I can feel myself praying or saying, “Hold on, wait, I’m coming, I’ll be there, Dad.” I’ve had to move up the flight to California three times. I was going to fly out next week, then changed it to Friday and then after a call from home, changed it to today. Please, Lord, hold on what must be, but I want to say one last goodbye.
I’m holding on to what Mom said in her crystal clear way of being faithful and practical all at once. “There’s no reason to worry. Daddy’s dying but he’s in a good place and he’s being well cared for.”
All these cross-country trips, putting shoe leather on all our prayers, taking care of each other, urging each other to hold on.
I can remember coming home to our New York apartment after what was supposed to be an easy surgery and feeling awful, wondering how I was going to make it. I called Mom and Dad. Mom had already been here to help out. This time Dad was on the phone. “I’ll take the red-eye,” he said. “I’ll fly right out.”
And when I woke up in the morning, there was Dad in his red sweater vest, getting out of a taxi at the curbside, coming home to me. Being there in a crisis because that’s what families do.
Dad, I’m coming back to you, back to the place where you’ve lived all your 86 years, beneath the mountains, the citrus trees and roses and camellias in your backyard. You’ve always known that you were loved. Your last words to me when I visited less than a month ago were: “Tell your wife that I am loved.”
“Love you, Dad. I’m coming.” May there be no delays in the flight, may the headwinds be light, may the traffic be smooth. I’ll be there.
