I had a compassionate father.
I can remember whenever I was sick, how he'd gently tell me he didn't want me to be sick - and I believed him. I believed that it truly saddened him that I felt bad. He was not a man who said things he didn't mean.
I can remember how stirred he was as he held each of my babies for the first time, and the deep joy I felt as I watched such a bond take root. The words he shared with me at those moments gave me a new glimpse into his heart for the vulnerable. It wasn't the first time I'd seen that tenderness; but it was, each time, a new facet of this man I was honored to call Daddy.
This is a week that glistens with heartache. The two closest people I've lost - my son and my father - both passed away in April. Luke was born the day before Palm Sunday and passed away almost three weeks later. The eighteenth anniversary of his death, this year, was on Easter Day. That it fell that way was sheer encouragement. Being reminded of resurrection all day long - there was no better way to mark my son's life and to remember the sorrow of losing him.
As our little preemie lay in his NICU isolette, I remember one ride up to see him. My parents were in the van, and Mom - her Grandma heart torn and aching, but her dedication to her husband always on full alert - made a comment about Daddy needing to eat. Daddy was 74 at the time, and I responded, probably offering to stop for food. Mom told me then (he probably didn't want her to) that Daddy was fasting, in prayer for Luke.
How Luke would have taken to him, this man who saw his grandson so briefly but who loved him so much. I am sure of that - he and Grandpa would have been friends. Mind you, each grandchild was Grandpa's friend, from the moment of their meeting. But this premature infant who would almost certainly have had multiple challenges, had he survived - I know his grandpa would have had his back.
When our son passed away early on a Friday morning, my husband and I were with him, along with his exceptional nurse; a remarkable doctor; our faithful pastor; and a close and steadfast friend. These four had patiently accompanied us through the heartbreaking hours of the vigil of separating from our child. My parents were at home with our other children; and when we called Mom and Dad, it fell to them to deliver the blow that would break their young hearts. I do not want to think about how painful this task was for these caring grandparents.
Later that morning, in a conference room, most of our little boy's siblings, in turn, cradled him in their arms for a few moments. Only one of them had been able to hold him before he passed away. Some of our supportive friends held him, too - and so did my mother. I know it was difficult for her to embrace her lifeless grandson, but she chose to do it. I'm so proud of her. And proud of my dad - who chose not to. They were both filled up with pain - the pain of losing a grandson, the pain of seeing their daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren broken - and they handled it in different ways.
My parents took us out for breakfast afterwards - after we'd all had to walk away from that hospital with our arms stripped bare. A few days later, Mother, Daddy and my sister stood at the memorial service, their hearts rent - but my eyes were too blurred, my pain too vivid, to even appreciate theirs. Much later, I realized how they had been hurting as they held us up.
Then, almost three years ago, my father was taken away from us - two mornings after Easter. Why Easter, again?
But a better question - what if it weren't? What if Daddy had died on April 22nd, and Luke on April 16th - and there were no resurrection at all? My pen would be dry - for this heart and its musings are fueled by my hope in Christ. With joy I anticipate seeing them both some day - and bowing down with them before the One we will all be there for - the One who gave His all and gained forgiveness and eternal life for those who believe and trust in Him.
The morning my father died, we left Hospice without him - I state that obvious fact because it was so very hard to do - and, as we had that morning fifteen years before, we went to a restaurant and ate breakfast.
We just keep on going, you know? We put one foot in front of the other and we do all those things we just have to do - like eat. And we kind of do it on autopilot. But you, my friend, as you read these words, probably know that. We're in this together. Life can wring us out.
I don't set all these heartaches into print for sympathy. I write them because the writing, even the sharing, helps me; and because we walk this road together, and maybe God will use my poured-out heart to strengthen yours. I don't need sympathy. I'm fine. Eighteen years later and three years later, I'm doing well - because God carries His children. Because God used a man who loved Him and who loved his family, as part of His means to equip me for this journey. I am grateful. The prayers my daddy prayed, believing, for me - indeed, for his wife, his children and their spouses, his grandchildren and their families - are still being answered. That truth comforts and delights my soul, and it encourages me as a parent.
One of the most difficult things - parenthetically - is the thinking, the mental reliving, the wishing. The more I experience death and observe others I love as they experience it, the more I see that remorse is what eats us up. As believers mourning the loss of other believers (or of young children we hope are under a special grace), we trust that they live on. But death can leave such unwieldy guilt in its wake. It can leave our hearts weary with coulda-woulda-shouldas so persistent, they can haunt us until our Lord calls us home. Regret haunted me after Luke died; and it happened after Daddy passed away. Part of me just wanted to go back and live those last days again - and do it better.
Perhaps you know where I'm coming from. I think it happens to many of us - our grieving mind remembers that one thing (or numerous things) we wish we'd done differently, and it berates and tortures us. Sometimes, it's a completely irrational reasoning. As we feel so helpless over the circumstance, does feeling guilty make our brain think it's actually doing something?
All I can say to address it is - God wins. He gave His Son to conquer death, and it makes no sense, when we know our Victor, to listen to the taunts of the one He's soundly defeated.
O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. - 1 Corinthians 15:55-57
Our enemy would pull us down, even as he lies trapped in the mud with a foot on his neck. Let's not let him; let's not give him the satisfaction.
Back, though, to my compassionate father; his tiny, beloved grandson; and trying to capture my thoughts as I journey through another April. Through my dad, and through the love he deeply felt and generously poured out for his family and for the young and the sick and the needy and the defenseless, I glimpsed my heavenly Father. Time and time and time again. Thus, from childhood and even now in my father's absence, when I read in Scripture that God loves me even as a father loves, I know in the depths of my heart what that looks like.
It is an inestimable legacy.
"No man is so tall as when he stoops to help a child."
As a father shows compassion to his children,
so the LORD shows compassion to those who fear him. - Psalm 103:13
