28 In His Everlasting Love

Day 28 - February 16

The night before, Harold Martin revealed he’d traveled with no overcoat, not having one suitable to wear over suits. Temperatures between ten and eighteen degrees Fahrenheit were predicted for the gravesite ceremony after the funeral. Harold suggested his youngest son take a look at his grandfather’s overcoat. With the rest of us sincerely doubting this solution, Harold M. slipped his arms into father’s dark overcoat, only to discover it fit perfectly.

Randy brings the Christian flag from his church in Canandaigua to drape on the casket for the service. Representatives from the church of Poland arrive to pay tribute in a special viewing before the proceedings begin.

For a very long time, I have experienced family as our small group which maxes out at five, plus father. This afternoon I feel family in long rows all around us.

Friends throughout the auditorium travel to Toronto with father as they view the musical slideshow overhead. They plant his garden and attend his birthday parties. They peek in on our thirtieth anniversary vow renewal service, officiated by father. They remember the taste of his strawberry pies and blueberry pancakes. They learn father was a gunner in the air over Italy in World War II as they read his bio. They gather to celebrate his life.

Matt and Harold Martin, then Ron and Walt Gretz, and finally Bobby and Brett, line up to bear father into the ceremony. A flank of honorary pall bearers follow, men who lifted father up in life, and who in return had been lifted up by father.

In an Elim Fellowship newsletter the next week, bullet-points will highlight the service:

--“He was a Gentle Giant.”
--“Uncle Chester was like a quiet river that flowed very deep.”
--“Chet taught us that love always wins.”
--“Everyone felt special around Chet.”
--“He taught me how to give.”
--“His significance came from making others successful.”
--“He loved his Dr. Pepper!”

His ninety-three year old dear friend of many years, Carlton Spencer, sent an email to father in his last week. With dramatic expression, conveying Carlton’s love in every sentence, the pastor brings his letter to life:

Thanks in our Lord, Chester, for your phone call this morning.

I have been debating how best to reach you and was going to call David or Marie to find out, when I received your call. You report that your doctors are giving you, “not many” days before you join Mary Ruth in the presence of our Lord! Please take my loving greetings to her and to Elizabeth! I’m on my way Home--but do not know when He will call.

David and Marie report that you speak occasionally of our times together--our travel by car into the night and our escapades in the plane. You have flown with much better pilots than I, while in the military and of course in commercial aviation. I attempted to be a pilot while you prayed! And the Lord preserved us through all our journeys. Praise Him! And, I remember you taking my VW on a Western trip on Elim’s behalf--and got converted to VW’s. If we were together we could do a lot of reminiscing. Right? I am sorry that I am so far away at this point in your life.

I also recall your conviction and call from above, when you first joined us at Elim --my first year as president-- and yours as Dean. Together we faced the challenges in those ensuing years. You stood by me. We stood together, as we watched the Lord intervene for us time after time, including the transition of Elim from Hornell to Lima. You were a true brother throughout those years. Thank God, Chet, for those grand recollections and your loyalty all the way! You have been a stalwart in integrity, Christ-likeness and brotherly love at all times!

And our unity did not end there--it continued while you served in the pastorates and in your years in Eastern Europe. I’ve not forgotten your trip from Germany to a distant airport, to bring my passport, which I had left on a shelf at your home. Through the years our lives have been intertwined--and I am grateful to God for you and for your loving faithfulness which proved itself in the occasions when in a loving spirit you corrected when I failed. A real brother! Thanks, again!

Our times together have been few in these more recent years, but I am glad that you lived so close to David and Marie, where in my stead they could serve you, and you serve them! Thank God you have been knit with me and my family through the years. All of mine love you, as do all whom you served, at and through Elim and elsewhere…

How can I say Farewell ?

I wish I could be with you now--and share in your farewell service, but age is telling on me also. Your 84th birthday is in May, and my 94th follows in July. Together we have seen God’s good hand over and over again--in fact continuously for nearly sixty years. God has been good to us and our families. So glad you have yours with you now. Please, greet each of them for me.

Au revoir, my beloved brother -- “Till we meet at Jesus feet…”

In His everlasting love,

Carlton

Speakers and eulogies continue, providing insights, humor and inspiration. We break down during the hymn, “Great is Thy Faithfulness,” just before the pall bearers lead father down the aisle. Outside, they replace the Christian flag with the American flag for the ride to the cemetery and the closing gathering at the grave.

Uncharacteristic of an Elim funeral, we end right on time. Not expecting such timeliness, the funeral director has advised the Honor Guard of a later meeting time at the cemetery.

We wait in the row of cars for the young men in uniform to arrive, while the pall bearers stand outside by the hearse. Sun shines brightly over the snow covered fields all around. The crisp cold uses the sun to focus each tree, stone and pine needle with a fine-tuned clarity against the white back-drop. Through the car window I watch Harold Martin and Matt in their suits and overcoats, by father’s side. They don’t even feel the bitter cold as they wait the twenty minutes. Rather, they know duty and love, focus and companionship, with Ron, Walt, Bobby and Brett, as they prepare for father’s last journey.

“On behalf of the President of the United States, we thank you for your father’s service to his country,” the young man kneels as he hands me the meticulously folded flag. Aunt Anne sniffles and tear droplets try to freeze on our faces. Taps play and echo in the snowy woods.

Brett holds my elbow as I navigate back to the car. Then he disappears, back to Virginia Beach again.

Everyone else dines at the church on one of Esther’s specialties.

Near the end of dinner I stop at Nancy and Floyd’s table. Floyd is clearing and cleaning up the area. “See, I’m being like Bobby, helping out. I’ve noticed it seems like everyone has that helpful spirit right now.”

Cousin Floyd works nights as a mechanic on tractor trailer trucks. He explains, “I’m going to miss your Dad. Whenever I was with him and someone else came around, he would introduce me with such enthusiasm. He would say, ‘This is Floyd--you know, he works on those big rigs!’ And he would have this really big smile on his face, like it was the greatest thing. He made me feel so good. I’m really going to miss him.”

Yes, we’re really going to miss him.

27 Connections

(Harold Martin and Matt, Bobby, Jackie/ Cheryl/ Peggy 1969, Melinda, Dad and Matt 1989, Cousins, Dad's apartment)

Day 27 - February 15

We purchased a home, moving from the near north side of Chicago to the suburb of Oak Park in 1987. Matthew was ten years old. For the first time, having our own driveway and garage, we contemplated installing a basketball hoop. Upon father and mother’s return from Europe two years later, during their first visit, father--sixty at the time--was the first one up on the garage roof with Matthew. They worked together to secure the hoop structure--the promise of hours of pleasure for years to come.

Matt’s little brother, Harold Martin, joined his first basketball league at the YMCA that year when he was only five years old. The teams played half court with lowered baskets. Father relived the game he attended, many times over in the years that followed. He beamed with pride and amusement recounting the way little Harold Martin dribbled with one hand while directing his teammates with the other, and when the game points were on the line, stepped back to sink a three pointer!

The two boys, young men now, ready to lead Grandpa's pall bearers, join Melinda on a flight to Rochester. Harold M.'s girlfriend, Leslie, who joined us for Christmas only weeks before, accompanies him. Bobby waits at the airport to drive them directly to the funeral home. A white house at the top of a hill in Lima becomes an intersection for the players in father’s life.

His children, grandchildren, nephews and nieces, his sister and brother in-law, pastors, former parishioners, neighbors and doctors, his confidants, prayer partners, co-workers and friends, form an honoring and loving parade. Friends from around the country and around the world are there in the flower bouquets. Former school friends of Steven’s and mine surprise us with their support--the line-up almost historic East Bloomfield and Holcomb--Saxby, Rayburn, Hamlin and Murphy…our past met our present.

Matt, Melinda and Harold Martin put faces on the many stories father had told his friends about his grandchildren. They are astounded to discover person after person shaking their hands knows all about our Christmas vacation at Bristol Harbour. In the six weeks since the holiday, father has told all his friends every detail about the meaningful week by the lake with his family.

Uncle Frank’s daughter, Gloria and her husband are here. Out of the corner of my eye I watch relationships developing as she spends time with my children. Her brother, Ron, will arrive the next morning to participate as a pall bearer. Uncle Walter’s children--Norma, Walt, Melody and Dale--are here with their families. Walt will join Ron tomorrow, also a pall bearer. Aunt Anne’s daughter, Nancy and husband Floyd represent her brothers and sisters.

Over the last few years these family members have experienced their own losses. They know. Part of that knowing is a need to connect, part of that knowing is an ability to go out of their way to support, and part of it is the realization of this one more complete loss.

I do not spend time at the casket. Father isn’t there. Rather, he is in the room full of animated conversation, his spirit flowing and reveling in the coming together of friends and family.

Into the cold night, our extended family caravans back to father’s apartment. Church members have prepared a buffet feast across the hall for the thirty or so of us. We travel back and forth between the buffet and father’s welcoming rooms--not quite the big Polish funeral parties I remember attending in Dupont as a child, but, our own version of finding a way to reach out to each other again...finding a way to be father's guest one last time.

Families retire, to tuck away in guest rooms and hotels, on strange beds and multiple air mattresses.

I look it all over, read, re-read, and re-read again, thoroughly reviewing this intersection, I almost can't move...

...when "Clear right, Cher," sails into my night.

26 Focus

Day 26 - February 14

Attire is not uppermost in my mind, hasn’t been for months. I found a utilitarian routine to dressing while at father’s. I depended on three work-out sets from Land’s End for everyday. They were comfortable, passable looking, and of course I was always ready for the day when I might actually decide to work out. For trips to doctors and days in the hospital I chose a white blouse and black pants. For dinner guests I simply upgraded the white blouse, keeping one jacket as an option. I discovered a woman can live on a five-outfit rotation.

It’s all about focus. No place exists for pondering fashion choices or beauty enhancements when every movement is focused on caring for another. It happens naturally, like breathing. I did not consciously rise each morning saying, okay now I’ll make sure father can breathe, I’ll make sure he can eat, walk, and sleep. Instead I woke up, walked through the day and automatically focused on his every need without thinking about it--it simply happened.

Commenting one time, my children marveled at my devotion to father every minute of our time together. I was surprised to hear their comments, not having seen my role as a servant, not having felt the least bit of pressure to serve. That's not to say I didn't tire, but it’s all about being in the moment, and doing what needs to be done. Without focus, we often don’t know what it is we need to do. I’m thankful for the learning experience, the opportunity to walk with such purpose and follow instinctively the path laid out in front of me.

With funeral home calling hours one day away however, a new focus creeps into this day. I turn to Harold and declare, “I have nothing to wear!”

It has been a very long time since I shopped in a mall. I don’t know where to start, and frankly don’t want to start. I settle quickly on a matronly suit to get it over with and go home. Then, dissatisfied with the purchase, having had a little taste of the shopping experience, it starts to come back to me. “Harold, I should have gone to Chico’s!”

Calling information on my cell, we discover one Chico’s exists in the Rochester area, in Pittsford. A Starbuck’s camps next door! Armed with an iced venti latte, I walk through the entrance into a familiar shop of possibilities. I’ve been away so long.

“May I help you look for something?”

Accustomed to living in a world of straightforward tasks, I blurt out, “Yes, my father died this week and I need something to wear to the funeral home and also to the funeral the next day.”

Sharon offers her condolences and with quiet confidence assures me she will help find exactly what I need. And she does. After trying on forty, or perhaps more, outfits and combinations of outfits, I cash out of Chico’s relaxed and relieved. Sharon shopped for me, searched the back for special items when necessary, and left me alone to decide. She focused on me and my need to be dressed for father’s funeral.

Chico’s rules.

We dine with Bobby, Ben and Sarah this evening. Elim Fellowship and the church, focused on care, have completely stocked the kitchen of a vacant apartment across from father’s. Early in the week Margie and Dick filled the fridge with salads, cold cuts, fruit, bread, bagels, eggs, water, pop, cheeses and more--filled to the brim. They also stocked the cabinets with cereal, tea, coffee, honey, jelly, paper goods, and pastries--you name it, the kitchen has it--all for our family and our out of town guests. Marie and David brought in a large dining room table and chairs.

In this no-longer empty apartment we welcome another fabulous dinner from volunteers, set a candlelight and lace table the length of the living room, and share stories throughout our meal.

This Valentine’s Day Harold and I do not exchange gifts or cards. We do exchange knowing we loved father, we lost him, and now we are there for each other.

We feel the warmth of father’s community all around us in this candlelit room.

25 "...Act,— act in the living Present ! ... Longfellow

Day 25 - February 13


An avid Jeopardy fan, Marie cheers aggressively every night for the contestant she wants to win. She chooses the one she perceives deserves it the most, whether by a pleasing demeanor, quiet disposition, or humble appearance. Often, once locked in, that contestant can do no wrong and the other two can do no right. Or sometimes two contestants pass for winners in her eyes, and the third is vilified. All done in good fun, the half hour in her living room is far more entertaining than the half hour on TV!

She imbues her every activity with the same enthusiasm. Her weekly house cleaning is the most thorough I have ever witnessed. The local church office where she works also benefits from her ability to jump into projects feet first and take off running. Among her many other tasks, she organizes volunteers to supply complete dinners for families of deceased loved ones, every night until the funeral. This not only includes immediate family members, but also the entire extended family when present. These meals can accommodate as many as 35-40 people, every night of the week preceding a funeral.

Our family is small, but when Harold arrives, back from Chicago this evening, we sit at father’s kitchen table with Steven, Leslie, and Bobby, cared for by the church. It is truly a Thanksgiving meal with all the trimmings, topped off with a homemade cheesecake. For an hour, conversation flows, punctuated by declamations of, “This stuffing is really good…nice salad…even the cranberry sauce…love those mashed potatoes…haven’t enjoyed sweet potatoes like these in awhile…an amazing cheesecake.”

What a relief to laugh and enjoy! What a privilege to be entertained in father’s kitchen once more!

Earlier in the afternoon I glanced down at my hand to see the reassuring rings lined up on my fingers--mother’s, mine and father’s--when I noticed in alarm, mother’s was no longer there. In a silly gesture, I covered each of the rest of my fingers with her old costume jewelry rings. I sit at dinner with ten rings on, sparkling gaudy fake diamonds and rubies, not wanting Steven to notice I lost mother’s gold ring.

At the end of the night, Harold and I talk with David and Marie before heading to their guest room-- Marie’s crossword on her lap and David’s book of poetry at his side. They cared for father for the last few years. David checked in each day, sometimes making sure medication was taken, often getting a grocery list from father. He opened father’s mailbox every afternoon, delivering the mail to his living room. He drove him to countless appointments.

He and Marie always let father know when they were leaving town, and the first thing they did upon returning was check in with him. Father made cookies and potato pancakes for their grandchildren when they visited. He laughed with pleasure remembering the grandson who was unafraid to raise himself right up to father’s "good" ear and yell into it if he thought father couldn’t hear him. He officiated their daughter’s wedding. They entertwined like family.

Now they care for us.

Preparing for bed, I remove all the costume jewelry and stare at my hand. Two rings.

Content, I think to myself, “This time is about father.”

24 "...act that each tomorrow, find us farther than today." Longfellow

Day 24 - February 12

One day I'm listening to father, and the next, he doesn't exist?

On his glass-topped table, I fill a notebook with plans, reminders, numbers and lists. I make coffee at his counter, savor the last bites of Boston Cream Pie from his fridge, and call for flowers and music arrangements from his land phone. From his cell we call family and friends…Poland, Virginia, Tennessee, and Chicago…Bristol, New Jersey and Herkimer…Florida, Owego, Pennsylvania…California…

I drive his car to appointments. At every intersection I remember his voice. He always watched the traffic to his right for me until there was an opening. Every single time he announced, “Clear right, Cher!” when he thought it was safe to drive on.

His high school graduation ring is with mother’s on a dresser in the hall. I slip hers on my little finger next to my wedding ring, and his on my middle finger. Every time I look down at my hand, I see myself, with mother on one side and father on the other.

I find words to the hymn father wanted sung at his funeral, “Jesus Led Me All The Way.” I look up Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem, “A Psalm of Life,” which father had recited to me one day after lunch. We lingered at his table as usual, while he told stories. That day he started reciting a poem he’d learned in high school. Hearing the words, I knew then, it was his story. He said, “This is my favorite line,” and proceeded with heart-felt gusto, “Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!”

I call Paul Johannsen, Norm Moran, and Ben. They will be there, as father had wanted. They will pay tribute to their teacher, their friend, their co-worker, their brother. I talk with the local pharmacists who helped father through the maze of medications in his life for the last several years. Steven calls all of father’s doctors. He mails the letter to hundreds of names we gathered from father’s saved envelopes. They go out to New Zealand, Japan, Switzerland, Germany, Siberia, Australia, Poland and all over the United States.

The story rings out--like bells tolling, balls rolling, lists checked off, hours ticked by. Nothing feels different, or looks different. Every piece of father’s life is still in order. But no matter how hard we work, we know we can’t keep it together much longer. The funeral is coming in four days.

A few summers ago father was excited about the new ferry in Rochester. It crossed Lake Ontario. Toronto, Canada was its destination. Harold and I were visiting and father wanted to take us on the ferry. We hadn’t planned for a trip to Canada, but Harold travels often in his work, so he was prepared with a passport. I however, did not have one. This did not daunt father. He said we could call the town clerk in Hornell, NY and see about getting a copy of my original birth certificate.

We traveled country roads south, on a beautiful summer day to Hornell. We discovered the hospital where I was born, now a nursing home, we tracked down the clerk’s office, and indeed, procured my birth certificate.

Tickets reserved, we sailed off the next morning for Toronto. The ferry was magnificent, actually! Inside it was designed on the order of a futuristic airline, in grand proportions. We watched the bustling waves of our wake as we ferried out of the Rochester port. We toured all day in Toronto and returning that evening, watched the sunset off the back of the ferry deck.

The trip was exhilarating, an unexpected adventure. Today the ferry no longer exists, whether due to financial or political reasons, I do not know. But I do know there will be no wakes cut by that giant sea vessel leaving the Rochester port again.

Also, I do know, as I approach an intersection I will never again hear his words, “Clear right, Cher.”

I am so very grateful for father’s undaunted spirit and watchful eye. And though he is gone, the same spirit will move us forward each day this week of planning and checking off lists.

The spirit guides my fingers on the keys of this tale.

23 Open Sky

Day 23 - February 11

Steven and I drive to the next town for our morning meeting with the funeral director. We remember a few things from our experience when mother died. I pack a suit, tie, shirt and accessories in the car along with framed photographs and two large collages.

Yet this is nothing like the time mother died. This time father isn’t here. He isn’t the one making the decisions, he isn’t the one in charge. So who is left? Us? The kids? This is our first taste of life with no umbrella. The only thing between us and heaven is open sky.

We proceed cautiously. If one doesn’t feel strongly about an issue, a quick pass is made to the other. Sometimes, one does feel strongly and the other generously gives in. A few times, we both feel strongly and have different opinions. How carefully we tred, not wanting to offend, not wanting to cross the invisible line that would divide us. Through disagreements, we keep our bond of two.

We decide on timing and schedules, write a bio, purchase flowers, call friends and construct a letter. Father kept every card and letter he ever received, lined up in boxes, each card and letter returned to its original envelope. We create a mailing list for our letter by sorting through hundreds of his envelopes, back through the years, choosing to stop at 2003.

I remember the week before mother’s funeral as one long feud for us. Steven and I didn’t agree on anything about the arrangements. Though we wouldn’t have said it at the time, we acted like children. Now we put on our best adult faces.

Over early breakfast in the Lima Family Diner, we discuss the funeral with father’s pastor, Jerry. As a pastor himself, Steven has probably officiated more than two hundred funerals. This time he is the “family” he always tried diligently to provide for in those many services. I hope father's service will inspire my children. They know and love their grandpa, but I want them to hear his story in a new and complete way. Needs, hopes, and desires tumble onto Jerry’s notepad.

As Steven and I work on the mailing list, we receive a call. Aunt Anne and Uncle Bob have arrived from St. Louis. They traveled as soon as their arrangements were made, hoping to see him. We welcome them at father’s, offering tea and a look at father’s hospital bed and view from his last day.

Anne, the last survivor of father’s brothers and sisters, is two years older than father. She looks like father, smiles like father, and shares his loving spirit. We learn from Uncle Bob she wanders in the night eating and praying like father and she finds it very difficult to admit her dietary cheating, exactly like father.

We feel like “the kids” again for a few minutes.

She tells us, “I thought I would be the next one to go. I miss him already. I prayed for him all the time. Oh, I prayed for him…I really wanted to see my little brother, but I didn’t make it in time.”

Aren’t we all, still the kids?

22 Purpose Fulfilled

Day 22 - February 10

Sunday... a day of rest.

The morning before, I called Brett in Virginia Beach to tell him of father’s condition. Father and Brett were close friends, father having assisted him in his pursuit of an Army chaplaincy career. He responded, “I’m getting in my car and driving up there to help. When I get there you tell me whatever you need me to do and I’ll do it.” The twelve hour drive turned into fifteen. Brett endured a “Planes, Trains and Automobiles”-type experience when his car broke down, he made his way to an airport, rented a car, and then drove the final hours in a snow blizzard, arriving around 1:00 a.m. We put him on duty for the night with Harold. Indeed, the two strong men worked together carrying and caring for father through his wakeful night.

Bobby drove Melinda to the airport at 4:30 a.m. Father met Bobby several years back when he could no longer drive long distances. Father served as a guest speaker on Sundays throughout New York, Pennsylvania and New Jersey, and Bobby volunteered to drive him whenever possible. Father told me, “Cher, Bobby is a good driver. I can relax with him. He's a great help to me.” When I finally met him, I realized Bobby is all that and so much more. He anticipates how he can be most helpful, we always laugh out loud and feel so much better in his presence, and somehow he is always there when needed most.

I walk down the hall from my night’s rest and into the sun-drenched apartment. Brett has filled the kitchen table and the fridge with breakfast and lunch goodies and is sitting at father’s bedside. The hospital bed faces a window overlooking the glistening snow fields. Brett comments how amazing and appropriate that the view outside father’s window includes the church in the distance on the left, the Bible School father has served for so many years of his life on the right, and at the top of a hill, flags symbolizing father’s service to the nations.

I convert the leftover potato soup into a Polish breakfast borscht for father, by adding vinegar, chopped pieces of Polish sausage and hard-boiled eggs. He sits up facing the spectacularly sunny view as I help him eat the borscht.

The first part of the day father smiles when friends arrive. He wakes from time to time and seeing Bobby or Brett at his bedside, smiles, and speaks their name. He squeezes Marie’s hand. When a Polish friend calls, father listens and mouths, “I love you,” into the phone. After his borscht he wants to sit on the side of the bed. I hold him there as he slips his arm around my waist.

No more conversations--he has spoken all his words for this life time, and words a-plenty they were! Good words, lasting words, loving words.

Brett, Bobby, Harold and Steven take care of business--meals, greeting visitors, running errands. Father sleeps restlessly. We take turns sitting with him.

I receive a call from Chicago--pipes have burst in the condo above ours and water is rapidly leaking into our unit. Though I think it futile, I try to waken father. “Dad, Harold has to leave for the airport. He is going back to Chicago,” I speak into his ear. He immediately rises up as if he wants to stand to hug Harold.

“What do I do?” Harold asks. I suggest he sit and hold him on the side of the bed as I had earlier. They sit huddled together, Harold overcome with emotion. Then, holding him up, Harold prays a simple prayer for God to please take Chester home, quietly and peacefully. He hugs father, and gently lays him back down.

Steven drives Harold to the airport. I sit at father's side while Bobby and Brett talk with cousins Nancy and Floyd in the living room. Bobby walks back to join me. Bobby’s grandfather, the same age as father, died exactly one month before--to the day. Bobby recently told me the story about his whole family being with his grandfather for so many days and nights in the hospital. When he died though, Bobby was home sleeping, he missed being there with him.

I walk out to the door to say good-bye to the relatives. After they leave, Bobby calls my name. “I don’t know what happened, Cheryl. He took two breathes a little louder than usual. I was waiting for him to take the next breath and… I don’t know what happened.”

I look at father’s still face, not laboring to breathe, “Bobby, he’s passed on. Look, he’s at peace.” I am only happy for father in that moment.

I do not yet realize I will never hear the phone ring again in the early evening and know it is father calling to ask about my day, calling to ask about each of his grandchildren. I do not yet realize I will ache to plant his garden with him in May. I do not yet realize no one on earth will feel my loss the exact same way, and a solitary mourning is coming.

“Bobby, you may have missed being with your Grandfather when he died, but you were there for my father. Thank you.”

Before I know it, father’s friends gather, saying they felt compelled to come over. Bobby calls the hospice nurse. She gives him instructions. Brett hugs me and says he is heading back to Virginia Beach.

He was here when we needed him--I had a good night’s sleep, Harold had help, and the day proceeded smoothly--and now he's gone.

Today I knew angels, and father met God.

21 "I know Lord, I know."

Day 21 - February 9

Jerry, father’s care pastor, promised to arrive at 7:30 this Saturday morning with helpers, to disassemble his king-size bed. They knock on the door, on time with power tools. I walk father down the hall to Marie and David’s to keep him out of the demolition and removal activities. Propped up on their living room recliner, while I scurry back and forth, he asks, “Marie, when is breakfast being served?” She offers to make him anything he desires. They settle on two poached eggs and toast.

The night before, arriving home from dialysis, we discovered a church member left a huge bowl of potato soup for us--with father's Polish background, easily one of his favorite dishes. Realizing he wasn’t strong enough to lift the spoon, I sat next to him on the sofa, helping as he relished the creamy delight.

This morning, with poached eggs, I sit once more offering up each spoonful. I think to myself--how smooth and unspoken this transition! I don’t ask him if he wants help. He doesn’t ask me to help him. We both accept and understand our roles with no hesitation or discussion.

A friend stops by to talk with father at Marie's. Melinda, with the exuberance of youth is studying the three Boston Cream Pie recipes father found, ready to choose one and begin baking. David and Marie field phone calls and cart casseroles to their van in preparation for a winter outing in Mendon Pond’s Park. Harold checks in on the bed operation and I speak on the phone with Steven. Both apartment doors remain open while sections of his bed march by and all of us walk back and forth for one reason or another.

Father looks up, and speaking loudly enough to be heard above it all, insists, “Who’s in charge here?”

We laugh, and though not feeling in charge, I answer, “I guess I am, Dad.” Steven, on the other end of the phone line says he's surprised father has to ask.

The laughter trails off, “Cher, what’s on the schedule today?”

I fill him in, "The hospice nurse at ten, then you can rest," echoing our past early morning exchanges.

She examines father, then fills our plate with a plethora of instructions and narcotics I am very hesitant to administer. He has only one question, “Does this mean I can eat anything I want?”

His diet has been severely restricted for years. “Yes, you can have anything you want. What would you like?”

Quickly he replies, “A bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich."

The nurse recommends we at least try the very smallest dose of medication for father’s discomfort, after which he sleeps the rest of the day. Awaking in early evening, his first words are, “May I have that BLT now?”

Melinda calls out from the kitchen, where not one, but two freshly baked Boston Cream Pies sit on his counter, and she is preparing dinner with special hors d’ourves for all of us, including the neighbors, “I’ll make it for you, Grandpa!”

She walks to the sofa where father sits against the pillows, nodding in and out of consciousness. “Here, Grandpa, I cut it in triangles for you, so it will be easier to take a bite.”

He smiles, but doesn’t waken. We try again, and with pleasure he bites down on one corner of that BLT triangle…then falls asleep again. Melinda surmises he will have a nice surprise in his mouth when he wakes up... and he does.

While he sleeps, we eat our grilled bacon-wrapped dates and aged cheeses sitting in the living room with father. He always loved entertaining guests, preparing special foods and serving them in fine style. We drink our juice in fancy wine glasses from Germany--Bobby, David, Harold, Melinda and I, celebrating father’s presence with every morsel and sip.

His words are few today. Mostly, he sleeps on the couch. In the afternoon we hear him speak from his sleep, as if in conversation, “Yes Lord, I know Lord, I know.” I wonder if God is telling him it's time to come home.

Melinda’s flight to Chicago is scheduled for 6 a.m. tomorrow morning. Before she turns in for the night, we walk to father's bedside.

“Dad, Melinda is leaving to go back to Chicago,” I speak loudly next to his ear. No response.

“Dad, can you wake up for a minute, Melinda wants to say good-bye?” Again, nothing. We stand by his bed for awhile.

Finally, Melinda says, “Grandpa, I love you.”

He opens his eyes, wide, looking up at her. With clarity, conviction and a tender smile on his face, he tells her, “Melinda, I love you too.”

“Bye, Grandpa.”

20 A spirit of understanding met us in that place...

Day 20 - February 8

Randy joins us for the trip to dialysis, his good-bye visit with father. We rest at the foot of the stairs before heading out into the cold. Father says, “It’s hard to imagine this might be one of my last trips to dialysis.”

"What do you mean, Dad?"

"Maybe next Friday will be my last treatment," he answers. We wonder how he can possibly continue making this journey for another week.

The plan is for father to ride with Randy, but I cannot part with such fragile cargo. At the last minute I call out, “Randy, father will ride with us, we’ll see you at dialysis.” Harold, father, Melinda and I fill the silver Marquis with father’s paraphernalia and our family presence.

We make our entrance at the dialysis unit, handling with care, buoying father up past his fellow patients to his chair. We lower him down, and as we extract ourselves, the nurse steps over. From his recliner, father whispers up to her, “Today is my last dialysis.”

No one thinks they heard correctly. Did he really say that? We thought we had another week! His nurse leans in asking him to repeat. “Yes, I’m sure today is my last dialysis.”

This is one grave announcement in a dialysis unit. A spiked awareness courses through all observers, whether doctor, nurse, technician, office staff or patients in the middle of their treatments down all four rows of chairs. The quiet words travel over the next hour to every ear. His nurse summons the practitioner in charge of the unit. Father tells her he would like to speak with Dr. Kaplan.

Though he started father on dialysis one year ago, Dr. Kaplan no longer works in this unit, he hasn’t for many months. Hearing father’s request, Michelle says she will do her best to get Dr. Kaplan there for him. At the time, even I think it's an unreasonable request.

As father talks with Randy, we leave to meet Steven and Leslie at Jay’s Diner. We need to talk about what to do next. The medical staff at the unit are willing to discharge father directly to the hospital, or into our care. I do not want father to go to the hospital which he has grown to dread. However, there are still no openings at a hospice house. Getting nowhere in our discussion, we return to his side.

Randy utters a simple prayer out loud, “God, give guidance, so Cheryl and Steven will understand what to do.”

I call the hospice nurse to tell her father has ended his treatments. She inquires if I want to start hospice care at home the next day. How soon can they deliver a hospital bed? She replies, “Eight o’clock tomorrow morning.” A nurse can arrive by ten, to give us instructions.

Steven and Randy say their good-byes. I start talking to one of father’s friends two chairs down, when I look back and see Dr. Kaplan sitting at his side.

I walk over in disbelief, and listen. Father asks him, "Does it matter if I quit on a Monday, Wednesday or Friday?" He asks if the doctor thinks he's doing the right thing. He thanks him for this extra year of life and all the good things it has held. Dr. Kaplan assures father he is absolutely doing the right thing. Father asks , “Would you mind if I pray with you?”

They hold hands while father thanks God for Dr. Kaplan, for the wonderful gifts God has granted him--the skills, the knowledge and the wisdom-- to carry out this most difficult work in people’s lives. He thanks God for Dr. Kaplan’s family and asks for continued grace in their lives. When he finishes, the doctor says under his breath, “I’ll remember that for the rest of my life.” They both say what a pleasure it has been to know each other, and he is gone.

As I talk on my phone to father’s sister Anne, I observe father praying for one nurse, then another, and another, as they come to say good-bye. At one point his nurse tells him he doesn’t have to stay till the end of his treatment, there really isn’t a need to. But father wants to stay till the end. The unit’s doctor comes to say good-bye and father prays yet again. Each time he prays, it's as if he knows each one intimately, though he couldn’t have.

I notice Mrs. Boyd’s treatment has ended and she's heading father's way. She teased him every week about driving his walker by her chair too fast, saying he should get a speeding ticket. In the past, she also told him about her A.M.E. church and how she sings in the choir, inviting him to join her congregation one Sunday.

She stands by father’s side and reaches for his hand. Quietly and slowly she begins to sing.

I’m gonna lay down my burdens
Down by the riverside,
Down by the riverside,
Down by the riverside.
I’m gonna lay down my burdens
Down by the riverside,
I ain’t gonna stu-dy war no more.

In his weak voice father joins her on the chorus with strong determination in his eyes and the shape of his mouth as they sing…

I ain’t gonna study war no more
I ain’t gonna study war no more
I ain’t gonna stu - dy war no mo-r-re...

I walk around to place one hand on both of theirs and the other around her waist as her tears wash down.

I ain’t gonna study war no more
I ain’t gonna study war no more
I ain’t gonna stu - dy war no more.

Father prays, thanking the Lord for Mrs. Boyd, thanking him for bringing her through many toils and snares, and thanking him for giving her the strength and courage to continue singing God’s praises. They hug and part ways.

Near the end of his treatment, two young women from the office come to talk with father. They make him laugh. He makes them laugh. Melinda and I smile watching him have some silly moments with the young girls.

His nurse cleans off the ports in his chest and wraps them with gauze for the last time as we pack his bag. He doesn’t need to weigh himself at the end of this treatment. There will be no comparison on Monday to see if father drinks too much Dr. Pepper over the weekend. The nutritionist brings a wheel chair.

We wheel into the night.

19 “You know the nearer your destination, the more you’re slip, slidin’ away.”

Day 19 - February 7

“God only knows.
God makes his plan.
The information’s unavailable to the mortal man.
We work our jobs,
collect our pay,
believe we’re glidin’ down the highway,
when in fact we’re slip slidin’ away.”
--Paul Simon

One summer between years in college, father and his sister, Anne, waited on tables in the Pocono Mountains. He tells of getting to know the resort clientele while they vacationed for one or two weeks at a time, as their regular waiter. The servers memorized menus and never worked with a pad and pencil. He once spilled boiled potatoes down the front of an elderly woman--a moment he remembers with a tinge of embarrassment, and pleasure in the drama of the story. Amos, an African-American chef, loved Cuban cigars but was not allowed to enter the local cigar shop. Father regularly bought cigars for Amos, and in turn was met with much favor in the kitchen.

Enlisting in the Army Air Corps right out of high school, father became a gunner and radio operator flying a B25 over Italy in World War II. He told of the whiskey shots handed out to each soldier when they landed after completing a mission. He didn’t drink, but happily gave his to a fellow gunner to calm his nerves. In his later years, father began to tell harrowing stories of young men following orders, depending on each other, exploring military demands at such an early age. He showed me the symbols and engravings on the back of tombstones indicating a veteran’s plot, “Cher, be sure to get that for my stone, and also, a holder for the miniature flag on Memorial Day.”

Father was assigned to an Army base in Yuma, Arizona before he was shipped overseas. Lined up in the 110 degree heat, his sergeant walked down the line pointing, “You, you, you and you, fall out and report for duty.” His 120-pound body struggled in the intense heat, loading trucks hour after hour. He began to sing about God’s promise to carry all our burdens. Father credits those songs with getting him through the day.

This Thursday Dottie arrives to help with morning routines. An independent man, I am concerned he might resist her assistance. I listen from the living room as Dottie works with father in the back. They exchange pleasantries, he asks her questions about her job and her family. She inquires, and he begins to tell her about his days of traveling and living abroad. Relieved, I know he has decided to accept Dottie into his personal space. He is grateful.

Later in the morning we call Dr. Smith for advice. Father remains uncertain about dialysis. Dr. Smith assures him it is okay to end his treatments. Father hears him say the decision is his to make. I hear him say dialysis or not, father does not have long to live.

Friends visit and listen throughout the day and evening. Brian and Ruth bring a jar of father's favorite home-canned hot peppers. At dinner, Harold, Bobby and I watch in awe as father relishes the spicy condiment. Melinda arrives to hug grandpa. Harold and Bobby walk father to the bathroom, hold him up and help with his pajamas. Melinda and I sleep in David and Marie’s guest room next door, leaving Harold to tend to father all night long.

What was the name of the pastry chef in the Pocono’s who treated father to her pie every day?

And the story about one of father’s missions when the squadron was returning and barely had enough fuel to make it back to the base, how did that go?

What was the name of the song he sang in Yuma’s desert heat?

All the stories I heard but do not remember, all the details I never wrote down, are sliding away.

18 Ask for What You Need

Day 18 - February 6

Hospice?

I imagined Hospice as devout women in habits sitting vigil. In reality they are nurses who work within the public health system. They described two options for father. The first was to enter a Hospice Home where his needs are cared for around the clock and family members are welcome any time, even able to stay overnight in guest rooms. The second was to have hospice care for father in his home. In that case, a family member is totally responsible for his care and a hospice nurse visits once or twice a week. I said to myself, “I can’t do that.”

Over dinner I explained to father, the best way I can care for him, is for him to move into a Hospice Home. Nurses will tend to him, freeing me to simply be there with him. He nods in resignation.

However, the hospice homes only accept two patients at a time and every home in Livingston and Monroe county is full. We sign him up on the waiting lists. Father's dialysis is a further complication. Hospice does not start for father until he makes the decision to discontinue his treatments.

In spite of increasing difficulty traveling to and from dialysis, and in spite of the treatments themselves no longer proceeding smoothly, father is not yet ready to say, “No more.”

I call Harold in Chicago to say I need him. He says he'll fly out that night. I haven’t slept in days, at least not more than a few fleeting minutes at a time. I’ve been lucky when father has fallen--so far I’ve been able to help him up. Managing his care and getting him to dialysis has become too much for one person.

I call the Public Health office and state three simple words. The time for wondering what we might need for father, the time for hesitating, the time for procrastination, is over. I say, “I need help.”

An hour later Dottie calls, “I’ll be there tomorrow morning to help your Dad.” Everything is starting to move quickly.

Melinda calls to ask if Thursday will be a good time to fly out to see Grandpa. She plans to fly back to Chicago at 6:00 a.m. Sunday morning. This gives her a few days with her grandfather. I tell her, " Yes, yes, yes!"

A year ago as I called father’s friends about possibly becoming drivers on his dialysis schedule, one of them asked if she could pray for me at the end of the call. I was sitting in father’s kitchen at the square glass table, surrounded by his collection of crystal from Germany and Poland, across from the counter and stove where he baked so many hundreds of pies and cookies. Mother had filled the kitchen walls with all manner of European knick knacks, and the tops of the cabinets, with their chrome appliances from the fifties.

Father never wanted me to throw anything away. One summer a friend had given him a gift in a country basket, perfect for strawberry picking. I had positioned it atop the cabinets between the chrome coffee pot and the whistling teakettle.

As father’s friend prayed for me over the phone, my eyes and my mind wandered, landing on the strawberry basket. I didn’t hear her actual words, but the longer she prayed, the warmer I felt and the more focused the basket became in my mind. I thought of father’s love of berry picking, his childhood collecting and selling the berries with his siblings. I thought of the voluptuous strawberry cream pies he created for his guests. Everything else dropped away except the hushed tone of her voice and this warm feeling in father’s kitchen. As she finished the prayer, I knew this was where father would be, till the end. I told myself it was ludicrous to think I could know this, but I knew, a year ago.

This Wednesday night after dialysis, father and I drive into his parking lot over the lumpy mounds of ice, up to the curb where his neighbors wait to carry him in. David and Gary lift him over the ice, up the stairs, and set him down on his soft blue sofa. They stay long enough for prayer, then father and I wait for Harold to arrive.

Help is coming, pieces of the puzzle falling into place.

17 Who is Your Role Model?

Day 17 - February 5

Father’s childhood home sat on a corner in Dupont, Pennslyvania, surrounded by a white picket fence. Out back on the other side of grandmother’s garden, his older brother, Peter, operated a car repair shop. Day after day Peter cared for the vehicles of the community. Father was drawn to the space. Quite a bit younger, he wasn't ready to perform the repairs, but any little job Peter had for him made his day. He watched, listened and participated when possible, appreciating Peter’s ease with the customers, and understanding their respect for his brother.

Word is spreading through father’s community, the phone does not stop ringing, his friends want to say good-bye.

I organize a schedule with at least an hour between visitors. He greets them in his living room using energy and stamina gleaned from each exchange. For me, not one telling becomes any easier than the one before. I sit on father’s blue couch looking into the eyes of his friends who have loved him, some since before I was born. I attempt to distract myself when they lean in for a final hug, but I see the red faces, I hear the tears as they walk out the door and down his hall for the last time.

Sometimes he sings, usually a song about heaven. He asks about their lives, their work and their families. He starts his story in Dr. Smith’s office. A few sentences into it, he turns to me, “Cher, you take it from here please.” I finish the story each time, the whole story, recounting his prayer for a sign from the Lord, his limited time, his pending decision regarding when to stop dialysis--the details he wants to share.

He leans forward, eyes twinkling, pointing his index finger in a gentle shaking motion. “There is not one more thing I need to do. I've never felt this way before--there has always been more I wanted to do, places I wanted to go…but now, I’m ready.”

“I have no regrets. I've lived my life to serve God. I can’t wait to get to heaven.”

The soft wagging of that finger seems to say, “Take note, listen, live for the Lord, this will be you some day. You’ll want to know this peace.”

I’m grateful for the role models in father’s life--his divine model, Christ, and his earthly models like his brother Peter.

I am drawn to father’s space. He gives me little jobs. I watch, listen, and participate when possible. I appreciate the ease with which he cares for each person he encounters. I understand their respect for him.

I thank him for teaching me how to grow old with grace, and purpose, and love.

16 There is Great Strength in Surrender

Day 16 - February 4

We hadn’t discussed Dr. Smith’s words since the Wednesday before, at Jay's Diner. After leaving Dr. Smith’s office we treated father to lunch at Jay’s before his dialysis. He ordered broiled fish and looked across the table at us, “Tell me, what did you hear Dr. Smith say?” Steven barely spoke half a sentence in return before father closed his eyes, nodding off.

Dialysis is still on our schedule this Monday. It is not up to Steven or me to decide when his treatments will end. We assure father the decision is his. His neighbor helps walk him down the stairs and into his car. I turn left at the Big 10 theater complex. It could be the routine of any Monday in the last year--the same preparation, route, accessories, nurses and procedure.

Every time, after setting father up at the unit, I exhale a long breathe of relief. For four hours he is in the hands of medical professionals. They care for him, monitor him--they are there for him. I choose to run errands, becoming extremely familiar with nearby Wal-Mart, Lowes, Starbucks, Wegmans, and the mall. I purchase warm shirts for dialysis days and apricot juice for drinks in the night. I hunt down Polish foods, Olive Garden salads and sugar-free cough drops. Errands accomplished, I fall asleep in the leather lounge chair at Borders, a book or magazine falling out of my hand, an iced latte melting, until instinct wakes me in time to collect father at the end of his treatment.

However, today does not feel the same. I drive out of the parking lot searching for some meaning in any errand, but find none. The familiar relief does not take hold. Turning the car around, I re-enter father’s world--his reclined chair where tubes tether him to calculations and promise, where he used to dream about what he wanted for dinner, what he would do the next day, week or year, but today he simply dozes. I drape my coat over a vacant chair, pull up the round stool on wheels, and wait for him to open his eyes.

His first words are, “Cher, tell me again exactly what Dr. Smith said.”

I hold his hand and look into his eyes. Leaning in, I quietly remind him, “Dr. Smith said he can’t be positive, but he thinks you have two to three weeks to live, or maybe even two to three days.” He listens while the nurse adjusts the dialysis machine. I can see the words are fresh to him. Then, instead of nodding off, his face starts to brighten.

Father smiles up at the nurse and points his right index finger like he has something very important to say. “I’m going on a trip,” he tells her.

“Oh, really, where are you going?”

“It’s a far, far better place than you can ever imagine.”

“Well, that sounds like quite a trip. When are you going.”

"Soon, very soon”

He begins to thank the nurse for all she has done for him over the last year, telling her how much he appreciates her and the others. It slowly dawns on her what he means about his trip. “Oh no, no, don’t talk like that,” she implores him. He continues telling her he is looking forward to such a wonderful place.

Her eyes fill up. I ask her, “When you think about it, it’s really a good thing that he has this chance to thank you and say his good-byes, isn't it?”

No latte or magazine, no nap in Borders--I share his four hours in the unit. I witness joy coil up from his deepest core. I feel his transition from a life of dreaming and doing on earth, to a life of dreaming and readying for a new promise.

On the ride home in the dark winter Rt. 390 journey, he raises his head from a nap, “Cher, I want Paul Johannsen….” Then

.nods off.

A few minutes later he opens his eyes, “I want Norm Moran…” Off again.

After another doze, “...and the Malone’s, and of course, Mike and Elsie…”

These friends have been in father’s life for more than fifty years. I ask before he nods off, “Dad, what do you want? What is it you want from Paul and Norm and the others?”

One more time before sleeping the rest of the way home, he whispers, “I want them to be there. I just want them to be there.”

15 Opening Day of the Last Week

Day 15 - February 3

Three of us eat blueberry pancakes and share stories for an hour at father’s table. He eagerly shakes his head in agreement as Ben declares joyfully, “On February 12th I’m going to take your father--a group of us will pile in my car and drive two hours to the pancake place in Shortsville for opening day!”

The tiny Shortsville restaurant is seasonal. They produce all their own maple syrup on the farm. It is always an adventure driving the remote country roads to find the place. I remember it well from our college days when Harold and his housemates descended on the quaint winter spot, devouring plate after plate of the stacks until finally management rescinded the all-you-can-eat offer for their table.

Father’s face lights up whenever visitors come to the door. He looks forward to sharing his life with them and catching up on each one’s family, work, travels, satisfactions and travails. While everyone makes him smile, some cause his energy levels to soar. I soon learned father eats complete meals when enraptured in conversation with these visitors. Lost in animated

discussions and storytelling, he doesn’t even realize he is eating. Ben is one of those friends.

On previous mornings, father’s head drooped at breakfast. His lack of appetite and energy caused him to turn away half a piece of toast or the smallest bowl of cereal. “I just can’t eat,” he’d say, and ask for help walking back to the couch.

This morning the sun shines through custom lace window treatments in his living room and beams over to the kitchen, casting a glow behind father as he insists Ben have more pancakes. After the hour, Ben excuses himself, “I’d better be going or my wife will wonder what happened to me. I dropped Sarah off at church and came over here to visit instead of going in. It’s time to pick her up.”

Father starts to say, “I know what you can tell her, Ben...”

Then he launches into a story about the time he had a serious gall bladder attack in Hungary. He fills us in on the vivid details of the rustic, out-dated medical facilities in the communist bloc countries in the 70's, and the ordeal he faced trying to get out of the country as quickly as possible. This leads to tales of the wonderful friends he was ministering to and how the work in their churches flourished in spite of the communist spies and daily oppression. The account moves on to the Canandaigua, New York hospital where his beloved Dr. Sainsbury cleared his schedule to accommodate father as soon as he could get there.

Despite a time crunch for Ben and the fact that I had heard the stories many times before, we both are caught up in the telling. We listen in sunshine, watching the pleasure on father’s face. We understand the fears, the happiness, the love in each picture he draws.

He goes on to say he was in the Canandaigua hospital waiting for gall bladder surgery the next morning, when he discovered a fellow patient down the hall was a former parishioner from one of the local churches he had pastored. Then, one by one, he visited each room on the hall meeting more friends, and making new ones. In his hospital gown he prayed for each one at their bedsides.

He tells of a phone call coming to the nurses’ station asking if Rev. Gretz was indeed there, because the caller could not get through on his room phone--there was no answer.

Father’s eyes chuckle with his smile as he recounts the nurse answering the caller, “Oh, yes, he’s here. He’s on ministry business!”

The story comes to an end, we all shift positions ready for Ben to be on his way, when I remember, “Dad, didn’t you start out this whole story leading up to something? It seems like there was something else.”

He only hesitates a quick second before playfully saying to Ben, “Yes, you tell your wife you were on ministry business.”

Father didn’t live till February 12th for opening day in Shortsville. But we celebrated love and friendship that Sunday morning at our own all-you-can-eat breakfast.