Passage

It snowed Friday night.  Not a lot, but enough to cancel any commitments we had for Saturday, including a primary leader Christmas party I was in charge of.  We couldn't get the van out of the driveway, so we piled into the Jeep, dropped the kids off at Grandma's and went to the St. Louis Temple.  While there, I put Dad's name on the prayer roll.

On the way home, we stopped at Costco, where I picked up some bulk packages of Christmas bark that I would later redistribute into smaller baggies for the primary leaders.  We picked the kids up from Grandma's, took them home and put them to bed, then went to the 9:30pm show of "The Hobbit: Desolation of Smaug".  We got home after midnight, and I saw there was an email from my mom.

"The end is near" was the topic of the email.  I called Mom and woke her up.  She said Dad had been unresponsive that day, and receiving high doses of morphine.  I told her I'd fly out in the morning.

Sunday morning, I coordinated with Bev, my oldest sister who lives about an hour away.  We bought tickets to fly out at 3:40 that afternoon.  I packed my suitcase, and went to church with Justin and the kids.  Halfway through sacrament meeting, my phone vibrated.  It was Mom.  She left a voice message, and I exited the chapel to hear what it said.  "Dad has passed."  He was gone.

I went to the primary room and sobbed for a bit.  I knew it was coming.  I had hoped to be there when it happened.  Then I felt something remarkable.  My sorrow was immediately and completely replaced with soul-filling peace.  I knew it the instant I felt it.  It was the peace that only the Spirit can bring.    

Exactly six weeks after his cancer diagnosis, Dad was at rest.  It was what he wanted.  It was what he prayed for.  I imagined his spirit hovering over his body, looking down at my mother, bidding farewell to the woman who so dutifully served him 'til the end.  In my mind, I saw him turning to look upward, and journeying toward a distant light, whereupon he would be met by a joyful reunion, and received in the loving embrace of his mother and father, who have been eagerly awaiting his arrival.  I imagined them showing him around the spirit world, initiating him to his new life there, and answering the many questions burning inside him about the mysteries of God and heaven.  I don't really know what Dad would be experiencing at that moment, but he knows.  He is there now, having his faith confirmed, and his doubts absolved.  How could I feel anything but pure joy, as I think of him being freed from every earthly pain and sorrow?  Truly, this was a time to rejoice.

I called Mom back, and shared with her my feelings of peace and comfort.  I think she felt the same.  I told her I would be there that night, to help her prepare for the funeral, and take care of any other loose ends.  Justin drove me to the park 'n ride where I was meeting Bev.  I felt stressed and unsettled on the way there.  If I flew to California that afternoon, how and when would I come home?  How would my family get to the funeral?  Where does my responsibility lie?  With my grieving mother?  Or my relying husband and children?  At the last minute, I decided to stay.  Bev went on to the airport.  I felt relief knowing that Mom was in good hands with Bev, and that I would be able to help get my family to the funeral.

I went back to church.  I sang Christmas songs with the primary children.  I did not feel an ounce of sadness.  I kept waiting for it to hit me.  I kept waiting for the darkness to come.  It never did.  The joy and peace continued.  Friends and loved ones offered their condolences, and I wasn't sure how to respond.  Is it heartless to feel joy at the death of one's father?

Last night, I had a vivid dream.  I was gathered with my family in preparation for the funeral.  I knew Dad was gone, but I looked up and there he was, sitting on the couch with his newspaper.  He looked at me.  I looked at him.  He was there.  He was real.  I was missing him, but he was right there.  No one else could see him.  He smiled at me.  No words were spoken.  Just a comforting feeling of presence.  He is not far away.  In fact, in many ways, he is closer than ever.  

The funeral is set for Saturday.  We start the drive tomorrow afternoon.  I've been asked to speak at the funeral.  I'm not sure what I'll say.  Will my message be to the congregation?  Sharing memories and lessons learned from my father?  Or will I be addressing my father?  Bidding one final farewell to the empty seat on the back pew?  This is a new experience for me.  Thus far, the path looks much different than I would have imagined.  

So many of life's experiences shed new light on gospel truths.  I have no memory of my Heavenly Father, yet I have always felt that He is close by.  I have never doubted God's existence.  He is my Eternal Father.  He looks upon me with perfect and incomprehensible love.  He guides my path, even when my steps seems to be taken in darkness.  I can look behind me, and know that His hand prepared each stepping stone.  In a similar way, I now know and feel the presence of my earthly father, still near, still loving, and still very invested in my life.  When the time comes, he will be there, waiting in the light, when I make that joyful journey back home to the realms of glory.  There I will be greeted by my two loving fathers, each waiting anxiously for my return.