One morning in 2007, My brother, Eric called.
“Grace,” he said, “it looks as if Dad is not going to make it. He is in the hospital. His heart is failing.”
My sister, our mom and I made arrangement to fly to California to see Dad before he passed away. A few hours later we arrived to meet the rest of the family at Dad’s bedside. He was unconscious, pale and his breath was shallow. Dad showed no response to our presence. We prayed for him. After some time we left and gathered at Eric’s house.
My dad had been in a lock down facility for the mentally ill for several years. In the care of that place he had become more stable from his bi-polar behavior. Before he had been committed to the care facility he had had lots of trouble.
Dad had lived close to Eric. Eric had played a big part of trying to help Dad. After Dad’s confinement, Eric remained in contact with him, visited him, and kept the rest of us informed how he was doing. The “rest of us” were me, Mom who lived with me in Blaine Washington, Christy who lived in Sequim Washington, and David who lived in the LA area.
As we gathered as a family at Eric’s house, we continued to pray for Dad as we recounted the family history.
The next morning I went by myself to see how Dad was doing. When I went into his room I was surprised to see him sitting up in bed.
“Wow, Dad, good morning! Glad to see you.”
The hospital staff had discovered that he was not suffering from heart congestion as he had been diagnosed. He had pneumonia. When they started treating the pneumonia he got better.
“Well, that sure is good news,” I said. “Yesterday we thought you were going to die.”
He laughed, and said, “Yeah, well, I’m still here.”
I paused to take a breath. Over the years of Dad’s illness I had met with him several times to give him the good news about forgiveness of sin through faith in Jesus. Dad had always refused to put any trust in Jesus. His mental illness had condensed into a fierce pride in himself, and delusion. At one point he told me that the blood of Jesus could not save the world, but his own blood could do it. His mind was mixed up because of his illness. I had told him once that we, his family, could not have more compassion for him if he were suffering from diabetes instead of mental problems.
I looked steadily at him in the hospital bed. “Dad, I am thankful that you are still here, but one of these days you will die. Are you sure you will go to heaven when you die?”*
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I’m sure.”
“What makes you so sure?” I asked.
“I have led a good life,” he said.
“That’s the wrong answer, Dad,” I said, “what’s the right answer?”
He dropped his chin slightly, and said, “You tell me.”
I did. For the I don’t know how many times, I told him the gospel. Then I asked him, “Are you ready to stop thinking you can save yourself, repent of your sin, and put your trust in Jesus?”
He raised his head a bit and said, “Yes, I am.”
“Would you like to pray that way now?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. Then he did. He confessed of all his pride, in tears and repentance.
Then, for the next half hour or so, we had the best conversation we had ever had, ever. I asked him to forgive me for my rebelliousness when I was growing up; he asked me to forgive him for the pain he had caused me.
It was beautiful.
Then he drifted off to sleep.
I did not know at the time that conversation would be the last one I had with him.
Two years later Eric called, again, to say that Dad was dying.
He had fallen and broken his hip. He was in the hospital, and this time he was suffering from heart failure. His lungs were filling with fluid.
I flew to California. I entered his room in the hospital less than a minute after his death. He had gone to meet Jesus in paradise and await the resurrection.
As we gathered to honor Dad, Eric told us that he had been a different man for the last two years of his life. He loved to read the Bible; he was kind and friendly to the people in the facility; and he was loving and thankful when Eric came to visit him. He had genuinely repented. He had found peace in Jesus.
A blessed memory I have of my childhood is that Dad loved to sing the Doxology. He would make a humming sound to give us the key, then we would sing. Why did he love that song before he knew the Lord? I don’t know, but I believe that the Lord had given him a vision, even then, of his glorious future.
Every time I sing it now, I remember Dad and the grace of our Lord.
Praise God from whom all blessings flow.
Praise Him all creatures here below.
Praise Him above ye heavenly host.
Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost.
Ahhh-ahh-men.
The video link below is not our family, but it is the way we used to sing the doxology at Thanksgiving.
