I am the oldest of four. My parents had three girls in three years and six years later my brother came along. For a lot of years I got to be Daddy’s “son”. Friday night football games were our date nights right up until I was in high school. I got to go to work with him in the summer. I spent lots of hours riding with Daddy in his truck. I grew up believing there wasn’t any thing worth knowing, any thing worth doing that he didn’t know or couldn’t do. He had lost his own mother when he was a small boy and so grew up being passed from relative to relative…whoever could feed an additional mouth during the days of the depression. As a result of that he wanted to build a family unit that was strong – providing for us the sense of security he never had. In the eyes of the world he lived and died without much that makes a man a success. But it was through him that I learned I could do anything I set my mind to. It was because of him that I’ll tackle nearly every home improvement job I think up. I can still hear in my mind “Shoot, if they could do it we are smart enough to figure it out too!” It was also through him that I learned a deep appreciation for the Word of God. Daddy’s work day started at 4:00 a.m. and if you ever got up to go to the one bathroom our house had in the middle of the night you were most likely going to find him sitting in his recliner with his Bible in his lap. He taught me by example to “hide the words in my heart” as it says in Psalms 119:11.
In December 1997 mom and dad were coming to our house for an early Christmas celebration. Because my sister is a 12/25 baby she has always gotten top billing on that day (and rightly so!). So Mom and Dad came on Thursday the 18th and were going to go on to Abilene on Monday the 22nd. The next day was the last day of school for the year and the kids were all excited about the class parties and Secret Santa’s and the school break. That Friday morning I got my kids up and out the door while welcoming into the house the two little babies I was keeping at the time. Rylee was 2 and Nicholas was 1-1/2 and we were going to have our own Christmas party. Nicholas had gotten very attached to “grandpa” the night before so as soon as he got there he was looking for Grandpa. Daddy had waited until the kids were gone to get his shower and so it was after 8 when he came into the kitchen with Nick draped around his legs. They sat down at the kitchen table and began to play with the toy that he had just gotten and I asked Daddy if he was ready for breakfast. “Sure Hon” was his reply”. I turned to get the muffin out of the oven, butter it, pour the coffee and answer the ringing phone all at the same time. Tyler was calling – he had forgotten to take his Secret Santa gift to school. During the conversation I heard the unmistakable thud of a head hitting the floor. Moms of boys are well acquainted with that sound. Nicholas cried out and I turned expecting to scoop him up into my arms. As I bent down to get him out of the corner of my eye I saw daddy slumped in his chair and then watched in slow motion as he slid to the floor.
The next events remain vivid in my mind’s eye…as though they were burned into my consciousness forever and yet the minutes, hours and days leave no real perception as to their actual passing. I remember grabbing the phone and dialing 911. I remember screaming at the operator both to come and to let me go because I knew CPR. I can see my mom sitting on the floor and cradling Daddy’s head in her lap and asking me over and over “Don’t you know what to do?”. I can feel his chest under my hands as I began CPR – a skill I had never intended to use and certainly not on someone I knew. I can still hear the paramedics tell me I had done well and to let them take over. I cannot erase the pictures of his body lifting off the floor as they shocked his heart over and over. The surreal-ness of following the ambulance to the hospital still overwhelms me. I remember every face of every person who had heard the news and come to gather and support me in the family room of that hospital. I remember the pain in Keith’s voice as he prayed for us. I remember going into the room where the shell of the man who had shown me the way to Jesus was laid, gathering my babies to my chest as they cried tears of fear and confusion and hurt. Instead of gathering around a Christmas tree that year, my family and I gathered in the snow around a hole in the ground where they laid that shell to rest. I remember crying harder than I imagined a person could cry until it felt as though my very insides had ceased to exist.
No comments:
Post a Comment