Ten years ago my father went into the hospital for what was to be a routine bypass procedure. He had been in there for about a week leading up to the procedure. This time of year my workload increases tremendously. I was not able to make it up to the hospital to see him. I made it a point to get there as quickly as possible on the day of his surgery. I arrived at the hospital around 7 that evening thinking I would be able to spend some time with him. He was still in surgery. Complications. Very nervous. He should have been out of surgery hours ago. The doctor came in and explained to us that there were some complications, but he pulled through just fine. I went in to see him and was stunned. I could barely recognize him. His face was so swollen. He was still under anesthesia, or so we thought. He would be in this state for weeks, only opening his eyes once or twice just long enough for my mother to say a few words to him.
I remember sitting with him one evening, praying to God to make everything alright. At some point I could hear the voice of God telling me that my father would be okay. I knew it was God because with it came an incredible sense of peace. I felt so much relief. Another week or so, organs had begun to fail. Despite the sadness I felt trying to creep in, I held on to the promise that God had made to me. My thoughts about my father were still child like. My father was invincible. The thought of him ever dying was just not possible. Besides, I still had God's word that all would be okay.
January 8, 2001, God had called my father home. My entire world had come crashing in. I had never felt so much pain in my entire life. This could not be happening. I had God's word. He would not go back on His word. HE COULD NOT GO BACK ON HIS WORD!!!!! Maybe it wasn't God that I had heard. Maybe it was just me not wanting to accept what was the inevitable. I questioned God. Why? Being caught up in the emotion, I did not pay attention to what God had told me. He never told me that my father would live. He told me that he would be okay. The apostle Paul said in 2Corinthians 5, 6Therefore we are always confident, knowing that, whilst we are at home in the body, we are absent from the Lord: 7(For we walk by faith, not by sight:)8We are confident, I say, and willing rather to be absent from the body, and to be present with the Lord. So, in fact, my father was better than okay. He was with the Lord. Yet while the spiritual man in me had come to accept this, the natural man wouldn't. Soon my hurt had turned to guilt. I thought about not going to see my father while he was in the hospital waiting for the surgery. I thought about not being able to tell him all the things that I had never taken the time to tell him. I felt I had let him down. When he needed me to be there for him the most, I was not there. I was consumed by guilt, overwhelmed by sorrow. My heart ached like nothing I had ever known.
I kept my feelings of guilt to myself.
January, 2003, I had hurt my back on the job. The doctor thought that I would not be able to go back to doing my job. While going through treatment, I had to face the possibility of having to find some other line of work. Not now. I had too much time invested. Too old to start over. What was I going to do? Can't worry about it now. I figured I would cross that bridge when I got to it. In the midst of this, my mother had been admitted into the hospital. She was having heart trouble. For the next five months she would be there. The bad back turned out to be a blessing. I was able to spend more time with my mother during those five months than I had spent with her over the previous five years. There were so many things that my mom would share with me. Despite the circumstances, I enjoyed being there with her. Some times I would go and just watch her sleep. Some times I would go and she would watch me sleep. During all of these heart to heart talks with her, I could never tell her about the guilt I was still feeling. Somehow, deep down inside, I knew my mother would not live much longer. Based on conversations we had before she had fallen ill, I knew she did not want to live. She missed my father too much. She was tired. Tired of living. Tired of seeing so much death.
Even though I knew what I knew, I was at peace with it. I just wanted to spend as much time with my mom as I could. Although I had not told her of the guilt I felt about my dad, I think she could sense it. Shortly before she passed, she told me how much my father loved me and how he was so proud of me. It was as if the weight of the world had been lifted. I was free from my burden, though self imposed. My father knew how much I loved him. My mother knew how much I loved her. I miss them both, still. But knowing that my parents were both proud of me overshadows the sadness. The child in me rejoices. There is nothing that a child wants more than the approval of has parents. The man in me continues to strive to be the kind of man that would make them proud.
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