‘I just want to go home.”

“I just want to go home! Why can’t I go home to glory?” A conversation was had between my youngest brother and the doctors. “We think it is time to put Sid onto palliative care.”

“Why won’t the Lord take me to glory?” “Dad, sssh. Listen.” Eventually he did. “The doctors are going to put you on palliative care. You will be going to glory soon, but it might take a couple of days.”

“Really? Praise the Lord! Amen!” On Tuesday, June 20, 2023, Dad finally got his wish, slipping away peacefully to the God who he loved so much. He was eighty eight years old.

As my brother repeated that story to me this morning, tears welled up again. Who was this man, that is my Dad?

In the week prior to Dad’s passage home, and in the weeks between that Tuesday, and our Celebration of his Life on Friday, July 14, I discovered what was always in front of me, but I couldn’t see. But then Dad was not a man for fanfares. Ever.

Grief is always an unwelcome visitor, barging in on the normality of our lives, interfering with our routines, and disrupting our emotions. As I have discovered, what you do with this intruder is not cast in stone. There are no right or wrong ways; just what works for you.

It is more a deep sadness and a profound feeling of being lost that refuses to let go of your heart. And just as you are starting to feel a little more normal (whatever that is), the sadness and loss up the ante and you are back where you started. When that happens, the brightest summer day turns into different shades of grey. Your eyes seem unable to refocus on the reality of the beautiful weather or the happy face that presents itself to you in a variety of ways.

And now I am left contemplating the life of this man that I called Dad. What to say and what not to say? Dad had a hard life and there are many sad and painful memories that etched their wounds into the flesh of his life. In the end, good or bad memories disappeared beneath the fog of dementia that increased the grip on his life as each year passed, shrinking his world until there wasn’t much left. It can been seen in any life that endures the steady march of any form of dementia on the brain of the sufferer. As it does, whatever is left is usually the mundane and the routine that now occupies nearly all of the thoughts and emotions of the sufferer. It is incredibly sad to watch. You know there is not much you can do.

And yet Dad, for the most part, dealt with it as he did most things in his life, with humour, courage and humility; from losing his dad and then his mum before he was an adult, to serving as a Reservist in the Medical Corp in the Malaya conflict. The government of the day, and the government of today, refused and still refuse to call it a war, not wanting to give any credibility to their communist enemies. And yet it was a war. The only memory that has stood the test of time is of a soldier, whose face had been blown off, being held by Dad as he died. A memory never to be forgotten.

In the last few weeks, one thing has become clear, that as children growing up we never noticed. Dad was the epitome of a family man. His own niece observed that once Dad had married and then had a family, he was at his most content. He never desired anything else. He worked hard, sometimes too hard, to provide for his family. And that was all. And as I have reflected since he left us, I realised just how true that was. Dad was impossible to buy for, at Christmas and birthday, because he didn’t want anything. He was happy as a husband and a father. He had all he wanted.

There are some stories, funny and heroic – stories of Dad getting on and doing what needed to be done. There are other stories of long and heated theological and faith discussions with friends, often deep into the night and, at times, in the strangest of places, but never so heated as to damage friendships. The grandchildren can talk for ages about those moments that still make them laugh. And I could go on. Maybe for another time.

My theory is that Dad could only die so well, because he was content with his lot in life. And he was content because of his faith. Now Dad could argue a theological point with the best of them, and could preach up a right old storm. I remember one entitled, “But God…” But his greatest lessons could never be taught by arguments or words, but by his life and his passing.

I miss my Dad terribly. The intensity of my sadness and loss has really caught me out. I have no idea how long it will take me to heal up enough to get back to my “normal.” But whatever my normal is, I want it to be strengthened and empowered by a new willingness to be content, not with stuff, but with people – my family and my friends – and with my own friendship with my God, who is LOVE. For that is the only hope I have of being able to die well.