Meeting Christ in my father’s death

Today’s article is one which I’ve wanted to write for some time. You see, 2015 has been a very eventful year for me, but unfortunately much of it has been less-than-pleasant. In fact, I think I can say without exaggeration that this year has featured some of the most painful experiences of my life. Not least of these events was the death of my father in July. Up until now I haven’t said much about this publicly, but I would like to share a little bit about it today…

I had spent Independence Day with friends on Whidbey Island. It’s a truly delightful part of the world and I had a wonderful time there. We spent the day at the pool and had an evening of fine food and board games, followed by fireworks at the beach. The following morning, for some inexplicable reason, virtually everyone in the house rose early and went for a three-mile run. Since it was early on the day after a national holiday, we pretty much had the island to ourselves and in the crisp, early morning air, we passed several deer as we made our tour of the island. It was beautiful.

It was after breakfast that I received a message from my family back in England, asking me to call. A knot formed in my stomach; I had a suspicion as to the reason for this message. I excused myself and went out to my car, where I called my Mum. She confirmed what I had feared: my Dad was dying.

You see, my father had been diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma several years before. After several rounds of chemotherapy, his health seemed to be under control, but in recent months things hadn’t been looking so good. Infections had become increasingly common, necessitating numerous speedy trips to the hospital. My Mum said that Dad had suffered yet another infection, but unlike the previous ones, this one was certain to kill him. She told me that the hospital staff said that there was nothing more they could do and that it was unlikely he’d last another twenty-four hours. After hanging up the phone, I composed myself and went back into the house, said my goodbyes and was soon on my way back to Seattle.

Heading home

On the way to Seattle, I left messages for my colleagues, letting them know what had happened and that I would be incommunicado for a day or so as I travelled home. My sister back in England had made it to the hospital by this point and, while I was waiting for the ferry to take me to Seattle, she put her phone up to my Dad’s ear so that he could hear my voice.

What do you say to your dying father? I wasn’t sure if he could hear me, but I’ve always been told that hearing is the last sense to go before you die, so I took a few deep breathes and began…

I told him that I loved him, told him that I forgave him and asked for forgiveness for anything I had ever done which had hurt him. I told him to let go of all hurt or anger and to simply trust in God. Finally, I told him that I was on my way and that I’d see him again soon.

Arriving back in Seattle, I walked through the front door of my house, and within half an hour I was walking back out again with a packed bag. I caught an Uber to the airport where I bought a ticket for London on a flight leaving in a little over an hour’s time.

Back in Blighty

I didn’t make it back before the end. My Dad died while I was still somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. By the time I landed in London, there was nobody left at the hospital in Oxford, so I caught a train back to my Mum’s home in Thatcham.

It was good to be back home with family, but with project deadlines looming and constant staffing issues, I had to continue my job while I was in England. This at least gave me something on which to focus. Given Dad’s long illness, the funeral arrangements were mostly already taken care of. Only a couple of technological tasks were left to me, such as closing down his Skype account and Facebook page.

Unfortunately, some of my father’s arrangements included bombshells which I had to deliver to the rest of my family, the worst of which was my father’s stipulation than my mother was not allowed to attend his funeral. This exclusion was something which we all took very hard.

The funeral itself took place a couple of weeks later. I would like to say that it was a cathartic experience, but it really wasn’t. I found it rather hard to accept the reality that my Dad was dead. I think this was because I hadn’t been able to see him in the hospital. Not only that, Dad had stipulated that there would be no viewing of his body and, unlike many funerals here in the States, there wasn’t an open casket.

After the funeral itself, those selected by my father accompanied his body to the crematorium: my Uncle Dennis, my cousin Glynn, my step-brother Matthew and me. When we arrived, we followed the coffin into the chapel, a few prayers were said by the priest and then it was time to leave. Before I left, I went up to the coffin for a final moment together. I touched the wood of the coffin gently with both hands and repeated the last words I had said to him, that I was on my way and that I’d see him again soon.

There and back again

I flew back to the States a couple of days later. I wasn’t going to be in Seattle for very long, only about twenty-four hours. The day after I landed I was to fly out to San Diego to help with the Steubenville youth conference. I had made sure, however, to schedule a meeting with my pastor before I flew out again – we had a lot to discuss…

As we settled into our chairs in his study and I took a sip from my coffee, Fr. Michael opened with a rather probing question: “You’ve had quite a lot going on recently! So…where has God been in your life this last month?”

I smiled. I knew my answer…

“He’s been with me this entire time. In fact, he’s actually been present to me more concretely than probably almost any other time in my life. All this time Jesus has loved me and tended to me through my friends”

You see, in the story I’ve told thus far, I left out a very important thread…

Spring water in the Valley of Baca

As I said earlier, I found out on Whidbey Island that my Dad was dying. I had been staying with my friends Ben, Wei Hou, Hannah and Hannah’s parents at their vacation home. When I told them my Dad was dying, their first response was to pray with me, pray with me in that wonderful, extemporaneous Protestant style! You see, from the first moment of finding out about my father’s imminent death, God provided me with ministering angels to lead me in prayer.

Once I sat down on the plane to London, I sent text messages to some of my friends, letting them know what was happening and asking them to pray. By the time my plane touched down in London, my phone was full of messages from friends offering help in any way they could and letting me know that they were praying for me and my family. This would be a consistent motif in the coming months as word began to spread. I received a steady stream of messages via phone, text and email, asking me how we were doing and inviting me to come and stay. Friends with whom I had not spoken in years began to reach out, friends from school, ex-girlfriends, and ex-colleagues, they all came out of the woodwork to let me know that they cared.

One such person was my friend Scott, who had been my best friend when I was twelve. I received a message from him while I was at the reception after the funeral.  He had seen the announcement of Dad’s funeral only minutes before the funeral was scheduled to start. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get there in time so he sent me a message. I was very touched that he had even considered leaving work to come join us. We chatted a little more online and he invited me and my mother to the pub that evening. It was exactly what we needed! Rather than staying home in shell-shocked numbness, we got to catch up with an old friend and meet his family. So even despite the difficulty of the funeral itself, the day ended rather wonderfully. Scott’s thoughtfulness didn’t even end there, and he has continued to stay in contact with Mum now that I am back in the US.

As friends reached out, there was a very common feature in most of the messages. Text after text ended with something along the line of “…and I’m going to offer my rosary tonight for your father”. Masses, Liturgies, Vespers, rosaries, chaplets and Holy Hours were all offered for my Dad. I can’t describe how much this warmed my heart, to know that my friends were praying for my father. Dad had always had a rather tortured relationship with the Catholic Church, yet in death he received all that the Catholic Church had to offer.

“The Catechism explained that praying for the souls of the dead is a tradition going back to the first Christians and to the Jews before them… The living sent their love for the deceased into the spiritual world, like adding water to a stream that would eventually float their lost friends home“

– Jennifer Fulwiler
Something Other Than God

Once I returned to the US, the steady flow of letters and Mass cards refused to abate. I even received several care packages, filled to the brim with things purposefully included simply to make me smile: photos, candy and ninja boots (yes…ninja boots).

Thank you

In Psalm 84:6 we are told about men who find their strength in the Lord:

Blessed are the men whose strength is in [the Lord]… As they go through the Valley of Baca [weeping] they make it a place of springs; the early rain also covers it with pools.

– Psalm 84:6

Although this was one of the most excruciating periods of my life, I can honestly say that, through my friends, I have never felt more loved. I was in a valley of bitterness, but it was transformed into a valley of sweet springs.

So, to all those who reached out to me, I would just like to say say “thank you”. I’m honoured and privileged to be called your friend. In my recent darkness, you helped show me the Light. During my pain, you carried me to the Divine Physician. In a time of my life when God could have seemed absent, He was ever-present. You were His hands. You were His feet.

…for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not His
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.

– Gerard Manly Hopkins
As Kingfishers Catch Fire