Death, where is your sting?

I couldn't tell you the last conversation my dad and I had before he passed. I'd like to tell you that it was some inspirational speech, or that we sat down and reconciled everything that had ever gone wrong in our relationship, or that he said all the things he knew he was going to miss getting to say to me in my future. Life doesn't always work out the way we'd like. One day he was fine, and the next morning, I woke up to my mom asking me to watch the dogs because the ambulance was coming and Dad was probably dying.

My dad had ALS. Even when you know death is coming, it isn't any easier to accept. I remember sitting on the floor, praying that it wasn't his time yet. There were conversations we hadn't had. He hadn't walked me down the aisle yet. My kids hadn't met him, he hadn't helped me with my house, we hadn't gotten to travel to an ISU bowl game together... I'm not ready, I thought.

It was touch and go, but he rallied for a little while. We were hopeful... but it soon became evident that he wouldn't be coming home. We moved him from the hospital to hospice. By that point, communicating was difficult - it was hard for him to breathe well enough to speak, most of the time. He had a couple of really good days, in hospice. So many friends and family came to visit him. He knew a lot of people, and was loved by many. He really lit up, getting to see so many of these people he'd built relationships with throughout his life.

I couldn't take that joy away from him. My friends brought puzzles - we worked on them together outside his room as he socialized. At the end of that second good day, he was worn out. We'd talk the next day, I thought. Besides, what do you say to someone who's dying? How do you even start that conversation?

If I had to guess, our last talk was probably pretty simple that evening. "Jess!" he would've gasped excitedly. I would've said something about how nice it was, that so many people came to see him. He would've talked lovingly about his friends, some of whom he hadn't seen in years. I would've told him I'd see him tomorrow. We would've exchanged 'I love you's. And I would've left, wondering when we were going to have our real conversation - the one I was certain we would have before his time here was done. Tomorrow. I was sure of it.

That tomorrow never came. He was never really conscious again, after that day. The few moments he was, he couldn't speak - because he couldn't talk with his breathing machine on, but couldn't breathe enough to form words without it. The hospice nurses made him comfortable. He wasn't in pain, but he seemed to be straddling both worlds: his body tethering him to this one, but his spirit longing for the next.

I remember being kind of mad. Mad at him, for not giving me that conversation. Mad at myself, for not initiating it. But looking at him, I knew I couldn't keep him here for a chance at a conversation that would never happen. I gave him permission to go... but his body was holding him hostage here. His breathing machine, to be more specific.

Sometimes, letting go is the most merciful thing you can do for someone. I don't know if he was cognizant, when I said my last goodbye to him and finally said some of the things I had imagined that we'd talk about together. By then, his eyes were unseeing - just fixated ahead. He couldn't squeeze my hand. He was breathing, but there was no longer signs of life in him. The hospice nurses will tell you that your loved one is aware in times like this, but I can't be sure. I trust that he heard, and he knew.

He was given a lot of painkillers, and we took him off the breathing machine. Our pastor sang Amazing Grace. And my dad was released, and he slipped out of this world.

I'm not here to tell you any of it was easy. Not in the slightest. And it's still not easy. But through all of it... I wasn't afraid. I didn't have to fear for my dad's spirit. I knew he was a Christian. Death was not the end for him. In fact, in a lot of ways, death was a relief for my dad, and for us. He didn't have to suffer anymore. He wasn't stuck in a failing body. He was free. I miss him, but I know I'll see him again someday. When we're reunited, there will be endless opportunities for conversations, and there won't be disappointment or sorrow. Our relationship will be redeemed like it never was here on earth.

So, as I sit here, the coronavirus filling up my news feed, panic spreading like wildfire... I am here to remind you that this is not the end. As children of God, fear has no power over us. Not fear of disease, not fear of sickness, not fear of death.

"The Lord is my light and my salvation - so why should I be afraid? The Lord is my fortress, protecting me from danger, so why should I tremble?" Psalm 27:1

Fear is of the devil.

"For God has not given us a spirit of fear and timidity, but of power, love, and self-discipline." 2 Timothy 1:7 

Don't be reckless. Take precautions as needed. God doesn't tell us to be foolish. But this is a reminder that one of the best parts about being a Christian is not having to fear death. We are free in Christ Jesus. We are temporary residents here. Our days are numbered, and being afraid of some virus or the end won't add a single day to our lives. Use the time you've been given, and go out and live. Have conversations with people. Jesus has already overcome this world. It is finished.

"Do not fear, for I have redeemed you. I have summoned you by name; you are mine." Isaiah 43:1