My dad

I remember exactly the stretch of road I was on.  It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and I was picking my kids up from school.  As I was driving, I called my dad.  He'd been sick for years now, but 2000 had been rough.  He was somewhat private and didn't want to bother people with his problems, so, while some knew he had been ill, they weren't all aware of how ill.  He was in the hospital.  Again.  As I was heading down Gamma Grass Road, I asked him if maybe it was time to tell the family how sick he was.  Getting more people to pray for him would be a good thing, I told him.  "Yes.  Tell them.", said he.  He continued, "Ask them to pray that I die."

The tears flowed.  Mine;  not his.

Christmas Eve fell on a Sunday that year.  I was up getting ready for church when I got the call.  "Get to the hospital.  This is it "  I began running around like a chicken with its head cut off.  I didn't know what to do.  Head to the hospital?  Go to church and then the hospital?  Get the kids?  Tell the kids?  What do I do???  James calmly told me to go to the hospital.  He and the kids would go to church and meet me there later.  

I arrived at the hospital, and my dad looked great.  Smiling.  Sitting up in bed.  Happy to see me.  Those doctors don't know what they're talking about.  This isn't it.  He's doing better than he's done in weeks.  Months even.  Oh my goodness.  Those silly doctors getting me all worked up for nothing.  

My dad and I talked.  And laughed.  Spent the day together.  I'm sure at some point my mom was there.  I'm sure at some point my kids showed up.  I know Kristi came.  But what I remember is my day with my dad.  

They brought him his bland, heart healthy, seasonless, boring baked chicken dinner.  He asked me to run out and get him Whataburger.  I told him he needed to eat healthy, so his body could heal.  So he could get better.  He asked again for Whataburger.  I again said, "No. Get better.  When you get out of here, I'll get you Whataburger."  

Obediently, he ate his chicken.

Y'all, my dad loathed chicken.  Loathed it.  Hated poultry.  Wouldn't eat turkey on Thanksgiving.  And yet, his last meal on this earth was that stupid chicken, because what I didn't know is that the stupid Whataburger would not have hurt him any more than that stupid chicken was going to help him.

What I didn't know is that often before death, there's a big surge.  A rush of energy.  

Christmas Eve 2000 was my dad's last "good" day on this earth.  

By Christmas morning, he was no longer with us.  Oh, he wasn't dead, but he wasn't with us either.  He would lie in that bed and either sleep or, when awake, stare off in the distance.  

I did not see my kids open their gifts that year.  I was at the hospital.  James videotaped it for me to watch later.  I have never watched it.  Don't even know where it is now.

During the day we would all be there.  A busy hospital room during the holidays.  We laughed.  We talked.  We sang hymns.  We prayed. 

At night, we took turns staying with him.  No one should ever die alone.

Each time I would leave that hospital, I would cry and pray that God would keep him alive until I got back.  So I could see him.  And God did.

Until December 27th.  Kristi and I were changing shifts.  I was leaving, and she was spending the night.  As I left that evening, I knew.  I knew I would never see my dad alive again, but this time it was ok.  This time I was filled with peace.  

Kristi called and said shortly after midnight, December 28th, he was gone.  

Apparently those silly doctors did know a thing or two.

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A couple "God things".... I know there were many, and I won't share them all or even remember them all, but here are a couple.

My dad was German.  He knew a bit of German.  Heard it more as a small child.  One of his nurses spoke German.  She would speak German to him, and we could see his body relax a bit.  A faint smile come to his face.  God gave us that wonderful nurse at the perfect time.

I didn't want to bother my friend on Christmas.  She has kids and family.  So I waited.  She knew my dad had been sick, but she didn't know what had been going on these last couple of days.  On December 26th, I called her.  And I began to cry.  I cried so hard I could barely tell her what was happening.  She asked where I was.  I was crying so hard I couldn’t tell her.  Couldn't speak.  She told me not to worry, she would find me.

About an hour later, she shows up in his room.  We were at Methodist Hospital in the Houston Medical Center.  She had no idea where we were, but she drove from Magnolia and walked into HIS ROOM without ever asking or talking to anyone.  I asked her how she found me.  She said, "I just knew."

Y'all, that's God.

So here we are seventeen years later, and Christmas Eve is on a Sunday, and I just really REALLY wish I had gotten that man a stupid Whataburger.........