The Week God Held Me

During the week of Sunday, April 24, 2016, my heartbreak was great, but I found God's comfort to be even greater. This week was my daddy's last on earth. Despite the agony of our final seven days, God encouraged me to stay alert. I searched for Him in the moments our culture suggests He is nowhere to be found. With eyes wide open, I witnessed blessing after miraculous blessing.

Before I dive into that part of the story, let me describe my relationship with my dad. He was my first boyfriend in the purest, most innocent way. A tiny version of myself believed he was the strongest, smartest, funniest man God ever made. He was probably one of the most patient and kindest men I have ever known.

Images of his crystal-blue eyes dancing with joy flood my memory. At a little over six feet tall, he used to tower over me. I never will forget the way his arms stretched around my back as he gently squeezed. He often swayed softly back and forth which made our hugs even sweeter. My head pressed into the variety of items in the chest pocket of his shirt. Even his chin participated in our embraces as it found its way to the top of my head. His hugs were the greatest. They are one of the things I miss most.

Nearly thirty years ago, we devised a silly competition. We raced to see who could first say “Don’t let the bed bugs bite.” The nonsensical line started every single one of our Sunday and Wednesday evening phone dates. My dad was one of my best friends. I told him everything. He listened. Gave advice when needed. Laughed a warm, hearty chuckle when appropriate. 

In January of 2016, he was diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis. Although he had quit smoking two years prior, the damage had already been done. The scar tissue in his lungs began developing at an alarming rate which none of us was privy to until it was too late. In the end, Dad’s lungs quit functioning. A machine called a BiPAP supplied his body with the oxygen needed for one last week’s worth of conversations, hugs, and goodbyes.

As it just so happened two years ago now, I spent the night with my dad and step-mom at their house in Baton Rouge, breaking up my drive to the beach for a girls’ trip (my first experience away from my husband and kids at the same time). On the way home, I stopped back by their home for what turned out to be our last normal visit. We spent several hours laughing over events from my long weekend and stories of the kids before I returned to the road for the remaining four-hour trip home to north Louisiana. Around the time I pulled into Stonewall, Arlene stepped out of the shower and into the beginning of our nightmare. Despite being on oxygen therapy, she found my dad gasping for air. His lips blue.

Nearly an hour after I hugged my kids for the first time in four days my phone rang. My step-sister filled me in on the events and his condition. I discovered he was on the highest amount of oxygen possible before he needed to be switched over to the BiPAP. I woke up Monday morning to find his condition had slightly worsened overnight. I made the decision leave my husband and kids once more to return to Baton Rouge to check on my dad myself.   

By Tuesday afternoon, I realized Dad’s condition was slowly moving in the wrong direction, so I advised my brother to come in from Austin. He and my dad didn’t have a bad relationship. It just seemed to be strained from lack of communication over the years. Shortly after my brother arrived at the hospital Wednesday morning, a doctor popped in for his rounds. If you could only see the excitement and pride in my dad’s eyes when he introduced my brother to the doctor! It was such a spectacle that when I realized he wasn’t going to give me the same introduction, my feelings were hurt. I wallowed around in self-pity for nearly a full minute until I realized what was unfolding right before me. All the times my dad questioned whether or not my brother loved him had been answered.  Tears of gratitude replaced the sting of misplaced jealousy.

One of my oldest friends had just returned to her family in Tennessee from our girls’ trip. As God would have it though, her dad just happened to be in Baton Rouge getting his deceased parents’ home ready for sale. At my childhood friend’s request, her dad came to the hospital. When our visit was complete, Mr. Bob prayed with my family before he stood with arms wide open. "Laura asked me to give you a hug," he said. Now. We all know that one person who recoils from the thought of physical contact with anyone other than their partner. This is my friend's dad, plus maybe a little more. Mr. Bob put aside his comfort to hold me in my moment of need. The thought of his selflessness at the request of his daughter still has me in tears as I type this.  

Wednesday evening met us with no improvements, despite the antibiotics and Lasix. The hope and strength that used to stare back at me from dad’s eyes were beginning to fade. With all four of his children (blood related or not) present, dad sat up in his hospital bed and informed us of his final wishes if his life came to an end. My heart broke as I watched the affection for my dad seep from both of my step-sisters’ eyes. This was the second dad God had taken from them. The true love my step-mom had for my dad kept her anchored by his side day and night throughout the week. The bond of their amazing relationship became clearer with each touch and soothing word.    

The doctors confirmed what we already knew on Thursday morning. Dad’s condition was only worsening. Scott made arrangements with my mom (who managed to relocate in February to Shreveport from Little Rock - most definitely our first blessing) and his mom (who was in between chemo treatments and on her second-year battle with AML) to watch our kids so he could make the trip down to be with me. My step-sisters stayed a little later at the hospital that night. During their extended time, dad began hallucinating. He peered out his window into the darkness of the sky. Or so we thought. “Who's having a party over there? I can see people dancing and singing.” Knowing how much dad loved a good party, she giggled as she followed the end of his finger out the window. Shock silenced her laugh the moment her gaze found the steeple of the hospital’s chapel.

I woke up Friday morning expecting a missed call or a text on my phone. When neither notification were there, the realization of having to witness another day of his inevitable journey was too excruciating to bear. Suddenly, I became angry with God. I couldn’t understand why He was making my dad suffer so much. Dad's mind still worked. So did his hearing. He was able to see the profound sadness in our eyes. We watched the fear for the unknown in his eyes as it transformed to exhaustion and acceptance with a hint of excitement. I let the unfairness of the situation take precedence in my mind for the first part of the morning. I called my brother to let him know I wasn’t sure I could handle another day trembling on the floor at the foot of Dad’s bed as I watched him struggle to breathe.  Empathy bathed each of his words as he suggested I take a few hours to gather myself before returning.  

I did as he suggested. Scott and I went to my favorite local café for breakfast. We sat outside bathing in the sunlight of the spring morning. We took our time discussing mundane topics that had nothing to do with events occurring across town. The tenderness in ever fiber of Scott made my love for him grow an innumerable amount during those days.

With his gentle encouragement, we walked hand-in-hand down the same bottom-level corridor that connected the parking garage to the fifth floor. There it was. Prominent in its location next to the bank of elevators sat a replica of Michelangelo’s Pieta. It was as if God put blinders on me the four previous days. He revealed the sculpture to me when I needed to see it most. The image of Mary holding Jesus after his death made my shoulders slump and tears to start afresh. In my moment of weakness, I believed Satan. I believed the lie that my dad, a warrior for Christ, was being punished for his short-comings as a human. The five-hundred-year-old work of art reminded me Christ, son of God, suffered much more than I could ever begin to compare with my dad. Because of Jesus’ sacrifice, and his belief, my dad was about to experience the greatest joy of a lifetime. In an instant, my anger, anxiety, and fear were replaced with peace – although still sad.

My dad’s final hours were spent surrounded by love. Each of us was gifted with the time to talk one-on-one with him so that no words were left unsaid. After seven days of no food and absolute minimal sleep, my childhood image of my daddy being the strongest man was proven correct. He finally allowed his eyes to close one last time. As we waited, one of dad’s cousins made the drive from Mississippi to say goodbye in person. As his body slowly let go of its fight, Tucker prayed a prayer so perfect... I have no words. Tucker said his goodbyes to everyone else and started towards the parking garage when I noticed my dad was no longer breathing.

The literal proof of 1 Corinthians 6:19 was astounding at that moment. “Don’t you realize that your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit, who lives in you and was given to you by God?” My dad, my hero, was gone. Left taking up space in the hospital bed was just the shell in which he (his spirit) lived.

Paul’s account of what the Lord told him when he begged for the thorn to be taken away from his flesh rang true. In 2 Corinthians 12:9, Paul tells us God said, “My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.” Paul goes on to say, “So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me. ¹⁰ That’s why I take pleasure in my weaknesses, and in the insults, hardships, persecutions, and troubles that I suffer for Christ. For when I am weak, then I am strong.”  A sense of urgency to become the person God has called me to be has overwhelmed me in the days and years since I lost my dad. My weakness has drawn me closer to our Creator. I will always be grateful for the lessons my daddy taught me both in his life and in his death.    

Songs and Scripture that captivated my attention during this time:

Thy Will by Hillary Scott and The Scott Family

Just Be Held by Casting Crowns

Luke 1:78-79 “⁷⁸Because of God's tender mercy, the morning light from heaven is about to break upon us, ⁷⁹to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, and to guide us to the path of peace.”

Deuteronomy 31:8 “Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the Lord will personally go ahead of you. He will be with you; he will never fail you nor abandon you.”

2 Corinthians 1:4-5 "⁴He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. ⁵For the more we suffer for Christ, the more God will shower us with his comfort through Christ."