During one trip to see him, he looked up at me in his hospital gown. His blanket was pulled up to his chest and his strong arms looked noticeably thinner. He turned his head toward me.
“Dave, can you get me a Bible?”
I hadn’t talked to Dad about spiritual things ever since the Chevy incident. God and the church in the world used to be key parts of our everyday conversation, but now, even though I was leading a church, both of us felt uncomfortable talking about God or religious stuff.
“Sure, Dad. I’ll get you a couple Bibles. There are some new translations that are much more understandable these days.”
Dad smiled and nodded his head.
I couldn’t believe Dad was asking for a Bible. It was remarkable, given the public shaming, disrespect, and hurt he’d experienced from the church where he’d been a popular volunteer leader. Overly enthusiastic about my dad’s interest in God, I ordered him three translations that were more modern and readable than the King James. On my next visit, I was eager to hear how his Bible reading was doing. I asked, “How has the Bible reading been going? What do you think God is saying to you?”
He paused, then looked at me with a sincere expression of humility. Tears formed in his eyes. He said, “That I’ve been away too long.”
That sounded like God to me. It wasn’t condemning. It was gentle. God was saying He missed being with my father. God wasn’t interested in dredging up Dad’s past failures or mistakes but was just delighted that Dad wanted to be with Him again. Knowing my dad, he had beat himself up multiple times for the mistakes he’d made. He’d blurt out when he made a mistake, “Stupid!” “Idiot.” Harsh words to curse yourself with. If this was what he said about himself audibly, I wondered how he spoke to himself internally.
My view of God was changing alongside my dad’s. I no longer saw God as someone looking to shame you for your wrong choices. I now understood that God was someone who loved cheering you on, loving you, like my mom’s best friend Kim Ahjumma did with Mom. Instead of God only desiring for us to believe in Him, He also wants us to know He believes in us. Instead of the God who is in heaven, ready to unleash punishment for all our wrongs, I was understanding God more like a loving father, ever present with us, whose love is like a waterfall. It never stops. In fact, if there is any one definition of God that is the most encompassing of who He is, it would be unconditional, ever-flowing, unstoppable love. While God’s love was something addressed at our church growing up, fear was what I’d felt the most. It was more about being right than being loving. Judging each other’s actions more than celebrating each other. The more I know of God, the more I see that love supersedes the rules and laws we tend to uphold.
Once again, I was seeing my dad more clearly. He became human. I asked God to give me His eyes for my father. And one day, something happened. I started to see my dad as a child. As Gary, the little boy who didn’t have a father. He did the best he could with the resources and experiences he was given, which in many ways was better than I did. He was broken just like me. But also more beautiful than I gave him credit for.
It was the year 2007, after I returned back to the States from Bangkok. Carolyn called me on the phone. Her voice trembled with fear. You could tell she was crying.
“Dave, your dad is not doing well,” she said softly, her voice trembling. “They think he’s going to pass anytime now. If you can come, you need to come right away.”
“I’ll be right there.”
I flew back to Arizona and drove straight to the Mayo Clinic, not too far from where my dad lived in Phoenix. They lived near this beautiful mountain, and he would look at it every day, taking long drags on a cigarette. When I arrived, late in the afternoon, the Arizona sunset was magnificent. There is nothing like an Arizona sunset. God shows off His artistry with spectacular hues of purple, red, orange, and maroon. He paints the sky.
I went through the large lobby area and took an elevator to the floor where my dad was resting. Being a pastor, I’ve walked into many ICUs and hospital rooms. I usually try not to talk to the nurses as I make my way to a patient’s room. The more confident and focused you are when you walk through the hospital, the more you’re usually left alone. Just act like you belong here, I reminded myself. Finally, I found my dad’s room. He was by himself. Carolyn was at home resting. By this time, her introverted and private self had had more than enough interaction. Doug had seen Dad earlier. I was sure my brother was having a difficult time processing not only the prospect of losing Dad but also Carolyn’s role in persuading Dad to not continue the successful treatments in Houston. He’s strong but, like my father, was probably internalizing most of his pain and emotions. Since I’m his brother, he wouldn’t have to say anything. It’s that mixture of jeong and han where words are not needed to express how you feel. You’re connected by this collective love and pain. You just know.
In this large room with shiny floors, the digital equipment constantly monitoring his vitals, the only sounds were the occasional alarms and his rhythmic breathing. I placed my backpack down on the chair and settled myself next to the window, expecting to be there awhile. I gazed at my father. His once ripped, muscular frame was considerably weakened by all the chemo and medicines infused into his body over the past year.
The nurse walked in.
“Are you his son?”
“Yes. How is he doing?”
She quietly came next to me and whispered, “His organs are starting to fail. Water is filling his lungs. We have him on a morphine drip to ease any pain. It won’t be long. I’ll be outside if you need anything.”
I just stared at Dad as he kept going in and out of consciousness.
He would occasionally reach his hand out, like he was trying to grab something in the air. I wondered if he was trying to touch an angel, or perhaps it was Mom that he was seeing as he was in this place between heaven and earth.
Dad woke up for a moment. Groggy, and with eyes half-shut, he looked at me. He had a serious look:
“Dave, will you make sure to take care of Carolyn?”
He had a sense of urgency in his voice. “Like we told you in the past, we want you to be our advocate and executor of anything we have. But, Dave, will you take care of Carolyn when I’m gone?”
I had an instinctive reaction to say something like, “You’re not going to die.” It’s the positive, optimistic spirit that’s become part of my pastoral response. But Dad knew he was about to pass. While I thought it, I couldn’t bring myself to say anything empty or possibly untrue.
In the flash of a second, I thought how, a few years earlier, this request would have seemed utterly unfathomable. This was the woman who assisted in breaking up our family. She had devastated Mom, who was never the same again. But the anger and bitterness that I’d felt when Carolyn first came into our lives was gone. And the resentment I held about Carolyn’s decision not to continue Dad’s series of treatments in Houston was not there. Dad didn’t have to agree with her; it was ultimately his choice.
He kept looking at me, waiting for my response. It’s one thing to care for someone’s estate, but to care for another person is another level of emotional buy-in. I would have severed my relationship with Carolyn after my dad’s passing if it had been up to me. Dad knew that instinctively. He also knew the Bible well enough to know that the Christian ethic is about forgiveness and grace. He had me.
Seeing his earnestness, I couldn’t say no.
“Of course, Dad,” I told him.
But Dad wasn’t convinced.
“Dave, you’ll make sure she’s taken care of? Promise me.”
“Yes. I promise.”
Hearing my promise, Dad exhaled and just closed his eyes.
You could feel his relief. He felt the responsibility to ask me, not Doug, not Carolyn’s own son. I was the one that had the most trouble with her, and now I was going to be her primary caretaker. Odd. God has an odd sense of humor. But I guess God knew that I needed to be free of any weight from the past. This promise of acting on my dad’s behalf in Carolyn’s life was a way of reversing the curse they must have felt from us kids. I knew to find healing, I had to extend grace to the one who had wounded me. Forgiveness was more about my freedom from the past.
As evening came, Dad kept grasping for imaginary things in the air. I wondered if he was starting to see heavenly objects or people.
Just sitting there, looking at him in the cold confines of a sterile hospital room, my mind wandered. This is how life ends. In a cold barren hospital room, tied to machines monitoring your slow demise. People surround you, just sadly staring at you. Not everyone was here to say farewell. For my dad, it was just me. I felt sorry for him that I was the only one in the room. You’d expect a room to be filled with your partner, children, and grandchildren. Perhaps your own siblings and friends. But it was just me.
The sun had gone down and the cold night air started to settle slowly into the desert. Arizona can be hot during the day and cold at night. Memories of our times together flashed through my mind.
I heard him calling me “Nature Boy.” I pictured all the times we cast our fishing lines with sharp barbed hooks near his face when we were learning how to fish, almost taking out one of his eyes. His startled expressions that would make my brother and me roll in laughter. I remembered his contagious guffaws and even his thunderous farts. He knew his farts would 100 percent always get a rise out of my brother and me. He was the champion fartmaster in our house, often showcasing his unique creative body movements to accentuate the vibrato. Then I also thought of my immaturity and how I’d treated him. The memories kept coming.
