“Oh, I’m sorry!” —a perfectly normal response to someone
who just told you her father has died.
It happened over and over when my 100 year-old dad died two days before
Christmas—and still does.
It is hard to know how to reply to these dear
people. I usually say, “Oh no, don’t be
sorry! This is what we’ve been praying
for and we’re rejoicing!”
Callous,
you may think, but let me explain. He
was a good father in many ways. Throughout his life, his central focus and
burning passion was to follow Christ and live for him. He was an avid reader
and enthusiastic learner all his life.
He encouraged his children and young people in the churches he pastored
to do the same and think for themselves. His children weren’t handed everything
on a silver platter. Seldom did he buy
small treats for his offspring, but if we asked for a book, he did his best to
provide one.
He had his flaws and limitations, too. Among them: I longed to hear him express his
love, but he was unable to do so. That
inability left a gaping hole in my own life.
As we neared adulthood and began to act on his advice to
think for ourselves, he sometimes found it difficult if we didn’t reach the
same conclusions he did. He and I had some heated discussions that resulted in
us hurting each other. Our visits became filled with tension and intense
debates as we differed on how to live our lives in Christ.
At one point, God revealed to me that I should begin
expressing my love for him. At first it
felt almost phony, but as I obediently continued, I recognized that his
inability to express his love was an impediment in his life, stemming from his
own experiences. My attitude shifted to
empathy and then greater love.
Each time we visited, I gave him a hug and told him, “I love you.” Each letter I wrote, I finished with a few
happy memories of him or expressed thankfulness for one of his traits. For a long time, it seemed it had no effect
on him, but subtlety it was changing me!
He was already in his nineties when he began to ask when
I was coming to visit. The next time I
did, he exclaimed with great joy, “Ruth!” when I walked through the door. That time, my hug was returned and he assured
me, “I love you too!” Those were words I
had given up ever hearing from his lips.
In the years since then, each time I visited, I spent a
lot of time sitting, holding his hand, talking to him and singing some of his
beloved hymns. What joy as his strong
bass voice joined mine. What beautiful
fellowship we enjoyed. We had both lost
our mates and that, too provided a mutual understanding of the emotions such
loss brings. When I found another dear
man to be my husband, he rejoiced with me and expressed it often—“I’m so glad
for you!”
When his slowing heart and lack of oxygen reduced the
ability of his mind, he still prayed and preached and planned for meetings
where he could proclaim the gospel and bring other souls into the fold. He often voiced his longing to go to
heaven. In the last months that wish
became his hearts dearest desire. We longed for his release from his earthly
fetters. The morning of my mother’s birthday, he quietly let go and his face
relaxed in utmost peace, while his spirit returned to his Maker.
So, yes! Don’t be
sorry! We rejoice for that final triumph
for the dear man who gave his life in God’s service and parented us well.
