See You Soon, Dad.

It’s Monday morning. In the wake of an awesome Easter service, and following an incredibly busy week, I was relieved the day was done and now… to put my feet up and brag on what the Lord did that day. I typically reserved this bragging to one person as it could get misinterpreted as gloating which I wanted to refrain from. Plus, I have a couple church members who get nervous anytime I bluster about the amount of guests we had in church any given Sunday. I guess for fear we caught the Devil not paying attention and we’ll just anger him, I’m not sure.

This one person is my dad. My dad has been there with me through many high’s and low’s. His story is another blog or series of blogs by itself. But for now, it is important to know how much I love this man. I love that he is available. I love that he cares so deeply about what is going on in my life. I love that he loves his crazy toddler of a granddaughter, my first and only, Aurora Joy, so much. Her interruption in any conversation is always met with a smile and warm welcome by him. It’s like she gives him more air to breathe just existing in the same room or same phone call.

Each week after Sunday, sometimes Sunday evening or on Monday or Tuesday, I’ll call Dad or he’ll call me and we’ll talk about each other’s Sunday’s. He got to where he started listening to my church’s livestream so he’d get on the phone with me and tell me what he liked about the message. Following Easter, I couldn’t wait to talk to him. We had over 40 in services, over double from last year’s Easter and nearly four times the amount of people who were there for my first Sunday a little over a year ago. (If you’re from my church, it’s ok. Just breathe. Hopefully the Devil doesn’t read blogs. He’s too busy on Instagram.)

When you call my dad, there are some factors, a few quid pro quo’s if you will, that have to take place. It isn’t a simple pick up the phone and call. Oh, no. With Dad, his phone must first have battery life. Next, and this one is critical, he must have his hearing aids. Those are connected to his phone. It serves as a blessing and a curse. On one hand, it’s nice because you can have a pleasant conversation with him. On the other hand, when you’re with him in person and he spontaneously calls someone, which happened almost daily, you might think he’s talking to himself as he gave you no heads up he was calling anyone. Mom’s favorite is when he listens to Southern Gospel music and sings only the bass part out loud. It’s a great time. Dad also must be in a good place to talk. Dad hardly ever screens a call. I think he thinks it takes up memory on his phone or something. He once answered his phone from the pulpit. Old people, am I right?

So after Easter, all of these factors didn’t add up. Dad was unable to talk on the phone that day or the days that followed. Dad was in and out of the hospital or a post acute center. So when he was home, he was resting. I tried to call a couple times, but to no luck. Finally, I told my mom I am just going to have to come up north and talk to him face to face.

My mom got me this thing for Christmas last year with Frontier airlines where you can fly as much as you want, you just pay taxes and fees; what could go wrong, right? It started May 1st. So May 1st I tried and tired to get a flight. But I think because others were trying to do the same thing, and I didn’t know what I was doing, I wasn’t able to get a flight. Then Aurora turned 3 on May 10th, the hottest day in human history in the city of La Habra. Another story for another time, but nonetheless, I was unable to talk to him. Meanwhile, Dad kept the vicious circle going of home to hospital to rehab.

I guess I should at least tell you that my dad is 82 years young with a medical history that defied gravity. Cancer survivor and heart patient, mostly.

After Aurora’s birthday, I was able to land a flight on May 13th. I flew from LAX to SFO. The drive to LAX and the ride on BART to where my parents live was longer than the flight itself. At this point, Dad was in the hospital with fluid in his lungs. Doctors said he had pneumonia. After I flew in late that Tuesday night, I spent all day Wednesday with him. I finally got to tell him about Easter. I told him about the guests we had at not only our regular services, but our Good Friday services too.

As the day carried on, Dad got more and more tired and wasn’t very responsive at all. To liven him up, I asked if he wanted to talk to Aurora on FaceTime. His eyes lit up as he let out a big, “Yeah!” I got her on the phone, he smirked like he does anytime he sees her and headed off back to sleep, but not before he waved her goodbye.

The next morning, Dad had a procedure done to remove the fluid from his lungs. 35 minutes after the Anesthesiologist took him back, she returned to tell us he went through the procedure, was breathing on his own and the doctor would be in shortly. My mom and I and their pastor sat in the waiting room kind of in shock he was already breathing on his own. He seemed so weak going into the procedure.

An hour later, we spoke to the doctor who quickly humbled our enthusiasm informing us that they were unable to perform the procedure because his lungs were too weak. He was at 25% capacity in his lungs and shrinking. The only thing to do then was make him comfortable.

The next week was the hardest week of my life to date. I don’t write that as a challenge as I don’t care to ever go through this again, but such is life. Dad was unresponsive. He laid in his bed most of the time eyes closed. I turned on every day’s ballgame. The Giants playing the A’s. Our favorite series. Our last game we went to together in a park we loved to freeze at. The days all blended together. My brother was there, and sang to him. Dad loved hearing me and my siblings sing. His Pastor was there always willing to pray with him – again something Dad loved doing.

Dad was dying.

I couldn’t bring myself to believe it. My hero, my mentor, my best friend was fleeing this life. After I did the smart therapeutical thing in reaching out to ten people to keep me from going to a dark place (thank you counseling), I called my sweet wife and asked her to please drive up here. It’s roughly 400 miles through LA and Bay Area traffic. I would never ask this of her for really any other circumstance. But I needed her. I needed my dad to wake up and defy the odds one more time, but I had serious concerns the latter was not going to happen. Megan didn’t hesitate and made the long journey with our toddler there in record time.

Aurora held Dad’s hand and sang to him while he slept peacefully. I think her music was more for me at the moment. She reminded me that Jesus loves me, that when I am weak, He is strong, and this is the day that the LORD has made. I should rejoice and be glad. In reality, I was so incredibly sad. I wasn’t depressed. I know that feeling. I had no regrets. I wasn’t angry with him or the Lord or anyone. I was just… sad. Sad that Dad hadn’t ate anything all week. Sad that this is what it took for my family to spend this much time together. Sad that Dad was leaving us soon.

Mom asked Lance and I to prepare services for Dad. She wanted Lance to take care of music and asked me to bring the message. When she asked us, she brought up the graveside service. I remembered what a good friend of mine, Garrett, one of my ten people I reached out to (again, shout out to therapy – it isn’t a sin), told me. See, of the ten people I sent a message to, after I looked I noticed over half of them had already said goodbye to their fathers. I didn’t plan that, but God did. He put friends in my life that had been through seasons I hadn’t been in before. Their wisdom would prove to be invaluable. Garrett told me to not become my family’s pastor in this season. That I needed to grieve as well.

I asked mom, “Do you think Gary (their pastor) could do the graveside?”

“I was thinking the same thing.” She replied. This will be my moment to grieve. My time to tell my dad, “I’ll see you soon.”

Lance and I would go to Mom and Dad’s that night to jot down some bullet points for the service. I’ve done funerals before. A few uncles, even spoke at my brother in law’s. I even sang The Kingsmen Quartet’s I’ll Live Again at my grandpa’s funeral when I was 12. If you listen to that song, not exactly funeral material, but I sang it anyway because Grandma loved a good Southern Gospel song. When Lance and I got to Mom and Dad’s, we sat in the living room in silence for a moment.

“You know,” I said struggling to find the words. “I’ve thought about this day an unhealthy amount of times,”

I really did. Every time Dad would go into hospital with some life threatening ordeal, I thought, this could be it. I would at times think about what I’d say at his funeral or who would be there. What stories would we share? I thought about losing my dad a lot because I almost did a few times.

“I always thought I would fall apart.” I continued with my brother. “But now that this day is here, by the grace of God, I’m not a basket case.”

I truly couldn’t believe my brother and I were sitting there having this conversation. So what I often do when I’m nervous, I either joke around or I ramble. I didn’t feel like being funny, but I certainly rambled. That rambling led to me talking to my brother about somethings I should’ve told him ten years ago. I am so proud I did even though the circumstances weren’t entirely appropriate. Lance loved me and never shut me down. I love my brother very much.

Lance and his wife Sharon headed home the day after or so and doctors came and informed us that they needed to move Dad to a more appropriate facility. Mom selected Bruns House in Alamo, California; about 35 miles or so from where the lived. This was a beautiful home with spacious rooms, a share kitchen and living space, and a beautiful, spacious backyard. Dad’s room had this huge fireplace. Which is good because he was always freezing.

All the time, like at the hospital, Mom never left his side. “He never wanted to be alone.” My mom would tell everyone. At Bruns House, Dad would get the care he needed and then some and my mom would get the needed hospitality from the staff there. Shout out to Bruns House.

Megan and I made the tough decision to come home to fulfill responsibilities we had there. We stopped by Bruns House one last time on our way out Tuesday morning. We walked the garden filled backyard with Mom while Aurora threw rocks and pointed out every bird and creature. On our way out, I paid a final visit to my dad. They had given him a bath and much needed shave. He looked like his old self laying there peacefully.

I approached his bedside and got down to him eye level and said, “Hey Dad, you wanna have a word of prayer before I go?” Kind of tongue in cheek as we hadn’t heard from Dad in a week. His eyes opened. He looked directly at me and grunted. Doctors will have some medical explanation for that. But that was Dad’s way of saying, “YES.”

I knelt there at his bedside, took his hand and said one final prayer, something he taught me to do. Aurora sang one last time and Megan said her goodbyes. Apparently while I was praying, Megan captured Dad looking at me with a smile.

We hit the road with Goofy Movie playing in the backseat. I tried listening to an audio book, but the memories in my mind were too loud to listen to anything else. I came home and slept in my own bed for the first time in a week, cuddled up next to my wife watching Netflix.

I woke up the next day like I did days prior. I checked my phone to see if there was a message from Mom about Dad. Dad had me beginning to believe he was going to come back from this. I swept over the fact that he has COPD, congestive heart failure, stage three kidney failure, not mention had been in a bed of some form for a month.

This man was Superman. But even Superman has kryptonite. Dad’s glowing green rock was simply sin. And all of us have that kryptonite, really. With sin comes death. And so far death has winning record save it maybe 3 people. But Dad and I were suppose to be here together when Jesus returned. At least those were my plans.

Following a Wednesday night Bible Study at church about one’s reputation, I waited to hear from Mom. She had told me earlier that day that one doctor told her Dad likely wouldn’t make it through the day. At 8:36 pm, I called my mom. She was quiet on the other end.

“Is he ok, Mom?”

“No actually I think he’s going.”

Those words just echoed in my mind. This was it. My dad was leaving this world, but I was staying here. She asked if I wanted her to put the phone to his ear. I really wish I could tell you what I said. I just tried to be loud so he could hear me without his hearing aids. But I know I told him one last time how much loved him and how grateful I was that God chose him to be my dad and Aurora’s Paw-Paw. As I got quiet, he took a big breath I could hear over the phone.

The nurse gave a time of death at 8:48 pm.

8:48 pm was not my dad’s time of death, but his time of arrival. This Jesus he spoke so much about, he finally could embrace. His mom, my beautiful grandmother, was there with that contagious smile of hers. He was reunited with his father, Charles, who he hadn’t seen since July of 1952. His other father Joe, who was one heck of a grandpa, was there too and probably wanted to go on a walk. Along with Uncle Melford, his cousin Chuck, Uncle Warren, his nephew Aaron, his nephew Mr David Wayne, my Uncle Don, The Pack’s, his best friend and my beloved Uncle Marv, Pastor McClung, Pastor Wharton, Pastor Knox, Pastor Beene, Pastor Godbehere, Pastor Cross and undoubtedly all his aunts crying at the gates just like they did at his wedding, as he would retell to me over and over.

I’m writing this just a day removed from when he left us. The memory still fresh and I am still no basket case, so I wanted to jot it down. My dad’s exit from this world in the last days played out like a script. He is the greatest person I’ll ever know.

As one of my ten people I text told me (one final shout out to getting help when needed), “your daughter will remember him as long as you put him in front of her.” Aurora may not remember the times she sang to him or the times they tickled each other, but I sure will. I know losing him in this life is going to hurt like hell, but heaven will heal what hell tries to ruin. I will see him again. This time with a full head of hair, dancing and shouting on a cloud saying, “Look, Son! It’s Jesus! The one I told you all about!”

As Dad would recount over and over in his testimony, upon receiving the news he had cancer the first time, Dad asked the Lord that he spare his life long enough to see me come to know the Lord. In June 1996, Dad led me to the Lord in his office. He later officiated my baptism. He was there at the altar when I answered the call to preach. He asked me to preach my first sermon from the pulpit God called him to. We went all over the US together going to ABA meetings and funny family vacations. We went to Israel together. He was there in both of my ordinations. He officiated my wedding. He held my firstborn and she had him wrapped around her little finger.

I would say God answered my dad’s prayer that day and then some. But thats just how God works. He is able to do exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or think. Thank you Lord, for such an incredible father. God, I miss him. I already miss his, “I love you too, son.” I know there are more difficult days ahead. I fly back next week to the Bay Area to help Mom with burial and service arrangements. It’s all surreal. I never once thought what life would be like without him, just braced myself for the possibility. Now it’s here and I’m like a deer in headlights. So I’ll blog about it. Not sure what for just yet. But I’m trusting Him. I love you, Dad. See you soon. Signing out for now. Talk to you again soon. Thanks for reading.