| | As I write this morning . . . as the birds are singing in the trees behind my house . . . my heart and mind are elsewhere. I usually like to read in the early morning in the summer. I sit out on my screened porch with my coffee and a good book. For me, that is a little taste of heaven on earth. But this morning it is hard to concentrate. I am very much a single-minded person (read: cannot multi-task to save my life), and this morning I have two fronts demanding my thoughts. At this moment, my first born, Tyler, and his marvel of a wife, Katrina, and their two precious little girls are in Singapore. They left Adelaide, Australia, last night at 10:25 my time (Tuesday morning for them), provided all went as planned. They would have landed in Singapore at 5:40 this morning. They will be there until this afternoon at 1:10 (my time) when their flight to Beijing is scheduled to depart. International travel is a challenge under any circumstances. I can't imagine doing it as a complete move, and with two little ones, a 20-month old and a 1-month old. So I am praying for their safe travel, for their as uncomplicated-as-possible travel, and that the girls are able to adapt to all the change going on in their lives. Once they are in China (landing at 7:20 tonight), they must travel another hour and a half to Tianjin, the city where they will live. They have temporary housing for their arrival, but they must quickly find permanent accomodations. So it will be a while before they can kick back and relax. Come to think of it, I really don't know if they know how to do that. They are so "others" focused . . . you know, the way we're all supposed to be, but most often aren't. Okay, perhaps I should restrict that application of self-focused to . . . myself. So while I am praying for Tyler, Katrina, Ella, and Kayla, my thoughts are also directed to my father. We received a call yesterday morning from the folks at the facility where he is living. He is not doing well mentally. For some reason, he is declining suddenly in his thinking skills. They said he is fine when he is talking with others in the dining room at meal times, but alone in his room he is not so good. He is confused and doing things that seem inexplicable. Previously, he might say something kind of odd, but we could figure out what prompted it and what he was really trying to say, as accurate words are escaping him. For example, when I called him and he told me he was sitting in his room stark naked(!) . . . what he was trying to say was he couldn't find his cap and there was nothing on his head. Now, those explanations are harder to discern. The people at his facility want to move him to their building or wing for dementia residents. After the first heart pain of hearing this, we realized that this was a good idea. He will be more closely looked after and thus he is safer. But even better, we had the option of a roommate for him. That way he will have someone to talk to. He is better when he is not alone. He hates being alone (even though he is expertly skilled in talking to himself). He told me once (actually several times) last year that he had never been alone. He went from his parents' house (10 kids in the family) to a college dorm, to the army barracks and foxholes, to life with my mother and our family. I am sad that he will not be in the room that I thought was so nice . . . but perhaps "nice" surroundings are less important. (is there a lesson in there?) So we agreed, and they are moving him this morning. I spoke with him yesterday evening. It was hard. I didn't mention to him that they were moving him. I was afraid it would worry him all night. I am praying that it is good for him, and he doesn't get too stressed. All his life he has been strong and in control, very independent. Even now, he wants his car brought to the facility. In his car, he felt like his old self somewhat. He wasn't having to lean on his cane and move at a snail's pace. He didn't have the excruciating arthritis pain in his hip. Of course, driving is now out of the question. But he's not entirely unaware. Let me share how he closed our conversation last night in a stream of words, "I'm on the verge of death and I know that. We'll get through this. God is with me. We need prayer. We're gonna be all right. I want things to be right for you. I love you so much. I was so tickled that you came in and showed you care for me. Remember I love you and I'll be talking to you later--in Christ's name, in Jesus' name, I'll talk to you later." Dad is very conscious that whenever we hang up, there is no assurance that we will talk again, at least on this earth. I, too, am conscious of that. That is why I wrote down what he said and why I write it here. I want to preserve the memory. Also, writing it down somehow makes it more real. It sounds strange, but I think I'm still not fully grasping that my father, that physically fit tower of strength my whole life cannot conquer this. He is going to leave. I have a memory from when I was about 7 years old. I was walking home from a friend's house, and I cut through the school grounds. Up ahead, I spied my father's car, a 1955 green and white Buick, the motor just starting. I began to run, calling out to him, wanting to catch a ride the rest of the way home. But Dad didn't see me or hear me, and he drove away. It was just an ordinary occurence. But I remember that hurt feeling of abandonment over 50 years (half a century!) later. It is not unlike what is coming, I think. How contrasting are my two centers of thought this morning. My son and his family are embarking on their lives in China, and my father is concluding his life of almost 86 years. But you know what . . . I have that wrong. Dad is not concluding. He is getting ready to begin. This world is not our home. This is not all there is. This is just the introduction. His life, his eternal life, is preparing to begin. The curtain will be going up, not down. There will be my focus. He is about to experience something far greater than the thrill of victory in a mere basketball game. He will conquer this present challenge through Christ's victory over death. There will be my focus. He will stand next to my mother and his parents praising the Lamb whose blood purchased him for God. Yes, there will be my focus. ". . . in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord." --Romans 8:37-39 |
