We drove fast. Through Virginia’s picturesque Shenandoah Valley which American artists have captured so brilliantly on canvas. Through the Amish farms in Pennsylvania, passing black horse-drawn carriages whose drivers looked neither to the left nor to the right. Through the mountains and valleys on Route 220 in northern Pennsylvania, careful not to hit deer which could dash instantly in front of our car on those narrow, winding roads. I anxiously checked my watch and willed away the miles.
My father was dying. The trip from our home in North Carolina to my parents’ home in New York State that October 1964 day was tense. My husband, John, and I didn’t converse; he concentrated on his driving; I concentrated on my father. As we crossed the New York state border, I felt that my head was in a vice. I began to pray out loud and to weep: “Father in heaven, please don’t let there be a bouquet of white roses on their front door. Give me a chance to tell Daddy goodbye. Please, Lord.”
Arriving at my parents’ door, I breathed a sigh of relief. No spray of white flowers was visible. I hurried inside to find a note: “We’re all at the hospital. Love, Mother.” We rushed back to the car, sped to the local hospital and found our way to my father’s bedside.
I gasped and put my hands to my face. My father was asleep on the slightly-raised hospital bed with Mother and my sister sitting beside his bed. I stared at his fragile frame. He must have lost over 60 pounds since I last saw him.
Little about his face was recognizable. A dreaded form of cancer, Multiple Myeloma, had ravaged his body, leaving him gray, very thin and emaciated. I stared through my falling tears. Then I saw his hands. Those hands that had so often held mine when we took long walks on summer evenings. His hands, though bony, were the same. Thank God, his hands hadn’t changed.
I sat quietly with Mother and my sister, talking in whispers, careful not to deprive Daddy of his much-needed sleep. I had never faced death before. But here it was in all its fury, threatening to claim the body of the man I most admired in the world: my father.
The next day our pastor came, at Mother’s request, to give final communion to Daddy and his family. Daddy’s lips were parched. He couldn’t swallow at all. The pastor touched the grape juice in the glass with his finger, then lightly applied it to Daddy’s dry lips. Daddy tasted it and whispered hoarsely, “Praise the Lord.” All of us at the bedside were given filled communion cups and broken crackers. We followed the commands of Jesus in remembering His broken body, His shed blood for our sins. Each of us struggled mightily to stop the stream of tears flowing in rivulets down our faces. John quietly excused himself and went into the adjoining bathroom where he bent over the sink and wept as though his heart would break.
The doctor advised us it would be only days before Daddy died, perhaps sooner. Each hour with him was precious. He would rally, ask about World Series scores, then sink back again into his fragile state. The next morning I was sitting alone beside him, holding his hand.
He beckoned me to him with his finger. He whispered in my ear, “Get me a pencil and paper.” I withdrew a note pad and pen from my purse and showed it to him. “Write this for me,” he instructed. I concentrated hard because I felt his last will and testament was about to be delivered and I felt the awesome responsibility of getting it right. Daddy whispered, “Address this to Joe, the Barber on the first floor. Tell him I need a shave and a haircut.” I put my pen down and stared. Daddy smiled and I burst out laughing. Comic relief. God only knows how much I needed that. But I did as Daddy requested and delivered the note.
Late that afternoon, my three sisters, my mother and I were sitting around Daddy’s bed. The door opened slowly and in walked Sam, my dad’s nemesis for 36 years. Our mouths dropped open. Mother greeted Sam in her normally friendly manner.
Sam had served with Daddy on the executive board at church for many years. They seemed to be at cross-purposes on everything. Sam one day called Daddy a liar in a meeting, which hurt Daddy more than offended him. My father was the most honest man the church had ever known. His integrity had never been challenged.
Sam’s treatment of Daddy became legend among church members. The final paralyzing blow in their strained relationship was delivered when Daddy slowly walked the two blocks to his beloved church, as he did every day during his illness with cancer, to pray alone at the altar. Sam had changed the locks on the church doors the night before to deny Daddy entrance. My loving father never made an issue of it. He knew God could answer prayers at home just as easily as He could in a church.
As Sam approached Daddy’s hospital bed, we drew in our collective breaths. What we were about to witness was the greatest lesson in forgiveness we would ever know.
“Brother Sam” whispered my dying father as he broke into a weak smile and extended his hand. “I’m so glad you’ve come. Will you pray for me?”
Sam held Daddy’s hand and prayed a short prayer. Daddy thanked him over and over for coming, and Sam soon said goodbye.
My dear father had forgiven Sam when Sam hadn’t even asked to be forgiven. Not once did Sam say, “I’m sorry I hurt you all these years. I’m sorry I tried over and over to embarrass you in front of other church members. I’m sorry I called you a liar. I’m sorry I locked you out of our church.” But Daddy forgave Sam, anyway.
This had been Daddy’s pattern of conduct all his life. Never once did I ever know him to hold a grudge. Never did I witness a mean spirit in him. Never did I know him to pass judgment on another person. His love was always unconditional and all-embracing. As a layman, he led more people to a saving knowledge of Jesus than many pastors do in a lifetime of ministry.
And now, my dear father, hours before he went to meet Jesus, quietly and unknowingly provided his family with a lesson in forgiveness that left us stunned, that left us weeping, that left us longing for his kind of unconditional, Christ-like love.
That, to me, is my father's greatest legacy.
