Cruising with Dad

I went on a cruise with my parents, my sister, my baby nephew and an un-named brown and tan dachshund last night. It was my Dad’s idea. But he wasn’t willing to pay for more than two rooms on the ship. So he told the captain that he and Mum were staying in a resort with the baby and the dog. After the crew escorted them off the ship, they snuck back on board to join Kirsten and me. Dad and Mum used “my” room while I shared a room with Kirsten, the baby and the dog.

I know - not my idea of fun either.

I couldn’t imagine how we were going to keep the newborn quiet or walk the dog without anyone noticing. But one does not usually contradict Dad. While the rest of us worried and fretted about the mechanics of this arrangement, Dad explored the ship, delighted in the buffet lines, talked to everyone he met and generally had a good time.

I woke laughing. How like my Dad to try and save money, and to disappear for hours, enjoying himself thoroughly. Not that he usually did anything illegal like stowing away on a cruise ship. But he did take us on trips to Europe, where we had to survive on breakfast and an ice cream a day. Or trips in the USA, where all 6 of us stuffed into one hotel room – lined up on the floor like soldiers in barracks. And he regularly dropped Mum, girls and luggage at our gate and then disappeared to explore the airport for the next few hours. Sometimes, he almost missed the flight, and since he had the tickets and our passports, so did we. But he always had stories of all the delights he found.
Ah – the ‘good old’ days.

Dad won’t be taking us on anymore trips.

But it seems that my imagination, at least, will make up new ones to share with him.

Ninety-Six Years Old

Our days may come to seventy years,
or eighty, if our strength endures;
yet the best of them are but trouble and sorrow,
for they quickly pass, and we fly away… (Psalm 90:10)

How true. My Gram is 96 years old today. Her oldest son died last month, following after her husband of sixty some years, and her only daughter. Then she received a call saying that her youngest and only-surviving son had a stroke and a severe seizure; he probably won’t live much longer.

Relent, LORD! How long will it be?
Have compassion on your servants… (Psalm 90:13)

Gram can’t imagine for what purpose God keeps her here while her family flies one by one to heaven. “I am old; what purpose could God have for me anymore?” I weep for her loss.

What words can I write to comfort? To explain? Maybe Hebrews 12:1-2 -
let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.

Don’t lose heart, Gram. Jesus loves you – he died to take away your sins and make you right with God. Because of Jesus, we can live forever with God.

Even were I 96 years old and deprived of husband and children, I might not fully grasp the loss my Gram must feel. But God knows everything about each one of us -

You have searched me, LORD,
and you know me.
You know when I sit and when I rise;
you perceive my thoughts from afar.
You discern my going out and my lying down;
you are familiar with all my ways…

Your eyes saw my unformed body;
all the days ordained for me were written in your book
before one of them came to be… (Psalm 139)

And He has promised us –

"The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.” (Deuteronomy 31:8)

The Last Two Weeks

Two weeks ago, I went on holiday with my family. Looking back, it feels like a dream. How could so much happen in just two weeks?

In the last two weeks:

• I drove 13 hours to Wisconsin with my husband, listening to our children argue in the back seat.



• I had a wonderful Christmas Eve celebration with my husband’s family.
  


• I had a quiet Christmas day with a couple of my sisters and their families.
  


• I talked to my Dad for the last time on the telephone.
  


• I did a last-minute, all night, 15-hour road trip to North Carolina with two of my sisters and their husbands. We told stories of our childhood and hauled out memories of Dad.
  


• I cried in shock at the unrecognizable man groaning in that hospital bed.
  


• I smiled into my Dad’s unfocused eyes, stroked his cheek and sang him hymns while he lay dying.
  


• I watched everyone around me cry.
  


• I called my oldest sister at work to tell her Dad couldn’t hold on like she’d asked.



• I told Gram that her son joined her husband in heaven.
  


• I met my little sister at the airport and held her arm.
  


• I talked quietly with my sisters around Dad’s hospital bed. He looked like he was just about to fall asleep; the only thing missing was the dangerously-tilting coffee cup in his hand.




• I was at an impromptu family reunion. Only Dad was missing.
  


• I felt my nephew roll and kick in my sister’s belly.
  


• I read about 100 emails from friends and family.
  


• I wrote Dad’s biography for his memorial service.



• I sorted through endless albums of old pictures with my sisters late into the night.
  


• I laughed with my cousin and his family.
  


• I cried at two memorial services.
  


• I welcomed the New Year with apple juice drunk from ketchup cups somewhere in Indiana during another 17-hour road trip.
  


• I smiled at countless loving stories told of my Dad.
  


• I shook hands with at least 200 people who knew and loved my Dad.
  


• I followed my Dad’s last year of life in the pictures I downloaded from his camera.
  


• I hugged my 96-year old Gram.
  


• I left my Mum behind in Minnesota.
  


• I dozed beside my husband as he drove all night - 11 hours - home.

Now I am home. I see the rooms, my children - everything is normal. School goes on. Piano lessons, basketball practice, library visit, exercising – it all happens just like before I went on holiday. But if I allow myself to think, I know it isn’t the same.