Day 11 – January 30
“Tread lightly, the day is fragile. Hearing the word is divine,” I think as my fingers press the keys of my laptop.
Steven joins us on this journey, maneuvering Rt. 390 in an ice storm on the trip to Highland Hospital. Dr. Smith has been seeing father for two years in the oncology suite.
Father holds him in high esteem, “He’s quite a guy, Cher. You know this is his third career. First he designed instrument panels for jets, then he served in the Peace Corps, and now he is a well-known oncologist. And, he teaches the adult Sunday school class at his church!”
Father and mother moved to Germany in 1971, where they lived till 1989. Mother directed the music program for the catholic and protestant services in the nearby U.S. Army base chapel. Father served the people and churches of Eastern Europe behind the “Iron Curtain.” With her military I.D. card, they enjoyed the privileges of the army bank, post office, Officer’s Club and of course, the chapel. They became personal friends with the commanding officers and soldiers who came and went over the eighteen years. Because of father's many trips and extended stays in communist countries, some military personnel were convinced father was a spy for the U.S.
He did smuggle across the heavily guarded borders, Bibles, food, clothing, electrical parts for radio stations, kitchen supplies for youth camps, books for a Theological Seminary, and anything else that was needed, yet lacking, in the churches of Poland, Yugoslavia, Hungary and Czechoslovakia during that time. He traveled simply with a tourist visa, for weeks at a time, all year long. He did not write a book about it. No movies were made. He quietly and diligently carried out his decision to dedicate his life to serving God. He had promised grandmother on her deathbed that he would go to Poland and take the good news of Jesus Christ to her sisters’ families. He broadened that scope year after year.
Father networked with churches and chapels throughout Germany and the United States. One of those churches was Dr. Smith’s. Periodically father visited to report on his work and relate the ministry opportunities in communist Eastern Europe to the congregation. Dr. Smith and his family listened with rapt attention. In turn, father appreciated sitting in on Dr. Smith’s Sunday school class.
Now, so many years later, from the first visit in his Highland office, father felt relieved to be in his hands. Dr. Smith carries a note in his white coat pocket with a list of people he prays for daily. It is a long list. On days when father was admitted to the emergency room, Dr. Smith whispered to the attending physicians, “Take very good care of Rev. Gretz, he is a legend.”
In the waiting room father nods off most of the time, weakness overcoming him. Steven finds a jelly donut in the cafeteria and we try to help him eat a few bites. “Cher, I want to ask Dr. Smith if he has a schedule.”
“What do you mean? What kind of schedule?” I ask.
“I want to know if he has a time-table for when I’m going to heaven.”
Called back to his office, father and I take the chairs, Steven stands by the door. When the doctor enters, we greet and he proceeds directly over to father. Bending down with his stethoscope, Dr. Smith breathes softly, “Now I know why the Lord has laid you on my heart these last several days.” He examines him, and then sits across from us.
I tell Dr. Smith father has a question to ask him. He turns to father for the question, but father turns to me. He can't ask, or he can’t stay awake long enough to ask. I try, but also can’t ask for the lump in my throat and sudden inability to breathe and talk at the same time. I turn to Steven.
Leaning against the door, he is able to inquire for father, “Dad wants to know if you have a time-table for when he is going to heaven.”
Dr. Smith looks at father and calmly informs, “I believe you have two to three weeks, or possibly even two to three days.” When father asks him if he thinks he is near the end, his friend answers, “Yes, this is the end.”
It took three of us to ask, but father received the sign he prayed for on "Day 2" of this journey, the word he trusted God to give him before I have to leave. Five hours later I walk to my seat on the commuter plane to Chicago. Everything has changed.
“Tread lightly, the day is fragile. Hearing the word is divine,” I think as my fingers press the keys of my laptop.
Steven joins us on this journey, maneuvering Rt. 390 in an ice storm on the trip to Highland Hospital. Dr. Smith has been seeing father for two years in the oncology suite.
Father holds him in high esteem, “He’s quite a guy, Cher. You know this is his third career. First he designed instrument panels for jets, then he served in the Peace Corps, and now he is a well-known oncologist. And, he teaches the adult Sunday school class at his church!”
Father and mother moved to Germany in 1971, where they lived till 1989. Mother directed the music program for the catholic and protestant services in the nearby U.S. Army base chapel. Father served the people and churches of Eastern Europe behind the “Iron Curtain.” With her military I.D. card, they enjoyed the privileges of the army bank, post office, Officer’s Club and of course, the chapel. They became personal friends with the commanding officers and soldiers who came and went over the eighteen years. Because of father's many trips and extended stays in communist countries, some military personnel were convinced father was a spy for the U.S.
He did smuggle across the heavily guarded borders, Bibles, food, clothing, electrical parts for radio stations, kitchen supplies for youth camps, books for a Theological Seminary, and anything else that was needed, yet lacking, in the churches of Poland, Yugoslavia, Hungary and Czechoslovakia during that time. He traveled simply with a tourist visa, for weeks at a time, all year long. He did not write a book about it. No movies were made. He quietly and diligently carried out his decision to dedicate his life to serving God. He had promised grandmother on her deathbed that he would go to Poland and take the good news of Jesus Christ to her sisters’ families. He broadened that scope year after year.
Father networked with churches and chapels throughout Germany and the United States. One of those churches was Dr. Smith’s. Periodically father visited to report on his work and relate the ministry opportunities in communist Eastern Europe to the congregation. Dr. Smith and his family listened with rapt attention. In turn, father appreciated sitting in on Dr. Smith’s Sunday school class.
Now, so many years later, from the first visit in his Highland office, father felt relieved to be in his hands. Dr. Smith carries a note in his white coat pocket with a list of people he prays for daily. It is a long list. On days when father was admitted to the emergency room, Dr. Smith whispered to the attending physicians, “Take very good care of Rev. Gretz, he is a legend.”
In the waiting room father nods off most of the time, weakness overcoming him. Steven finds a jelly donut in the cafeteria and we try to help him eat a few bites. “Cher, I want to ask Dr. Smith if he has a schedule.”
“What do you mean? What kind of schedule?” I ask.
“I want to know if he has a time-table for when I’m going to heaven.”
Called back to his office, father and I take the chairs, Steven stands by the door. When the doctor enters, we greet and he proceeds directly over to father. Bending down with his stethoscope, Dr. Smith breathes softly, “Now I know why the Lord has laid you on my heart these last several days.” He examines him, and then sits across from us.
I tell Dr. Smith father has a question to ask him. He turns to father for the question, but father turns to me. He can't ask, or he can’t stay awake long enough to ask. I try, but also can’t ask for the lump in my throat and sudden inability to breathe and talk at the same time. I turn to Steven.
Leaning against the door, he is able to inquire for father, “Dad wants to know if you have a time-table for when he is going to heaven.”
Dr. Smith looks at father and calmly informs, “I believe you have two to three weeks, or possibly even two to three days.” When father asks him if he thinks he is near the end, his friend answers, “Yes, this is the end.”
It took three of us to ask, but father received the sign he prayed for on "Day 2" of this journey, the word he trusted God to give him before I have to leave. Five hours later I walk to my seat on the commuter plane to Chicago. Everything has changed.
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