…since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God. (Hebrews 12:1-2)
F or years, I tried to imagine what it might feel like to lose a parent.
Some moments looked just as I had pictured. My best friend since the seventh grade was by my side on my parents’ couch, holding my hand as we talked about how peaceful my father looked. I always knew she’d be there.
I knew I’d sing “Amazing Grace” in his ear when he could no longer talk, just like I did with my grandmother. I knew we’d talk about heaven and who he’d meet there. I knew the grief would be unlike anything I’d ever experienced before.
What I didn’t know was how sacred that time would be, that I’d realize for the first time the true depth of my father’s love. That caring for him as he prepared to enter the gates of glory would be the most painful and cherished time of my life.
“Are you scared?” I asked.
“Of what?” he replied.
I shrugged.
“Of dying?” he asked. “No.”
My father looked forward to heaven. When Bart, the hospice social worker, came by, he asked my dad what he’d been thinking about.
“Being with the Lord,” he replied.
– – –
He’d come face-to-face with the King of kings.
We rejoiced
– – –
In 2 Timothy, Paul speaks with confidence about the reward of heaven for those who know Christ and are faithful to his call:
I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day—and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing. (2 Timothy 4:7-8, NIV)
My father never had an email account or a smartphone. He kept up with friends the old-fashioned way, live and in-person. Few things are more sacred than holding the phone up to someone’s ear so that friends of 50-plus years can find the words to say goodbye.
Only it wasn’t a goodbye.
One by one, they talked about how this was a see-you-later. These friends knew the promise of heaven awaited, and it was glorious to listen to them thank my father for an extraordinary friendship on earth while looking forward to a heavenly reunion.
After he retired, my dad would go down to the local golf repair shop a couple of times each week to tinker with his clubs and talk for hours. The owner, a cancer survivor and believer, is the kind of guy who says, “I love you,” with ease.
Coaches he faced off against for decades now serve as Sunday school teachers and ushers at their churches. My dad’s life was rich in respect and love.
On his last Sunday, his golf partner of 50 years, a local symphony conductor my dad called “The Maestro,” came over with his wife to play hymns on their violins, as they did every Christmas with their three daughters.
Laughter was the chorus of my dad’s chapel service. There was deep sadness, of course. I don’t know that it will ever feel real. But I will never forget the way my dad’s friends celebrated him.
He’d come face-to-face with the King of kings.
We rejoiced.