Today marks the five year anniversary of my father’s death. In my sermon this past Sunday, I made some comments about that.
His health had been declining for several years, following the onset of congestive heart failure. Having received a phone call the night before that the end was near, I flew down to Nashville the next day—which was the day he passed away. My brother-in-law met me at the airport, and he took me directly to the hospital. My sister (his wife) and my mother were in the waiting room outside the Intensive Care Unit. Some people from my mom’s church (including the pastor) were there with her.
I guess my dad willed himself to stay conscious until I arrived. We said our final goodbyes, and he fell asleep. My sister, who had come with me to his bedside, went back to the waiting room to be with my mom. Dad’s breathing grew slower, until it finally stopped. It was 5pm, and the sun, setting in the west, was now shining through the window.
My dad was never what you would call a talkative man. I don’t recall any really long conversations between us. I’m not certain about this, but I imagine he never was quite sure what to make of me as a son! I suppose I wasn’t the easiest person to figure out! It was only when both of us welcomed Christ into our lives that our relationship truly came alive.
After the service, one of the wise old men in our congregation told me that I should have said, “It’s the five year anniversary of his rebirth!” I agree.