There's Mercy in the ill Tide
Oh, the humility it must take to speak of it. Oh, the courage it must take to bear it. (Part I of II)
Another story from the You Saw Me, You Were There series. Consider subscribing! It’s all free!
There's Mercy in the ill Tide
As I begin to write this story - which has been a blank document for several months with the edict at the top that simply says (all in caps) “TELL HOW DAD DIED – THEN TELL THE CHURCH STORY,” (perhaps you can surmise why the document remained blank for a minute) - it is Ash Wednesday.
Well then.
God’s timing really is perfect. Even though most of the time I think He’s late.
But from the ashes we came and unto ashes we shall return. Depending on your mood this can be good or bad news. Regardless, “TELL HOW DAD DIED – THEN TELL THE CHURCH STORY” seems absolutely fitting for the day and perfect for this series called You Saw Me, You Were There.
Now if you’ve been following for a bit and read some of my first writings you’ll already know that I was raised by my grandmother, whom I called Mom. I thought she was my mom until I was 9 and then we all kept pretending (and not, because she was Mom) for a long while. The reason I remind you is that this story is about my Dad who was the only dad I ever had.
He was Dad. End of story.
Because there was no one else there, even in periphery, that could assume that space. So the niggling fact that he was biologically my grandfather does not come into play with the same fervor that Mom/grandmother comes into play.
“Why Fleur?” Well, my answer to that is always “Because Annie of course”… (my mother who was my eldest “sister” and who was very much in my life, as a sister would be.)
But my biological father was vapor. Barely an idea in my brain.
Dad made the imprint. He was Dad for life.
So now that you are properly set up (or thoroughly confused) I’ll continue.
Mom and Dad, (do I need to translate Grandmother and Granfa--- you get it), divorced.
From the age of about three or four I was visiting along with my brothers, (yes, they are biologically uncles… this really gets exhausting… but they ARE my brothers), I would visit Dad on holidays and in the summer. By the time I, the baby, reached thirteen or fourteen I was the only one visiting on a regular basis. We lived in Fort Worth and Dad lived in Houston. I would hop a puddle jumper for forty-five minutes and land in the arms of Dad.
Did your Dad ever have a sweet little ritual he did with you? From as early as I can remember, Dad would see me and then, just about five feet away, would land on one knee, open his arms wide and say, “Who’s my girl?!” to which I would reply, “I am!” to which he would proclaim as law, “You are! You betcha!” Then I’d run into his arms.
God saw me there. Just in case you didn’t catch it. For this is what He says to you every moment of every day. (Perhaps he says “Who’s my boy?!”).
As we begin Lent, it occurs to me writing this what a lovely meditation that might be for us; to imagine running into the arms of the Lord after he’s gotten one knee, thrown His arms open wide exclaiming “Who’s my girl?”…. you know the rest… you know what to do.
The summer visit of ’83, (if my memory is at all intact), Dad sat beside me on the couch and suddenly yet simply stated the following - which will be burned into my brain for eternity:
“Baby, I’m not going to be around much longer.”
To which I whined back emphatically, “Dad! Don’t say that!”
“I just want you to know, I’m not going to be around much longer.”
I remember him somber. Sober. (Which is something. For he did love his Bourbon and Coke.)
“DAAaaaaD!”
But he would not be stopped. He was going before me (spiritually and literally).
Years later I would discover that he spoke these words only to me. For whatever reason he knew, the spirit of him knew, that I needed it. Maybe he needed it too. Otherwise, it would all be too hard a blow.
For God is personal. He formed us. Knowing us even before we were formed.
Which brings me to where God saw me the second time. He warned his little one of what was to come. For He knew this dad was the only earthly dad she had. He knew, even if she didn’t, she would learn to rely on her Heavenly Father but that, at this point, that reliance was too far ahead of her. So in His mercy prophesied this ill wind just enough to alert her to the sober fact of mortality.
We all have to grow up sometime.
So after Dad repeated himself rounding it out with a simple “I just want you to know,” it wasn’t, like so many things in my family, spoken of again.
So, two years later, in the summer of ’85, as my Southwest flight landed at Hobby Airport I expectantly exited the plane in anticipation of Daddy landing on his knee, arms splayed out in Jolson fashion ready to hear that sweet music, “Who’s my girl?!” just paces from the jetway (for this was another land in time when our loved ones could meet us at the gate.)
But Dad was not there. Annie and my big brother, Preston, were.
And they were standing.
“Dad is in the hospital. He’s had a heart attack.”
Preston said that. There’s always one in the family that says the thing that no one wants to hear but must be said all the same. Preston is one of them which holds this honor. Guess he was carrying the torch from Dad.
From this moment life would never be the same. For I would learn that we are ashes and to ashes we must return.
We went straight to the hospital.
Should I tell you what it’s like for a young teen to see their beloved with hoses up his nose, pale as near death, in what seems like a 4 x 6 foot curtained area just big enough to squeeze in only to hear him say, “I’m sorry you have to see me this way, Baby…”?
I made it just beyond the curtain into my step-mother’s arms to hear her reassurance that he’d be okay.
We all lie, even if to ourselves. I have never held that against her.
Dad was moved to a proper room. His “numbers” never amounted to what was necessary for… you know…living.
One week later, on June 25th to be exact, one month and four days before my sixteenth birthday to be exacting, Dad told us, Annie and I, to go to the beach. Annie didn’t want to go but Dad insisted.
We went. Somewhere on Galveston Bay. We came home. Time becomes foggy. There was a message on the answering machine – Dad has taken a turn for the worse.
Somewhere around midnight there’s a stir in the night. Phones ringing. Annie walking to the car. I see her through the window… she mouths to me I’m going to the hospital.
A few sleepless hours go by. Phone rings. My brother-in-law flings my door open.
“Pick up the phone.”
“Baby, Daddy died.” “He did?” She actually tried to tell me not to come to the hospital.
“I’m coming to the hospital.” I couldn’t drive. I had no authority. But I would hitch, fly, or beam if I had to. Annie relented. My brother-in-law took me.
In the elevator, or possibly in the kitchen before we left as I drank a little water around 2am he spoke these words to me:
“You have to be strong. There are other people in pain.”
If I was sitting across from you having coffee telling this story, this would be the point at which I’d just stare at you with a wry look of the one who has been (albeit imperfectly) adulting for a while and allow for you to commiserate silently with me upon the utter IGNORANT STUPIDITY OF THIS ADVICE TO A TEEN UPON THE DEATH OF HER FATHER.
Now. I want you to forgive him. Break your heart open to this lost man who was, in truth, flashing back to his own father dying. He isn’t giving me this advice. He is reminding his own young self: You have to be strong. There are other people in pain. Poor boy.
Oh the pressure we put upon ourselves.
The lobby of this hospital was grey, modern, and cold. Every time the sliding doors opened another family member flew in as if to the rescue. Things I see now that I didn’t not then. My step-brothers and sisters were rescuing their now widowed mother. The eldest boy flew in, suit pants and tie at two in the morning into his mother’s arms. She exclaimed his name and mumbled something about how she didn’t know or see or say something.
My stepsister sat beside me. She put her arm on my back. I couldn’t move or return her kindness. I always remember that. I wish I’d hugged her.
How strange it is to stand within a seeming void.
A man in black, a chaplain, stands beside me and asks me, “Would you like to see the body.”
“IT’S NOT A BODY, IT’S MY DAD!!!”
Then I cut him.
No I didn’t. (That’s when God saw that Chaplain.) I cried and just said “No.” – but perhaps with the tone of Lady Grantham exclaiming something like “Oh, the effrontery!”
To be continued…