Sunday, January 24, 2010

Harry Fields, Sr. January 10, 1920 – January 11, 2010

When you are face-to-face with mortality, time stops and time races.

In a strange sort of consciousness, I had begun having flashes of memories of my Dad when I was little. There he is working in his shop, making paint. There he is, tilling the garden. There he is, working on the truck. There he is, napping on the porch after supper. There he is, playing games with me. There he is, teaching me how to build things. There he is, teaching me to ride a bike. There he is, picking me up and spinning me around in his arms. There he is, reading the paper with my head on his shoulder. There he is, always having time for me.

Then all too soon, there he was, with labored breathing, saying that he’s so tired, he doesn’t feel good and asking me to help him. Outwardly, I fought to keep the tears inside. Inwardly, I grit my teeth as I questioned God’s purpose.

Watching my father die was the hardest thing I’ve done in my life so far. On Sunday, January 3rd, the hospice nurse and several of our experienced caregivers agreed he was in the “actively dying” phase and we had 12-24 hours. We said our goodbyes and waited. Time moved slowly. Monday passed. Tuesday passed. Wednesday passed. Thursday passed. Friday passed. Saturday passed. Sunday, January 10 was his 90th birthday. At 7:45 Monday morning, Dad died with my head on his shoulder. Time had raced; we wanted more time.

I have no doubt that my Dad is in Heaven and no longer has a gaping through-to-the-bone hole in the side of his head from cancer. I have no doubt that he is reunited with friends and family that went before him. I have no doubt that I will see him again.

God had to watch His Son die a horrible death with holes through His hands and His feet. There was a purpose: It was all for us, so we could have the eternal life that my Dad is now enjoying in the presence of God.

My biggest problem with the whole thing is that if I live as long as most of the women in my family, it may be 45-50 years before I see my Dad again.

I miss you Daddy!