So Dad is reunited with Mom, with his parents, his sister, and others who preceded him.  He is no longer in pain or distress.  That body that he took such good care of yet failed him in the end is no longer a hindrance to him.  He can sing and dance and praise the One who ransomed him from eternal death. 

We talked about that in our last phone conversation on Monday, June 30.  I had called to check on him, and he told me I needed to come right away.  I told him that I was coming on Thursday, with my daughter, Katie, for the 4th of July.  He told me, "No, I won't be here on Thursday.  You need to come now."  I explained that I was waiting for Katie to get off work so we could come together and save gas.  He became a little agitated and said, "I'm dying.  You have to come now!"  Dad has always had a touch of  Fred Sanford in him . . . but he could be right this time . . . and I didn't know what to do.  I told him I would do my best.  I also told him not to be afraid.  And he confessed that he was (a huge admission for him).  I reminded him that he was going to get to see Jesus, and Mom, and his parents, and his sister, Jean, and lots of people he loved.  He said, "Keep talking.  I need your words."  So I talked about what I thought he was going to experience (words were so inadequate).  And he seemed to calm.  I was also able to tell him that my daughter, Sarah, had interviewed for a teaching position at a school where he had taught for 10 years.  He was pleased and said, "Good.  Good."  He wanted me to tell everyone he loved them, and he named all my children.  He told me he loved me and I told him I loved him.  And that was the last time I heard his voice . . . for now.

I decided to come a day earlier, on Wednesday.  But when I was at a meeting with a friend on Tuesday afternoon, I got a phone call from my husband.  The facility where Dad was living had called and wanted me to call right away.  They told me he had collapsed on them when they were moving him from his bed to a wheelchair, and he was unresponsive.  It did not look good, they said.  I told them I was on my way and would be there in 3 hours (the time it took to drive there).  I threw things into a suitcase and headed north.  On the way I tried to reach my younger sister, Angie, who was on vacation with her family.  She didn't have cell service in her cabin so I had to leave a message.  I called my brother.  I called my daughters.  I called my cousin.  When I was 10 miles from the exit to his town, my brother called.  He said the facility had just called him.  Dad had stopped breathing 10 minutes ago at 7:10 p.m.  I pulled into the facility parking lot at 7:40--30 minutes too late.  The nurse took me to his room.  She said he had become responsive again.  He had told them he was going.  They told him it was okay, but that his daughter was coming and would be there by 8 o'clock if he could wait.  He told them he couldn't wait, but to "tell her I love her."  And he left this world.

I am sad for myself . . . but I am happy for him.  I am happy that he was able to go so peacefully.  I know where he is and who stands along side of him.  Like the apostle,  Paul, the time had come for his departure.  He had "fought the good fight, finished the race, and kept the faith."  He has been awarded his crown in exchange for that old rugged cross.  Here is a picture of Dad at age 67 (almost 68), finishing a race in Indianapolis, the Indy Mini Marathon.

Note that he is just stepping his foot across the finish line.  He has finished a grueling 13.1 miles.  Dad ran this race several times.  He would run it two more years after this one.  His last time would be the summer he turned 70 years old.  He brought home a 3rd place medal in the masters division.  Not bad, in the earthly sense.  But that medal can't compare to the crown he received at the end of life's race.  I'm sure he would agree.

We delayed the funeral past the holiday weekend.  We had it on July12, with visitation the day before.  During that week prior to the service, my daughter Katie and I were able to put together a slideshow of almost 200 pictures from Dad's life.  We started with his baby pictures and went through to the pictures I took on Father's Day of this year, the last time I saw him alive.  Katie is very good with technology and she was able to put it together with music.  I scanned several team pictures from each of the locations where he coached/taught.  It was during this time--when I was going through photo albums and scrapbooks (some of which I had never seen before but had found at Dad's house)--that I came to see my father in a different light.  I had always viewed him as my father, my protector, my encourager, my hero--always as he related to me.  Now he emerged as a person, a boy, a man, a husband, a father.  And I hope to write about that on my next post.     

The funeral went well.  I saw many people that I hadn't seen for years as one always does at funerals.  Dad would have loved to have seen them again.  There were former players and former students from nearly every location that he coached.  The pastor did a great job at the service on Saturday.  He had been Dad's pastor for several years and had baptized Dad by immersion a few years ago.  Dad had been sprinkled as the Methodist church does when he was a baby, but never immersed.  At the funeral service, I was able to speak and thus offer a tribute to Dad.  My son, unable to come from China, was able to send a video tribute to him.  We opened a mike for anyone who wanted to offer their thoughts/feelings about Dad.  Several rose and came to speak--some to share a funny memory, others to express what Dad had meant to them.  It was good.  I realize now just how much visitations and funerals are for those left behind.

Left behind.  Those are the words that bring the lump to my throat.  I remember that scene from my childhood where Dad didn't see me and drove away, leaving me behind with emotion undiminished by the passage of half a century.  And this is where I learn to take my focus off myself, to focus on him, to celebrate his life, and to rejoice that he is now overflowing with joy in his eternal home.  No more pain, no more tears, no more fear.  As C. S. Lewis put it, "The term is over; the holidays have begun. The dream is ended; this is the morning."