturb him, even though I am sitting on his bed. At the moment, he is on the verge of dozing off.
Mom has gone to get the notary to witness his signature on the papers the lawyer had drawn up. They are going to transfer the title of our house in Lake Hopatcong, NJ, solely into her name, to avoid probate.
The memory of his words continues. “I know you probably will though. I did when my father died.”
Has it really come to this, in these short months? Waves of regret begin to roll over me, flowing from my hand which is holding his boney, jaundiced fingers. They seem to break upon my face, as I feel it begin to flush. The summer of 1986 had begun with such great promise. The doctors had said they had gotten it all, that Dad going to recover. A couple of years earlier he said he was going to be there when I got married and when I had children. Then I thought that he was now going to recover and be there for those events. In the coming month I was going to travel to the shore to spend thirteen weeks in Wildwood, NJ on an evangelism project, ministering to my peers about the love of Jesus. Why was I not here where I belonged – with my father? Why did I miss those months when he was still active, before the cancer had spread to his brain? Where was the love that I learned to preach that summer? Didn’t Jesus know how much I loved my father? Why doesn’t He seem to care?
I lose the battle with my tears as one drips from my cheek and falls onto the hand I am holding. I hear Dad stir and see him slowly, painfully, open his eyes. “Please don’t cry, son.”
I begin to recall the words of Christ from the Gospel of John. “And I will do whatever you ask in my name, so that the Son may bring glory to the Father. You may ask anything in my name, and I will do it.” These words hold hope for the future. The reason he is suffering so is because I lack faith. I have been a Christian for a year now. I should know the Word of God better than this. “You may ask anything…”
“Dear Jesus, you promised that whatever we ask for in Your name, You will grant. Right now, in Jesus’ name, I beg You not to let Daddy die. Please Lord, grant me this request. I know that I am not worthy of this, but I accepted you as the Lord of my Life. Please don’t let Dad die!”
“BBBRING, BBBRING!” The little twist bell on the front door announces that they have returned. “BBBRING, BBBRING!!”
“Who is it?” Grandma’s voice calls out from the kitchen of their small apartment.
“It’s us, Mom!” My mother’s voice answers. Even after being divorced for fourteen years, she still calls her “Mom”.
The chain on the door, that protects them from intruders, rattles as it is unfastened. Footsteps intrude upon this time with Dad. The feeling of togetherness is shattered as I see Mom and a Hispanic gentleman enter the bedroom. Why did they have to come back right now?
Dad opens his eyes, and a smile almost appears on his pain-wracked face. “You’re back.”
“Yes, Tom. We’re here. I’ve explained everything to him. He’s come to help us.”
The older man, neatly dressed in a suit, slowly lowers his glasses in an effort to get a closer look.
“First, I’ll need some identification. Something with a photograph.” His accent, absent throughout much of the sentence, appears during the final words.
“In the night stand drawer.” Dad croaks.
Mom shuffles through a variety of papers and photos. After a minute, her hand emerges, holding his passport, and then moves to give it to the man who, almost hesitantly, accepts it.
He opens the dusty document to the first pages. Glancing at the personal information, he says, “Oh, you’re Catholic.”
“Yes,” Mom replies, as the man compares the picture to the husk of a man before him. He holds it up to the light for a better look.
“OK. Now, where are the papers?” He inquires, almost apologetically.
Mom gets them out of her purse and unfolds them. She reads them over and signs them near the bottom, with a pen she has also retrieved from her purse.
“Tom, you’re supposed to sign here.”
Dad looks up at her and lifts his head with a groan. He looks at Mom as she points to the left side of the document. Slowly, he grasps the pen and signs his once proud signature with a shaking hand.
The notary then looks over the document slowly and finally says, “We’ll need an additional witness.
” Who are you?” He asks, glancing at me.
“I’m his son.” I reply.
“No, we’ll need someone else.”
“My grandmother is in the kitchen.”
“She’ll have to do.”
“Mom.” My mother, quietly, calls out.
“Coming.” is the reply.
A second later, a plump, gray-haired lady, in her mid-sixties, enters.
“Yes”
“We need you to witness the signatures.”
“OK, what do I do?”
“Just sign to the right of the signatures.” The man answers.
She does. When finished, Grandma hands it back to the man who then signs it and affixes
his seal.
“I have to get back to the store.” He says, his business completed.
“Wait, what do we owe you?” Mom asks, reaching for her wallet in her purse.
“Nothing. I’m a Catholic too,” is the answer, from the man whose name I never even learned, as he turns and walks out the door.
Mom goes into the kitchen with Grandma, the distasteful task which was the purpose of our 90 minute journey completed. Again I am left alone with Dad.
After a time of quiet fellowship, Dad opens his eyes and struggles to raise his head. As I protest, he responds. “No. I must.”
He looks me in the eyes, and, with a clear coherent gaze, says, “Son, I want you to know that I love you very much and am proud of you.” Those words said, he lowers his head.
The sun is peaking through the windows of Dad’s room at the hospice, where he went for care when the strain became too much for Grandma. I have been here for over an hour and a half, and Dad still has not regained consciousness. They say that some days he does not wake at all, as if his body is conserving its strength or…
I remember the prayer I had prayed at Grandma’s apartment. Slowly, almost hesitantly, I begin another one. “Dear Lord, I don’t understand what is going on. I prayed as You had commanded us and Dad still is not getting any better. If he will not get better, please take him soon. I can’t bear to see him like this.”
That night, he was gone.
2009 Comment: 22 years after the event and 13 years after writing
Upon rereading this, I am struck anew by God’s wisdom. He knew what was happening in my life and knew that I would feel that my world was out of control, that I could not deal with what was happening around me. My father would no longer be there for me. Dad did what he could to prepare me for what was going to happen, but I would have to face it physically alone. My family and friends, especially my brother Tom, tried to console me. Honestly at Dad’s wake is the first time that I remember my younger brother offering his love to me as an adult with a hug. God knew what I needed. He knew for over a year prior that that I needed to be firmly in His love and maneuvered events to cause it to happen. He had caused me to transfer back to a school in NJ where I would be surrounded by family and friends. Even though I did not realize it at the time and fully trust him, he loved me. He saw that I would need a father and when I had nowhere else to turn, he would be there.
The next morning, when I got up to catch the train to school, I found Mom sleeping on the couch. I tried to wake her because she usually left about a half hour prior to the time I had to go. She told me the news then. She also told me that she had to go into the city to make the arrangements and I had to stay home. After she left, I accomplished some of the things that I had to do, like calling school and trying to reach family that did not yet know and then I felt so alone in the empty house. All I could do then was go into my room, sit on my bed and cry. In my cassette player was Amy Grant’s Age to Age album and I kept listening over and over to the song “El Shaddai”. At the time, I remember referring to that day as the worst day of my life. Now I see it as one of the best. That might have been the point where I began to stop trying to please God and allowed him to meet me where I was and to accept that He is all that I need. Perhaps that is why that song still means so much to me, because God was there for me through a song sung by a young woman, that I had first heard a couple of years prior. Perhaps that is truly the miracle of the incarnation, God’s coming to earth. While he was here, he lost a father too and knew what I was going to go through.
After being a Christian for almost 25 years (I was raised Catholic, but I did not start to make the
faith my own until one day in September 1985), God still continues to amaze me. At that time, I blamed myself for Dad’s death, because I prayed that prayer. Now I see it from the perspective that is gained by the years passing, I see that my prayer did not cause my Dad to leave that night. It was because of the first prayer, prayed several weeks prior, that God kept him with us until I was ready to let him go.
Again, after so many years, I am hit upside the head with that proverbial “cosmic baseball bat.”
Ray of Sonshine 