Lifesong

The Last Days

My Dad died four years ago today. This is a post from four years ago that I thought I would re-post.

It's still a tough day. It's still sad. But even through the tears and the pain and the sadness, I can say HE IS GOOD. I can't praise Him in the good times and then blame Him in the bad. He is good, all the time.

(Yes, I usually want to break out in song when I'm praising Him.)

I would encourage you today to remember that life is fleeting. Hold fast to your family, be in the moment. Put your phone down, turn your computer off. Leave the dishes in the sink. Be engaged with the people that are here right now, loving life and laughing. Soak them in. As Christians, we know that a better place is coming, so we live knowing this world is not our home. And if you are not a Christian, man I'd love to talk with you. There is a God who longs for you to know Him.

So be blessed, be encouraged, and take heart! He has overcome the world.

--

(from November 2007)

Soon you will read in the newspaper that I am dead. Don't believe it for a moment. I will be more alive than ever before....Earth recedes....Heaven opens before me!   DL Moody, on his deathbed

My Dad went to the doctor on October 21 to get the results of his CAT Scan. I knew he wasn't doing well, but I just figured it was the chemo, or that they could switch to a new chemo if this one was no longer effective. When my Mom told me the oncologist had given him 4-6 weeks, I was floored. Was I in denial? Perhaps. In the very beginning, I remember reading that the average pancreatic cancer patient lives 6-8 months from diagnosis. But they weren't my Dad! This would be different, I thought. And then I put statistics out of my mind, because who needs statistics when you have an All Powerful God? (For the record, my Dad lived 5 months from his initial diagnosis.) Certainly not me. But then I heard four to six weeks, and I thought that's not enough time! That's not even to Christmas! But the doctor was wrong; my Dad lived two weeks and two days past that doctor's appointment.

Who told us we'd be rescued? What has changed and why should we be saved from our nightmares? We're asking why this happens to us who have died to live? It's unfair.

He faded fast. We found this out on Monday; John and I went to visit him that Friday, and he was already confused, tired, quickly fading. And I thought that was how he would die, just like that. But I was wrong. It got worse. Cancer is a monster that robs the body of its life quickly. I had no idea how devastating it would be. He could still talk to us that weekend, when he wasn't sleeping. We left on Sunday and returned on Wednesday. By Wednesday, he was sleeping most of the time, and we had to wake him to try and talk to him. But talking to him wasn't a good thing, because he was easily agitated and restless. He kept trying to get out of bed, but he was too weak to stand, so we were constantly on guard. He was increasingly restless; we increased his medication. He slipped into a coma on Sunday.

This hand is bitterness. We want to taste it, let the hatred numb our sorrow. The wise hand opens slowly to lilies of the valley and tomorrow.

By Monday, we knew it would be soon. We constantly poured over the book from hospice on the signs of death. He had all the signs that said death was 1-2 days away, or hours. He was pale; his body was robbed of nutrition and muscle. It appeared not much different than a skeleton, every bone protruding from the skin, his face sunken in. On Wednesday, his hands and feet were starting to turn purple. His breaths became very shallow, like he was struggling for a breath, but the hospice nurse told us that he was not struggling. We knew it was coming, but I didn't even like to be in the room because it was so painful to see my Dad...this man lying in the bed who hardly resembled my Dad anymore. My Dad's heartrate increased, because his heart was trying so hard to compensate, trying to bring oxygen, working overtime. His hands became cold. My Mom and I were sitting in the family room. John came out and told us he was gone. I ran into the bedroom, and saw my Dad take his last two shallow breaths, and then no more. No pulse. I sobbed. I cried out to God, in pain and in joy. My Mom hugged me, and she prayed. It was the most heartbreaking moment of my life, and yet the most joyful, all merged into one. How is this possible? Jonathan held a picture of my Dad that was taken one year ago; you would not have guessed that it was the same person lying there on that bed. The funeral home came and took him away. I knew that he was no longer there, that his spirit was already home, but yet this body, that's who I have known for 32 years. I followed him out to the porch, crying while he was wheeled into the hearse and taken away.

This is what it means to be held. How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life and you survive. This is what it is to be loved. And to know the promise was when everything fell, we'd be held.

This post is perhaps more for me than anyone else. I told myself I didn't really want to remember these last moments, but then a part of me doesn't want to forget. I thought all I would be able to remember of my Dad is the frail image of him as he died, but I find that image is replaced by a thousand other images, when he was healthy, laughing, joking, singing. But part of me still needs to remember the image of him dying, because that is what brings me to the Cross, draws me closer and closer to my Savior, holding me through my pain, knowing I can't do it on my own, trading my sorrow for joy, drawing me to Him. And that's where I want to be.

Two Years

I'm gonna wrap my arms around my Daddy's neck
And tell him that I've missed him
Tell him all about the man that I became
And hope that it pleased him
There's so much I want to say
There's so much I want you to know

When I finally make it home

Then I'll gaze upon the throne of the King
Frozen in my steps
And all the questions that I swore I would ask
Words just won't come yet

So amazed at what I've seen so much more
Than this old mind can hold

When I finally make it home

You made it home two years ago. But those still on Earth miss you so much, Dad.

Two Years

I am not the same person that I was two years ago. Two years have brought much change, growth and acceptance for me. Two years have brought about a new life for me, my brother and especially my Mom that I could never have imagined previously.

Two years ago, we were without friends locally. We were without a church. We were alone. Christian wasn't even one yet, and Ansley was four. Two years ago, I would wake up with such a heavy heart I felt I might burst with it. Two years ago, I couldn't imagine life the way it is today.

But since then, God has blessed us with an amazing church. Amazing friends. My Mom has stepped out of her comfort zone in many ways, and grown as a result. So have I. We still have a great, close family. The kids have gotten older. I think Andrew Peterson describes it perfectly, in a way I wouldn't have thought of - "the aching remains, but the breaking doesn't." (Thanks for sharing that, Beth!)

I wanted to post this from two years ago, because it reminds me of where I was, where I've come from, and ultimately, that God IS good. 

----

October 24, 2007

One year ago at this time, Mom and Dad and Jonathan and Missy had come in town. We went to Maple Lane Farms, and laughed as we watched my Dad and Jonathan climb all the way to the top of a rock wall. We ate dinner at Sullivan's afterwards, and had a wonderful weekend together as a family.

Seven months ago, Mom and Dad came to visit, and it was very important to my Dad that he show us where he grew up, his home, the church he went to, and various places around Knoxville. We all loaded up in the car and took a tour of Knoxville, with my Dad pointing out lots of memories from his childhood. I'm so thankful for this.

Six months ago, we had everyone in town again, and we went to Dollywood. My Dad wasn't feeling well, but we attributed it to the ulcers they had recently discovered, and still enjoyed a fun weekend together, riding rides, talking, laughing.

Five months ago today, my Dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I can recall the day in vivid detail.

One month ago, everyone was here again for Ansley's birthday party. My Dad was feeling good - after the party, he cleaned the kitchen, cleaned up all the wrapping paper, and played with Ansley for a long time.

One week ago, my parents came to visit while John was out of town. Dad wasn't doing well - he slept a lot while he was here, but I was glad they were able to come. It was great company, and Ansley was by her PopPop's side the entire time, offering him stuffed animals to make him feel better and following him outside to get some fresh air.

Today, my Dad is dying. My Dad is dying. The signs are there; the cancer is taking over much faster that we ever imagined. It is heartbreaking. I do not posess a knowledge of the English language to accurately convey what I am feeling. I am sad, I am so very, very sad. I am sad for me. I can't imagine life without my Dad. I am sad for my brother. I am sad for my Mom - how do you lose your constant companion of 38 years? I am sad for Ansley. She loves her PopPop, and always wants to be around him. I am sad for Christian. He will never know him. I feel as if I may never stop crying.

When I take my kids to get their vaccines, they don't like them. They are in pain, they are suffering. But I know - I see the bigger picture, and I know it is for their good. It is necessary. It is because I love them. Particularly as Ansley has gotten older, I can see in her face when she is getting her vaccines - the pain. She looks at me as if to say "Mommy, why are you doing this to me? I thought you loved me! How can you do this??"

I like to think this is what my Father is thinking. Even though through my sadness I cry out "God, why are you doing this to me? I thought you loved me! How could you do this?" I know that He does. I know that He loves me, and Jonathan and Mom and Dad and Ansley and Christian, more than I could ever fathom. I know He sees the bigger picture, one that I could not possibly grasp. I will probably never understand it, at least in this life, but He doesn't ask me to understand, just to trust.

And so I cling to that.

And I hear God whispering "I am here. My grace is enough; it's all you need. My strength comes into its own in your weakness." 2 Corinthians 12:9, The Message

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"Christians rejoice even while they truly sorrow because their rejoicing is in the hope of heaven. While joy overcomes sorrow, it does not put an end to it." John Calvin

Today

Today is my Dad's birthday. He would've been 63.

It's a weird sort of day. Not really different than any other day, except that it makes me think of past birthdays and what we would be doing today, if he were still here.

The last birthday gift I got for him was a sweatsuit, because when he was sick he was always cold. I thought it was a practical gift. He died before he ever got a chance to wear it. So I returned it, even though that seemed strange. I'm pretty sure the lady behind the register just thought I was strange for crying over a return of a sweatsuit.

And that's as far back as I can remember. I can't remember what we did the birthday before that, before he got sick. It's sad how memories work. When they aren't explored and thought of, they quickly fade. Even when I don't want them to. Even when I thought I would remember them forever.

It's been raining nonstop today. I do recall that last year on his birthday, it was raining as well. I don't really feel gloomy, unless I start dwelling. I don't think some memories were made to dwell on.

And so I remember, and celebrate, and cherish the memories of a man who always had something to say to everyone he met, who laughed often, and who cherished his family. One day, there will be a sweet reunion in heaven. With lots of talking.

Happy birthday, Dad. You are greatly loved and missed.

Jesus said, "In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." John 16:33

A Father's Legacy

The celebration of Father's Day has got my mind swimming with thoughts of my Dad. That, combined with hearing "Legacy" by Nichole Nordeman no less than a dozen times in the past week, has me remembering the man and father that he was. Nichole says "I want to leave a legacy - how will they remember me?" Here is how I remember my Dad, and what I learned from being his daughter.

My Dad loved music, dance, and food. Among other things, of course, but these stick out to me for some reason. I have memories that are unique to him with each of these categories. I remember countless records when I was growing up, and always a variety of music, and dancing to music. I can remember like it was yesterday my Dad dancing with two-year-old Ansley to "Dancing Queen" in the family room. For as long as I can remember, my Dad would order pinto beans when we went to Cracker Barrel, while I made gagging noises and pretended to be on the verge of puking. I thought it was absolutely disgusting. But within the last year, I have come to appreciate pinto beans from Cracker Barrel. And appreciate is too light of a word - I LOVE them, I get them every time I go, and I think of my Dad, every time.

{You were right, Dad. And I am sorry for all those gagging noises.}

 

My Dad was funny. He could make a joke (or a song lyric) out of just about anything anyone said. He had a quick wit, which drew people to him. And he loved to laugh - he laughed often, at just about everything. I like to think I got his ability to laugh too - I love to laugh, and I laugh often. And, mostly, I always think of my Dad when I do.

{Thank you, Dad, for your great sense of humor!}

 

My Dad was a hard worker. He had the work ethic of an ox. I don't know if that's a phrase, but I think they are hard working animals, aren't they? He worked many long hours and weekends to provide for his family, and he never complained about it. He still had the energy to play with us kids when he got home on a Saturday evening, and made time for church commitments as well. Unfortunately, I did not inherit this from him. If I had to work the hours that he did, I would be so bitter. But he never was.

{Thank you, Dad, for working so hard to provide for your family.}

 

There was nothing that was more important to my Dad than God and his family. I think as soon as you met my Dad, you realized this. Mostly, because he was a BIG talker, but also because of the way he lived his life and the way he spoke about these two subjects. I've had countless emails come to me since his death from people who were changed by the way my Dad lived his life. And for that, I am grateful.

{Thank you, Dad, for showing your love for God to every one you met.}

 

My Dad certainly wasn't always perfect, he made mistakes and he had regrets. But I was always proud to be called "Randy's daughter" and I will always be grateful for the lessons that he taught me, the sacrifices he made, and the memories I will treasure. I think that is his legacy - a daughter who remembers the man she called Dad, who lives each day wanting to make him proud, and who passes on to her own children the memory of a man whose face may fade as the years go by, but whose impact on her life never will.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. In case I never told you, I am proud to be your daughter, and I look forward to the day I'll see you again.

Flashback Friday

 

I found this picture while visiting my Mom this past weekend, and knew it was one I wanted.

I wish that I could remember this photo. The exact moment - what I was thinking, what we were doing, why it was taken. What jokes my Dad told, did I laugh? What was said. Instead, I can only tell you this: It was 1998. I was twenty-three years old. John and I had been married a year. Mom was 51, Dad was 52. We were visiting them at their home in Greenville, North Carolina.

If you had told me then that my Dad had just nine more years, I wouldn't have believed it. And when I look at this photo, I wish I had remembered more. I wish I had enjoyed these moments more, instead of taking them for granted, assuming there would be years upon years of heaps and gobs of memories, all mine.

I guess that's what  hits me most these days. Why can't I remember just being with my Dad, enjoying the time we had? Why didn't I capture more memories, create more memories, or for Pete's sake, just REMEMBER the memories? And I wonder what I would have done differently, if I had known. Not that it matters - it's a cruel question - because there isn't a re-do. Like the heart-wrenching song says, "You only get just one time around. You only get one shot at this, the one chance to find out the one thing that you don't wanna miss." And then that makes me wonder what I would wish I was doing differently if another loved one was taken from me today. And if I would do things differently - say, be more loving, less grumpy, more forgiving, less bitter, laugh more, cry less - why am I not doing those things now? One shot, that's all we get.

I know that I've grown a lot in the past year. God has taught me a great deal. I know this because I can look back and read what I wrote last year at this time, and I just go 'wow.' For instance, I can very vividly remember not understanding how the world could just GO ON, completely oblivious to my pain. Now I know that the world is full of suffering and loss - my city, my neighborhood, is full of suffering and loss. And the world continues to go on in the midst of all of that. No sooner would I shout out "Don't you know my Dad died?!" than someone else would shout back "My daughter died!" or "My son was killed!" or "My parents died in a car accident!" And then my loss would seem to pale in comparison. Not that it's about comparing; a loss is a loss, and it's all how we deal with the loss that matters. But you get my point: I've learned that I am far from alone in my grief, even though I felt very alone last year.

When I look at this picture, I see a young girl who didn't know how good she had it. At least, I don't think she did. I think she took for granted the fact that her parents would always be around, smiling for the camera with her. Except for the demon eyes (which I tried, in vain, to erase), I see a happy girl with happy parents. I like to think that, mostly, that was our life together. With Jonathan, of course, our life as a family was defined by our faith, our love, and our happiness. It is not defined by our loss. And that's what I choose to remember the most, one year later.

"Someday when it's all said and done, I hope you see that it was enough...this one ride, one try, one life....to love." 

Flashback Friday

One year today.

It's still hard for me to believe. How long will I say that?

After a year, I don't cry in libraries, or grocery stores anymore. Mostly at home, with a thought, or memory, or Christian pointing to a family picture and saying "PopPop!" Or when posting on my blog and realizing how infrequently I type the name 'PopPop' anymore.

After a year, last-year-at-this-time memories have faded; happy memories have moved in.

After a year, it's still hard. It's still overwhelming. It's still sad.

After a year, I cannot watch this clip without crying.

A year has passed, and I still have a deep longing to see my Dad again. 

Make an on-line slide show at www.OneTrueMedia.com

six months

It's hard to believe it has been 6 months since my Dad first saw Jesus. I wonder what the past six months have been like for him? Has it seemed like six months, or does it seem like he's always been in Heaven? Does he remember us? And if he does, it wouldn't fit that he would be in Heaven and be sad, so that's confusing. Can my Dad chat with his Mom and Dad, or, say, Abraham Lincoln? Hmmmm.

So much has changed in six months.

          The kids have gotten older. I have gotten older.

                                     John has lost his job. And gotten a new one.

         Jonathan and Missy have had a new home built. And moved into it.

                                                            I wouldn't say time has healed. I don't feel healed.

                          I would say time just moves on, and forces you to come with it.

               When I get my hair done, or a new outfit, I still wait to hear my Dad say 'that looks great!'

    I feel more and more that the things I worry and stress about the most are just not worth it.

                                              And so I'm learning to just let go. What does it matter?

                  I spend more time with Him.

                            My Mom has met some great friends and gotten involved in a great support group.

So much hasn't changed.

          I'm still sad. There are so many times I still think 'Oh, I need to tell Dad that!' Still.

                       I can't talk about my Dad, or remember a story, or think of him, without crying.

                                         I still have regrets, things I wish I had done or said differently.

                There are days I struggle. Really struggle.

                                                                         I have a lot of questions. Mostly unanswered.

                               But I'm okay with that.

                I have a lot of random (sometimes crazy) thoughts. On Heaven.

          I am always, always, more than ever, depending on my God to get me through, to give me hope.

                                                                    And He does.

Praise God that some things never change!

"I am God - yes, I Am. I haven't changed." Malachi 3:6

                                    

speak to me

I think my favorite Christian singer of all time is Rich Mullins. His songs are, to me, amazing. The words really speak to me, and I can really worship with his songs. I own about 5 or 6 of his CD's, and most days I just hit 'shuffle' on the CD player and it plays through our 60 or so Christian CD's. I've done this for years. Years. And we haven't bought any new CD's lately. So today this song comes on, and I think how is it possible that I have never heard this song in all the years of listening to him?

And it really speaks to me. Sometimes when I write it may be easy to get the impression that I have responded to my Dad's death with such faith and optimism, raising my hands to God and saying "it is well with my soul." And while some days that is true, other days are hard. Some days I question and I cry and act out in anger towards God. Much like my own children do. But I still love them. Even though Ansley may yell at me or question my judgement, I see what is best for her, and I love her just the same. Even through the tears and the pain. And so I know that God loves me through all my hurt and pain and doubts and fears and questions. And I think that He can take it - the God of the whole Universe, he can take some angry glances and furrowed brows, especially because He knows that it will bring me closer to Him. And that's what it's all about, isn't it? A relationship with Him. Seeking, and finding, The One Who Loves Me Most. Some days, when I feel good and feel like my perspective is on target, I may not seek Him as much. Or He may be easier to find. But on my angry days, I have to seek him relentlessly; yes, with all my might. And I always find Him. He always speaks to me. And I take comfort in the fact that the God of the Universe still communicates with me.

Playing Hard to Get by Rich Mullins

You who live in heaven
Hear the prayers of those of us who live on earth
Who are afraid of being left by those we love
And who get hardened by the hurt
Do you remember when You lived down
here where we all scrape
To find the faith to ask for daily bread?
Did You forget about us after You had flown away?
Well I memorized every word You said
Still I'm so scared, I'm holding my breath
While You're up there just playing hard to get
You who live in radiance
Hear the prayers of those of us who live in skin
We have a love that's not as patient as Yours was
Still we do love now and then
Did You ever know loneliness?
Did You ever know need?
Do You remember just how long a night can get?
When You were barely holding on
And Your friends fell asleep
And don't see the blood that's running in Your sweat
Will those who mourn be left uncomforted
While You're up there just playing hard to get?
And I know you bore our sorrows
And I know you feel our pain
And I know it would not hurt any less
Even if it could be explained
And I know that I am only lashing out
At the One who loves me most
And after I figured this, somehow
All I really need to know
Is if You who live in eternity
Hear the prayers of those of us who live in time
We can't see what's ahead
And we can not get free of what we've left behind
I'm reeling from these voices that
keep screaming in my ears
All the words of shame and doubt, blame and regret
I can't see how You're leading me
unless You've led me here
Where I'm lost enough to let myself be led
And so You've been here all along I guess
It's just Your ways and You are just plain hard to get

Wow. This song is real, isn't it? Usually Rich's songs are so deep with wonder and awe and love at God, and this one stands out a little. He was wrestling with the same thing we all will wrestle with, sooner or later. Like I said, this song really speaks to me. I love how he says it wouldn't hurt any less even if it could be explained. That is probably true. My Dad would still be gone. And I love the line about being lost enough to let myself be led. Oh, so much of this song speaks to me. Love, love this song.

And maybe Rich and my Dad are discussing it now, hitting it off really well. I like to think so.

I came across this today as well, and it is speaking to me today, too:

"Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day....so we fix our eyes not on what is seen but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary but what is unseen is eternal." 2 Corinthians 4:16, 18

So I keep fixing my eyes on what is unseen - the God of the universe who quiets my cries, wipes my tears away, comforts my fears, calms my doubts and diminishes my anger.

breathe

I greatly despise colds. They are just so irritating. I don't have a cold now, but just thinking about it makes me cringe. The worst part is the not-being-able-to-breathe-through-my-nose part. I hate that part. Particularly when the congestion is so bad you have to leave your mouth open just to breathe. And there's always some point in the cold's duration - usually around day 5 or 6 - when I just can't remember what it was like to breathe normally. It feels like I've always been congested, and I think, what was it like to just breathe in and breathe out through my nose, and enjoy that feeling? I take it for granted, the being able to breathe easy part, and then when I'm all stuffed up, I long for it.

That's how I feel now. I can't remember what it was like to breathe normally. I long for a normal piece of life. I took for granted the days when the world was all as it should be, when I could breathe. And now it's very difficult for me to remember those days. But I want them back. I want them to come back for me, and for my family. I want the sun to shine down on us, and for us all to breathe normally again.

Grief is complex. Some days it can be okay, and other days it can be consuming. Every day there is something - a song, a picture, a book, a story - something that reminds me of my Dad, of the loss, of the pain that doesn't quite go away. Grief is unforgiving - it can show up in the library or church or driving down the street. It is also irritating, showing up in places that I don't want it to, like in meeting someone new or in talking with a neighbor. Grief can also be invisible, because so many people don't know what to say or how to say it or if they should bring it up, and so they remain silent and it becomes the awkward, proverbial elephant in the room. Grief ebbs and flows, some days I think that I'm breathing just fine, and other days I'm gasping for air, feeling like I'll never breathe normally again.

I'm no wiser now than before my Dad was diagnosed with cancer, or even before he died. I'm just different, I'm changed. I look at things differently. I think about things differently. Some days I struggle. Some days are better than others. Maybe it will always be this way. I know that the majority of people will not lose a parent at my age, because the vast majority of people will live longer than my Dad did. My experience is fairly common, but in some ways not common at all. But if I could pass along something, if I could say one thing, one little piece of advice for those of you reading who haven't lost someone, it would be this: Embrace the relationship you have now with your loved ones. Don't get caught up in silly things that irritate you, or petty arguments, or selfish visions of who that person should be. The relationship is not all about you - pleasing you, making you happy, doing what is comfortable for you. I believe God blesses us with earthly relationships to encourage us, inspire us, challenge us, love us, and ultimately, to reflect Christ's love. How often do we reflect Christ's love in our relationships? Everyone of us will stumble, we aren't perfect, so forgive. Overlook the faults, love deeply, enjoy the time together. Because I guarantee, if you suddenly (or even not so suddenly) lost that person, none of the silly little things that seem to matter now would matter at all. Even a little. You would go over conversations in your head, wishing you had said something different or acted more selflessly or not been so caught up in your own life that you missed out on that wonderful person right in front of you.

2007 has been a tough year. I pray that God would bless our family in 2008 and that we would love each other selflessly, reflect Christ more, and show our love. Not that we haven't done these things, but I think we could all use more of it, and I am acutely aware of this after having experienced such a loss. I pray that 2008 is VERY different than 2007, in almost every way. A tough, tough year in many aspects.

But God knows. He understands. I was reading in Job, where he says "Remember, O God, that my life is but a breath; my eyes will never see happiness again." Job knew that feeling, that feeling of not being able to breathe normally again. And if you've read Job, you know that God defintely had more in store for Job than he knew. I cling to this promise, too.

I've found myself lately wishing that there had been more time. More time to spend with my Dad, talk with him, listen to him, laugh with him. Hear his stories, even if I'd already heard them 20 times before. Hear his famous jokes that I've heard all my life, just to laugh at them again. And mostly, wishing that I could just hear from him again, wishing I would have asked him to write down some thoughts before it was too late. And then, as I was scrapbooking tonight, I was going back in my blog to get some journaling, and I came across the first entry when my Dad was diagnosed with cancer. And I clicked on the comments, and found this:

As I sit here and read over your blog and the responses of so many wonderful friends I am overcome with emotion. Megan, you are and have been a wonderful daughter that I cherish and thank God that you are in the battle with me. I thank all of your friends who are out there praying for us and look forward to personally thanking them when this battle is over. Thanks so much for this past week, you have been an inspiration. I love you, Dad

As I read these words, I couldn't help but thank God for reminding me of them. It was exactly what I needed to hear. And I couldn't help but think that Dad will still get his chance to personally thank all of you. Quite a while from now in terms of earthly time, but probably the blink of an eye for him. Yes, his battle is over. And now he is my inspiration.