Dear Dad,

Yesterday, God allowed me to see you in person again.

Seven months have passed since our goodbye last October when our family returned to Chile. Those months are evident in your hospital gowns, which have replaced the loose clothing you wore when I left. They are evident in your location, now permanently prostrate in bed rather than rotating between bed, recliner and wheelchair. They are evident in your speech, much less clear than before. They are evident in your hours of unconscious slumber which overtake the majority of your days.

Thankfully, yesterday morning you were awake and alert when I visited. Conversation was possible, albeit shifting swiftly between thoughts real and imagined, stories true and improbable. You didn't seem surprised to see me, maybe because in your current stage people float in and out all the time as supporting cast members in a play. As long as your leading lady (Mom) is faithfully present, the rest of us are welcome to come and go as we please.

You ask for her when others visit, and look over their shoulders for her face. "Where's your mother?" are words often on your lips. Yesterday when a grandson grasped your hand and leaned down to say goodbye, he must have been in the space so often occupied by her because with one hand in his, you searched for her and only when she stroked your face and held the other hand did you seem at peace.

Yesterday you had cars on your mind for some reason. You thought there was one floating in the room. You told an impossible story about how "two weeks ago" you backed Mr. Brasefield's car down his driveway and heard a "scra-a-a-a-ape!" (I loved how you exaggeratedly squeaked out the sound and humbly said, "I'm so sorry! Can you give me another job to do?")

At one point you said something about a "model" (likely thinking cars again) so Mom teasingly asked, "Are you talking about me? Do I look like a model?" and without missing a single beat, you responded: "Always! To me." I heard this and I thought of Pedro, and how resplendent 55 years of marriage and life and love can look in God's hands, even at this juncture where pain seems to reign while purpose and pleasure wane. And I hoped I could always be the comfort to him that Mom is to you.

Almost the first thing you said to me yesterday morning was, "Every day I wonder: Is today the day? Is today the day?" Later in the afternoon when all three daughters were present, you announced: "I just want to go Home." Jenn asked where "Home" is, and you answered: "Where I wake up in the morning and go to sleep at night." While currently that's your room in Healthcare, it's never felt like Home to you. It's evident your heart is longing for what the author describes in Hebrews chapter 11:

13 All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance, admitting that they were foreigners and strangers on earth. 14 People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own. 15 If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. 16 Instead, they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.

Dad, I love that even as you are "seeing through a glass darkly" your heart remains unchanged in its lifelong priorities: loving God, family, and people. 

You are desiring your heavenly Home with your heavenly Father. You are treasuring your bride who has kept the vows she borrowed from Ruth and spoke to you on your wedding day: "Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God: Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me." 

You are asking unexpected yet pertinent questions about your sixteen grandchildren: "How did Micah do with his grades this semester?" You are telling stories that in your mind are real about people who've mattered to you, and you to them. (Yesterday it was Mr. Brasefield's car, and Joe and Sarah Hocking singing a concert with the Gaithers where Sarah "brought the house down!")

You are fading, but you are still shining brightly. You are leaving, but you are still here. Your days are largely silent, but you are still teaching. We are sometimes bewildered; we don't know God's plan nor His timing in all this. But we still know Him better, thanks to you. 

I love you, Dad, and I'm glad I can be here this little while.

All my love,

Steph