Thirty three years ago today my mom and dad walked down the aisle and committed their lives to each other. Three and a half years ago my mom held my dad's hand as he stepped into eternity.
My dad died early in the morning on September 14, 2004. My mom, one of my brothers and I had spent the night at the hospice house, waiting for that final breath. I woke just before dawn and my mom was at my dad's side, where she always was, saying her final goodbyes.
Dad took in one long inhale, almost as if he was breathing the whole world up into himself. Mom kissed his cheek and his lips, and I leaned down to whisper in his ear, “You’ve fought the good fight Daddy, you’ve finished the race. You’ve kept the faith. It’s time to go home.” And he did.
I saw God all through that night. I saw Him in the brief expressions of joy and wonder that flit across my dad's face. I saw Him in the tears that cascaded down my mother's cheeks and the peace that filled her eyes when my dad finally let go and went home. And I saw Him in the ensuing weeks when, one after the other, men came to pay their respects and tell us how my dad had introduced them to God just by living Him every single day.
Death, for the Christian, is just as much a miracle as life. More so.
So I honor my Dad today, and the God he introduced me to and taught me to love.
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