I got the text mid-afternoon on a Friday. My in-laws were in town. I was taking a much needed break reading in the backyard by the pool. The text was from my sister. She said she needed to talk to me about Mom and Dad. Needed, not wanted.

I knew it would be something serious. When your parents are in their 80’s and reside in an assisted living facility, you expect that one day there will be a text or call with unwanted but unsurprising news.

The call to my sister was bittersweet. The news? Dad had taken a turn for the worse, and the hospice staff said it would probably be wise for us out-of-town siblings to come sooner rather than later to say our goodbyes.

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Dad began experiencing dementia several years ago, while Mom and Dad still lived on their own in a cute, comfortable twin home. They shared many happy times there in their 70’s, both before and after they each retired from full-time employment. After many contented weeks and months, which added up to numerous years in this home, Dad began to display some unusual and uncharacteristic tendencies: confusion when driving, frequently leaving sticky notes and stacks of mail on flat surfaces throughout their sufficient but small home, and retelling jokes just minutes after telling them initially, even when they weren’t funny the first time around. 🙂

Though Mom and Dad assured us that they preferred staying in their little duplex, living on their own, over time, we children began to have concerns about the continuing wisdom for them to do so. We researched potential retirement homes and assisted living facilities for the day we knew would inevitably come, and hoped for a peaceable and non-confrontational opportunity to propose and coordinate this transition.

That opportunity came suddenly, four years ago, when Dad exhibited what seemed to be signs of a stroke. I have lived over 1200 miles away from my parents and most of my siblings for more than a decade now, and I just happened to be on my way for a visit to them when his symptoms became frighteningly apparent. Sitting in an airport during a brief layover, my phone reverberated with text alerts from siblings, letting me know that Dad was in the hospital, and that the schedule for my visit would be impacted.

It wasn’t a stroke. It was a severely infected gall bladder. Due to the cognitive decline caused by dementia, Dad was mostly unaware of the pain this infection was causing, so it was left unchecked for far too long. Dad began talking incoherently, which can be a sign of a stroke, but instead, his body was starting to shut down due to the spread of the infection. Whatever the cause, Mom and the siblings who live closest got Dad to the hospital in time for them to diagnose the cause and schedule emergency gall bladder surgery.

How timely it was that I was already on my way there.

The surgery to remove Dad’s gall bladder was a success, and the surgeon reported to us that it was the worst looking gall bladder he had ever taken out. He stated that it was fortunate Dad had arrived at the hospital when he did, because, had the condition been left untreated much longer, we would have lost Dad already then.

Knowing that Mom had been quietly and gracefully handling Dad’s decline almost single-handedly for several years, and being aware that his recovery from surgery would involve more emotional and physical support than Mom could realistically provide, the plan to help them transition to a new home took shape quickly and unanimously among us kids. Amazingly, the residential assisted living facility that my sister and I had liked the best had immediate availability, and Dad’s investment in a long-term care policy would provide the needed finances to seal the deal, once Mom was in agreement.

While my oldest brother and only sister accompanied Mom to tour the pleasant and welcoming location, I stayed behind to keep company with Dad. He was more lucid than he had been in some time. We had a really special time to talk and reminisce, to briefly explore fears, and to reconnect as father and daughter. I won’t forget that opportunity. It was a gift.

The rest is history. Following a period of time in a rehab center, Dad was transported to meet Mom at their new residence. They moved into a lovely one-bedroom apartment on the third floor, overlooking a small lake with a gazebo and a windmill. Both of them experienced a great many physical ailments during their time there and were appreciative of the generous and kind care provided by the staff. They were well-loved by personnel and residents alike. Dad’s dementia increased incrementally at times, and more intensely at others. Mom also started forgetting things more easily and dealt with anxiety and mild depression. We were grateful for their caregivers and the emphasis placed on safety and well-being, especially throughout the heart of the pandemic.

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Just the week before the text from my sister, Dad had entered hospice care. At that time, we had no expectation that it would be a brief period of care. We chose the hospice route at the recommendation of the facility director, who referred us that direction so that the focus could change to making Dad comfortable rather than continuing somewhat regular emergency room visits and diagnosing and treating increasing physical ailments.

Following the phone call with my sister, I updated my husband and in-laws on the situation and began considering options for an unplanned trip across the miles to make sure I had a chance to see my Dad one more time. We didn’t know if the changes occurring indicated a slow or rapid decline, so it was hard to decide whether to spend whatever money was required and jump on the next possible flight, or to wait until later the next week when a more reasonable airfare was available. Then it occurred to me that a solo road trip probably made the most sense, because I could go as soon as I wanted to and wouldn’t have to rent a car upon arrival at the airport.

I enjoyed the 21-hour road trip. The back roads and highways of this trip have seen many family road trips by our crew, sometimes all together, just me and the kids at times, and even one trek with just me and each of our grown children individually on separate journeys for different purposes that afforded much deep thought and healing conversation. As I drove, I remembered those past travels.

In my mind’s eye, I reminisced about my childhood, my father, my growing up. I recalled vivid memories of my Mom and Dad meeting my babies for the first time, visiting us in our various homes, and talking on the phone to stay in touch. Thoughts traveled back in time to how my Dad taught me to ride a bike, how to drive a stick-shift car, how to operate a tractor. He handed me breakfast many times as I walked out the door to drive to high school, running late as usual. He attended virtually all of my piano recitals, even when I knew he didn’t really appreciate or understand the complexity of classical music, and even when I told him he didn’t need to come. He would slip me a twenty when I would return to college after a holiday break.

I cried, letting the tears just stream down my face, as I drove across the country.

After the first 12 hours of driving, I enjoyed the hospitality of old friends who agreed to let me stay the night as I made my way back to the midwest. I slept long and hard. I was exhausted and so thankful for a warm bed with extra soft, thick blankets. Morning came too quickly. I turned off my alarm right away but decided that just a few more minutes of attaining consciousness before hopping out of bed would be all right. A half-hour later, I reawakened and hastily prepared for the remaining 600 miles of the drive.

Once on the road, using the hands-free bluetooth option in my car, I called to check in with my sister to see how things were going and let her know that I was back on the road. The sky was gray with clouds and haze. She told me that things continued to worsen with Dad. His morphine dose had been increased, and he was no longer responding to conversation. I was taken off guard. I was more than halfway through with the trip and was driving as fast as I safely could go, but I realized I might not even get there in time to say goodbye to Dad while he was still alive. Silent tears rolled down my cheeks. I had to hang up the call, because it was too hard to talk while tears were falling and my throat constricted.

Making sure I could still see the road, I continued to cry and let emotions roll over me at their whim and fancy. The clouds were dissipating and the haze burning off to display a day full of midwestern pale blue skies and bright sunshine. I remembered how privileged I had been to spend time alone with my Dad in the hospital four years before. I reassured myself that, if I didn’t make it in time, that previous moment was sufficient, but I still soundlessly called out to Dad to ask him to wait for me. I told him I was coming as fast as I could, and would he please just hang on for me.

I arrived in the parking lot of their facility, still not knowing. I clicked, “Done,” in the navigation app at the bottom of the screen on my phone, indicating that I had arrived at my destination. As I did so, I felt a sense of calm, knowing that just as my cross-country journey was finished, so was my Dad’s life’s journey ending. The sun was shining as I walked into the building.

Dad was still breathing when I walked into their apartment. He was laying in his hospital bed in the middle of the living room. Mom and my sister were there. They made room for me to sit beside Dad. I held his hand. I cried some more. I told stories, silly and serious. I sang the words to the third verse of “Away in a Manger” to him. We used to sing that with our children as a bedtime prayer.

Be near me, Lord Jesus, I ask Thee to stay
Close by me forever and love me, I pray
Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care
And take us to heaven to live with Thee there

I listened to his breathing and looked at his pale and tired face, eyes closed and rather set back. His skin seemed cold and hot at the same time. He couldn’t press my hand with his, but I think he could hear me. I told him I thought I was a lot like him: stubborn, determined, passionate. I told him that we would make sure Mom was okay and would always take care of her. About an hour and a half after I arrived, I was trying to remember the first part of the verse that ends with “…and the greatest of these is love.” As I looked to my sister to see if she remembered, she directed my attention back to Dad. His breathing had paused, just like the hospice workers had said it would. The three of us gathered around him. He took a quick gasping breath. Then the breathing paused again.

Another gasp, and then no more. Mama felt his chest for a heartbeat and said she could no longer feel it beating. What an honor to be there for his passing. How thankful I am that he waited. Did he know I was coming? Did he try to hang on for me? It’s hard for me to believe it’s possible, but it seems like maybe he did. That’s what my heart tells me is true.

I got to say goodbye to Dad. He waited.

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After saying goodbye, I found an umbrella. It isn’t a physical umbrella. It’s a metaphorical umbrella, and I didn’t find it until the day of his funeral, five days after his passing.

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Those who knew my father knew he was a pastor who wanted to bring God’s grace to people and help them in any way he could, whether spiritually or tangibly, with a meal, a place to stay, or just a conversation. He wanted to share the good news with whomever he came in contact. Being a child of God was something he wanted everyone to experience.

When I was growing up, I believed that, to be a child of God, one had to ask Jesus into their heart and live the remainder of their lives seeking to behave as directed by God through the studying and application of Biblical scriptures. That’s what Dad believed. That’s what I think my family, immediate and extended, believe to this day.

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Over the last five to ten years, I have experienced the deconstruction of the faith and beliefs of my first half-century of life. I have been uncertain of what I would hang on to, and what I just couldn’t unswervingly believe anymore. It’s been a difficult, but oh so valuable, process. I have embraced many uncertainties and ambiguity and released shaming and hurtful ingrained habits. The little girl in me has found much healing and peace. I have experienced what, to me, feels like true freedom.

We are taught that “the truth will set you free.” In releasing my traditional, Christian way of living and believing, I’m experiencing freedom and personal well-being unlike at any other point in my life. I feel as if I’ve been set free. I’m left, though, unsure what truth it is that has brought about my emancipation.

More than anything, what I feel the most confident of is, I’m certain that I am uncertain about exactly what is true. I am uncertain about even the definition of the word true. Some things are factual, but don’t contain truth. Some things that speak truth are definitely not factual. I have found myself outside of the familiar comfort of the things I was taught and unquestioningly believed for the majority of my life, while at the same time I have experienced a personal transformation that is positively recognized and validated by those who know me best. I have left my seminal faith box, which has felt simultaneously unsettling and liberating.

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The pastor who spoke at Dad’s funeral followed the standard evangelical practice of including an altar call in the homily. He said that anyone who wanted to be a child of God needed to take action to ask for forgiveness and accept God’s grace. I bristled at that comment. I have come to believe that every human being is already a child of God. There are no hoops to jump through. By being born into humanity, one is immediately a child of God.

However, in the ensuing moments, I found my umbrella, my heretical umbrella. Though I believe all people are automatically children of God, I don’t believe all people KNOW that they hold this distinction. They are often saddled with untruths and weighed down by half-truths about who they are and the innate power they possess just by existing as an individual.

I want everyone to experience what it feels like to know you are a child of God, a child of grace, a child of goodness, a wanted and desired child. I want everyone to know how precious and valuable they are.

Many people find hope and healing through the traditional beliefs of Christianity. Though I have left that fold, I realized I do not feel hurt or threatened by it anymore. My heretical umbrella allows me to share the desire that all will come to know that they are children of God, whether they come to that awareness through the religion of my childhood, by way of the beauty of human existence in the universe, or because of any other experience that opens their eyes to their inherent worth and ability to accomplish difficult things.

My Dad wanted people to experience grace. I want people to experience grace. Dad encouraged and empowered people to live out lives of kindness, discipline, and love. I want to encourage and empower people to embrace those same ideals and habits. Dad demonstrated his faith within our family and beyond, even though he was imperfect and fallible, as is every human being.

Living out my faith within my family and life circumstances looks really different than it did for my Dad. What is the same, however, is that Dad believed in the value of people, as do I. He loved living and being a part of this crazy experiment of existence, just like I do. He believed that love and kindness drew people in and that no one was undeserving of that love and kindness. I believe that, too.

As I discover more about my heretical umbrella, I’ll be sure to let you in on it. In the meantime, I’m grateful for being allowed to find it at the culmination of saying goodbye to my Dad. Thanks, Dad, for sharing your life of kindness, discipline, and love with me. Thanks for modeling it to the end by waiting for me.