THE EARL REPORT
Death of a Patriarch
A collection of essays first published on Facebook from December 27, 2015 to January 23, 2016
By Steven L. Denlinger
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| Photo by Steven L. Denlinger Above: Earl Denlinger plays guitar in the kitchen of his home in Hartville, Ohio. |
THE EARL REPORT: “PROLOGUE”
Dockton, Vashon Island, WA
August 1, 2016
The following is a collection of the essays I composed on Facebook during the death of my father, Earl G. Denlinger. It also has links to the musical videos I shot at his bedside as he lay dying.
I’m in the midst of finishing my memoir, which features my father as a major figure in my life.
I am basing the final chapter of my upcoming memoir on this experience, and I thought you might like to read or re-read the raw data, and listen to the videos I linked to the essays, one of which had over 8,000 views.
My goal is to finish the next (and hopefully final) draft of the memoir, Mennonite Prince, by August 31. I will send it out once more to a group of readers, who will fill out a survey online, which I will use to make final revisions before I begin looking for an agent.
If you know an agent you think would be well suited to representing this memoir, please contact me at StevenDenlinger@gmail.com.
THE EARL REPORT: “SAD NEWS”
Sunday, December 27, 2015
Dockton, Vashon Island, WA
Hello everyone, sad news about my father Earl Denlinger. The doctor recently diagnosed him with pancreatic cancer, giving him about three weeks to six months. He had the choice of chemo, but since it would only give my father an additional six months (and a lot of pain), my father decided not to go that route.
"The good news," he told me on the phone, "is that I'll soon see Maggie."
I will be taking a week off school, flying home to spend time with him, January 11-16. Please keep the family in your prayers during this difficult year ahead.
THE EARL REPORT: “A LIGHT SQUEEZE”
Denny’s, Canton, OH
Tuesday, January 12, 11:59 PM
I'm writing from the Belden Village Denny's, having a bowl of chicken soup and salad. I just came from Mercy Hospital, where I spent the late evening. Tomorrow, Hospice will meet with the family's primary caregivers to discuss hospice options. That's good news!
All the news on Dad today is mostly positive. This morning, he had a really happy start to the day. My brother Richard, who has developed an abiding friendship with my father, related the experience movingly on his own page:
"Last night, my family and I visited Dad for the first time together since he went into the hospital. I was disappointed when he showed very little response, not even opening his eyes or moving a hand. A light squeeze was all!
"I woke early this morn, (3 AM) and hurried back in through the falling snow. What I saw when I walked in made me almost gleeful! Dad was sitting there looking at me and talking! In fact, for the next four hours, he did not sleep. My brother Dave Denlinger had spent the night with him, and he explained they had changed his medicine.
"Dad could not get over the fact that he had been in there over a week. We laughed and talked together jokingly. He even winked at me several times.
"Although Dad hasn't changed, regretfully, his body has. Eventually, the pain kicked back in. I left soon after they had hit him with more meds.
"One day at a time, sweet Jesus!"
One amusing moment. I dropped in this afternoon to see him after writing my two recommendation letters. He had visitors, a couple from a nearby Conservative Mennonite church and a young man from church, who was holding a hymnbook. Marj was entertaining them, talking about life, but Dad was simply lying as if asleep. Seeing me arrive, she asked me to stay while she went down for a break and something to eat. So I sat down and began talking to Dad's dear friends and supporters.
Suddenly, my father, who until that point has been almost inarticulate in anything he has said to me, opened his eyes. He turned to me. In crystal clear English he announced, "Have them sing a song and then leave." Then he closed his eyes again.
The absurdity of the situation almost made me laugh. Dad is so kind. It's not like him. Apparently, my father was tired of people talking while he was in the room, and ready for some rest. Politely, I led the group in a rendition of "God Be With You," and then encouraged our visitors to leave ("Here's your hymnbook, what's your hurry?"). They left reluctantly. They really do love my father.
Only when I spoke with Tamara Rosenberg later in the evening by phone, who has also lost a parent to the dread monster of Pancreatic Cancer, was she able to set the situation in perspective. A similar situation happened to her own mother.
I actually didn't spend the evening with my father. I spent it with a friend. When I stopped back in later, I found that according to the nurse at the station, he had slept quietly all evening. When I left, my sister was settled in the chair beside him, sleeping.
In the late evening, I spent about two hours with my mentor Walt Walker, who is also in the hospital. He's almost exactly Dad's age, but doing much better. Those of you who know me well know that I student-taught under Walt in the spring of 1988, and since then, we have remained friends. Tonight, I shared with him a short story which I wrote in 2008, "The Charcoal Coat," which I have not yet published. It's a tribute to Walt, a story about a young teacher who leaves teaching, and then returns. Sound familiar?
Reading it to my mentor, who has given me such wisdom over the years, was such a powerful experience. At one point, I had to stop, overcome with emotion. Walt told me afterward that indeed he did recognize many of the situations and characters in the story (which have been fictionalized). At the end, he offered some invaluable feedback. How I appreciate him.
So now I'm catching up on the events of the day that aren't here in this little town, for example, the State of the Union speech. The photo below of Dad and his sisters is taken from Richard's page. — with Cathy Denlinger Bock and Lois Wes Boyer.
THE EARL REPORT: “ONLY ONE WAY”
Denny’s, Canton, OH
Wednesday, January 13, 11:59 PM.
Once again sitting at Denny's in Belden Village, reflecting on my day. Some major events, and an upcoming, critical decision.
Thoughts about the immediate future. One of the major decisions we need to make as siblings is whether or not to put Dad into hospice. Apparently, if we do, he will no longer receive antibiotics to stop the infections that continue invading his body. The hospice nurses will have one goal: to manage his pain as they usher him through the coming transition.
This Saturday, the siblings will meet for breakfast. I expect we'll make the final decision on this together. My sister Marj has been overseeing Dad's care, but no one person should be forced to make this decision. It's too difficult.
We've had experience in doing this. When Mom needed to go into hospice, the siblings made the decision together, unanimously. It turned out to be the right decision. Her body rallied, and we had her with us for another three years. I designed and planted a garden with her that spring. I don't expect this with Dad.
If you wish to pray, please pray that we will have the wisdom, unity and compassion to make the right decision. None of us wants to see Dad go through any more unnecessary suffering.
What was the day like? After sleeping in (late night), I spent time today talking with siblings and friends, bonding with my extended family, so to speak. Tonight when I finally visited Dad at 9:45 PM, lugging my laptop, he was alert and happy to see me. My sister Rose was there, having stayed to spend time with me. Dad greeted me, quite lucid and somewhat like his old self, and I could finally understand most of what he was saying. He asked me to lift him in order to give me a hug. I did, reaching with my hands under him, feeling the damp skin of his back. I pulled him close to me, felt his physical weakness, but also his love.
As Rose talked to the friend who came with me, Dad asked me to read to him from my memoir. I picked up my laptop bag, got out my Mac, and settled down beside him (see photo below). My sister Rose said goodbye to my friend and me. The door closed.
I opened Mennonite Prince on my laptop, and began to read. I started with the Prologue, "How to Tie a Tie," which tells of my father's charming father and his secret life, my jolt of understanding when I realized this about my grandsire, my eventual realization in college that only my grandfather seemed to understood my need for an education, and my eventual flight to London on a scholarship.
I remembered vividly my need to escape home. I watched Dad's face as I read, seeing the emotions cross his worn skin, wondering whether I should have read this chapter, wondering how Dad was feeling. At the end of the chapter, I paused. I saw Dad struggle to speak. I realized he felt the need to say something. He looked at me.
"There's only one way to heaven." His mouth struggled beneath the oxygen tube, trying to shape the words. "Only one way." His blue eyes gazed up at me, his face earnest and vulnerable. "You know that, right?"
I looked at him, taking his warm hand. I had been expecting this moment, but I still wasn't sure how to respond. I knew we were radically different in our approach to faith, but I also knew at heart we shared the same essential belief in Christian redemption. But we use different words, talk a different language. I left his culture a long time ago. What could I say? How could I relieve his dark worries about our future?
Finally, I spoke.
"I know that you love me," I told him, "and that's what matters. Even though you and I don't agree on everything...I know that you love me."
He looked into my eyes, trying to hear me. Then slowly, his eyes shut. I wondered if he had heard what I was really saying. I thought he was, perhaps, but I didn't know. I continued to watch him. Finally, I asked, "Do you want me to continue reading? He smiled, his face relaxing. "Yes," he said, closing his eyes. "I love when you read to me."
I moved on to Chapter 2, "Eminent Domain."
Suddenly, I was a child again, revealing how desperately I wanted to go to school, wanted to learn how to read. My father smiled occasionally at my descriptions. My eagerness to go to school, the test Sister Sommers administered to me to decide whether I would be able to handle first grade in spite of my being a little too young.
I thought back to that cold morning in February, three years earlier, when I had read to my mother from an earlier manuscript.
I reached the end of the chapter, painting with words the image of my mother pulling me into her arms, hugging me, finally letting me go. I looked at my father, expecting his eyes to open, to ask me to continue reading. But no. He was asleep, as peaceful as I've seen him so far on this trip.
I put my computer away. I rose and suggested to my nephew Ben that Dad might be ready for him to turn out the lights. Ben his staying with Dad tonight, watching over him.
Then I left the hospital, my body trying to hide inside my bomber jacket and stocking cap and leather gloves as I walked out toward the bitter cold of the parking lot. But the blasting heat of my car's heater eventually warmed me as I smoothly moved up the ramp onto the black darkness of Route 77, heading north.
THE EARL REPORT: “SING ON, DAD”
Mercy Hospital, Canton, OH
Thursday, January 14, 8:30 PM.
The big news today is that the family has signed off on hospice for Dad. The hospice staff will move him to a room on the eighth floor of Mercy Hospital as soon as one comes available. Until then, he'll stay where he is. Regarding antibiotics, the current treatment will be his last. It might seem harsh, but it's not. The main goal of hospice is to manage his pain, not fight an impossible battle trying to fix each organ as it inevitably fails. Dad chose not to go through chemo. There's a reason for that. Prolonging the battle only prolongs the pain. You can't reason with pancreatic cancer.
Several notes. I spent several hours this morning in Dad's room, watching over him. He slept the entire time while I cleaned out my email box, a brainless but helpful exercise in busywork. This afternoon, my sister Marcia flew in, and she will watch over Dad tonight. Tomorrow night will be my turn.
One thing I failed to note the other day. When my father asked his visitors to "sing a song and then leave," he actually helped sing them out the door in his strong, sturdy voice. I was shocked since he could barely talk. This evening, my sister Rose told me, the members of our family in the hospital room ended their visit by singing the song "Now the Day is Over." No surprise there: our family almost always sang a final hymn (usually led by my Mother) before we went to bed. What was surprising to everyone tonight was this: in spite of the ravaging effects of cancer, my Father found the strength to sing right along with everyone, all four verses, clear and steady.
The profound love of Dad's life was music. I love the picture below. It's a glimpse of my parents in better days, familiar to everyone who knows them. They began to sing together at their wedding, when they chose to sing an adaptation of the biblical love song sung by David and Jonathan: "The love of other could not be, more deep and pure than thine." Those biblical lyrics had been turned into a song and tossed into a uniquely Mennonite cantata, 'David the Shepherd Boy.' Dad and Mom made it "their song."
People loved their performance. Often, across their 50+ years of married life, Mom and Dad would be asked to do a reprise of that duet for the family, even during church. Below, Dad is introducing that song, getting ready to sing it with Mom. Mom was shy and didn't like singing in public, but she enthusiastically accompanied Dad on that song. Perhaps they both loved reliving the moment they fell in love. They were SO cute together, even in their golden years. Perhaps especially in their golden years.
An ironic touch. After Dad retired from working at the factory, and the Church announced that God had changed his mind about musical instruments ("God's okay with it after all: sorry for the confusion, team!"), Dad secured a guitar and landed himself a job as head singer and entertainment director at the local nursing home. Dad didn't just sing and play. He performed with his entire being, generating life within the tired souls who slumped in the chairs before him. One local pastor swears he saw Dad dancing with the old folks, but Dad refused to admit it (Too bad God didn't change that rule, too).
In fact, many families requested Dad's presence at the bedsides of their dying loved ones. He played his guitar for them. He crooned to them. He ushered them peacefully across the River of Death, into the glory of the next world. Dad is familiar with that world. Perhaps it's why he's ready to go, himself.
Sing on, Dad.
Dad's life was a profound love affair with song. It wouldn't surprise me if music weren't the last thing to go for him. Dad was just mad about singing. There was no time on earth more precious to him than the time he spent with friends and family, singing hymns. I only realized this once I came home and spent a year with my parents in 2009-10. Mom and Dad often sang in the kitchen together, before retiring for the night. Dad tried to include me in this. I have some precious digital video footage of my father accompanying me on his guitar as I sang.
When I was but a boy in days of childhood,
I used to play while evening shadows come.
Then winding down an old familiar pathway,
I heard my mother call at set of sun.
Come home, come home, it's suppertime.
I used to play while evening shadows come.
Then winding down an old familiar pathway,
I heard my mother call at set of sun.
Come home, come home, it's suppertime.
For Dad, music was the doorway into a world of beauty and love. Any instrument he picked up, he could play. So perhaps it's not a stretch to believe that the last thing to go will be his vocal chords.
What a gift. It makes him uniquely lovable.
Sing on, Dad.
The angels are waiting. Right now, I'll bet there's a long line of the brightest, sparkliest angels in heaven, begging St. Peter to audition as backup singers for your heavenly band.
Sing on, Dad.
THE EARL REPORT: “MY FATHER’S BEDSIDE”
Mercy Hospital, Canton, OH
Friday, January 15, 10:23 PM.
This is a difficult night. I'm here sitting beside my father in the hospice room, watching over him with my brother Richard. My sister Marcia will return to take Richard's place soon.
Outside the window, the rain is steadily coming down, perhaps weeping for my father. Dad struggles to breathe. It's difficult. It sounds like his lungs are filling up with fluid. Earlier, he was constantly coughing, trying to expel phlegm. It tires him to cough, I think.
Now he sleeps.
As I sit here, I think again about Dad's choice to sit with so many dying patients, playing his guitar, singing them into Paradise.
I can't play a guitar, but I can play the hymns of the West Coast Mennonite Choir on my iPhone, so that's what I'm doing. Except for the strains of music, and the gentle sound of trickling fluids, the room and halls are silent. Sometimes Dad moans.
I am scheduled to fly out tomorrow, back to my wife Laura, who is holding down things at home. She is such a source of strength for me. At times, her advice has been absolutely critical, helping me catch a glimpse of the larger picture. Patiently and thoughtfully, she continues to ask the right questions.
There is no prediction as to when Dad will pass. It could be tonight (it feels that way), or a week from now. It all depends on how long and hard he continues to fight. The poets talk about "a good death." I don't know what that means. Nothing about this feels good. My father is walking through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. It's scary and brutal for all of us, but especially for him.
No one likes this kind of pain. I've seen a lot of tears lately, even shed them myself as my siblings and I have prayed with Dad. How do we encourage our father during this very difficult transition? None of us have gone through this ourselves. Dad's way ahead of us, stumbling deep in the darkest part of the valley, struggling to see and move forward toward a light he knows is there up ahead.
But there is patience in the midst of Dad's fear and pain. Perhaps those moments of sitting beside the beds of dying patients gave him a unique compass, a steady light shining faintly, guiding him and helping him to manage his fear.
Perhaps he is now experiencing what he has so often looked forward to through the lens of faith: finding true rest in God's hands. If not, I pray he will feel that soon.
THE EARL REPORT: “SIBLING STORIES”
The Compound, Cuyahoga Falls, OH,
Saturday, January 16, 10:23 PM.
This has been an eventful day. I'm still in Ohio.
My father's condition continues to decline. My sister Marcia and I spent the night with him last night. Although he was restless at the beginning, finding it hard to breathe, due to increasing fluid in his lungs, he settled into sleep after hearing music of The West Coast Mennonite Choir. Richard left around midnight, picked up Marcia and brought her back, and then headed home. That's important, for reasons I'll explain later.
Dad's breathing evolved across the night into short rapid pants. Marcia slept in a chair, getting up on a regular basis to place her hand on his forehead, calming him as he came awake, fighting for air. He sometimes asked where he was. I slept down the hall in the family room, setting my alarm for every 40 minutes or so, when I would come down and check on Dad.
Around 5 PM, I awoke refreshed and came down to the room, opening my computer and reading the responses from those of you who are so graciously responding to our family's situation. Marcia awoke, and so I went over to sit by here. For the next three hours, we talked, telling each other stories about Dad, about our growing understanding of him.
The conversation was important in part because Marcia could speak for my father. As his first child, and one whose lens on the world is shaped by grace, she was friends with him. There was a mutual respect between them, one that allowed them, perhaps, to talk about anything. As Marcia and I talked, I realized that although my father and I will never be able to have the relationship I wanted, she was able to speak for him.
Sometime during that conversation, I realized that I have slowly come to understand my father and his motivations, due to the work that I've done on my upcoming memoir, as well as the stories my siblings have been telling me during the past week. Most important, I realized that I had forgiven him.
"He was terrifically proud of you," my sister said. That wasn't the only thing she told me across our conversation. There was more that I still need to process, but that was the line that hit me hardest. For years, I've tried to tell myself that I don't really care about what my father thinks. But that's not true. I care a great deal. As I've learned over the last few years, my father was my first portrait of God. My father's actions, for good or for bad, have had a great deal to do with how I viewed, trusted, and related to God. There's no way around that.
We sat quietly talking until the nurse came to turn Dad: they had pretty much left him alone all night, thanks to our wishes, even skipping a check of his vitals at least once, just so that he could finally sleep.
I left about 9 AM, going home to shower and then heading over to Bob Evans, where all of the siblings (except Dave) met for breakfast. After singing a song of grace for the meal together in the midst of a crowded restaurant, we ate and then had a short meeting, which began with my question: "Are there any decisions we need to make at this point?" The resulting decisions were mostly funeral-related: who would speak, what would the service look like, what kind of burial service would we have.
"He wanted the service to be short because it's going to be so cold out," my sister Marjorie said. Turns out Dad had figured out that this funeral would take place soon, and Ohio winters can be bitterly cold.
One of the big decisions I was trying to make before and during breakfast regarded my flight home. It was slowly becoming clear that it made no sense for me to fly home, only to purchase a ticket at the highest rates within several days, and fly back, just to teach for a couple of days (and what kind of teacher would, with my heart back on the hospital bed in Room 891?).
But before I made the decision, I spoke my friend Tamara Rosenberg (who just lost her mother to the same cancer monster) and to the nurse on duty, a highly competent RN named Sam. I found out several data points. First, Dad is already on morphine, and they are scheduled to give him Adderall in case his body becomes restless. According to our nurse, Dad is mostly not conscious.
"Dad is emotionally and mentally ready to go," I said. "I don't think there are any lingering issues he needs to resolve. He just wants to see Mom. When do you think he'll be physically ready?"
What came through clearly from everyone I talked to is that pancreatic cancer ultimately kills by overloading the heart. Ironically, this means Dad's body will suffer longer. His parents both lived to be 96, and his heart is determined to go the same distance. As my sister Rose told me, "When I hold his hand, I can feel his heart, steady and strong: thump, thump, thump."
Strong heart or no, the strain of this disease is severe. It is unlikely Dad will last more than two days, our nurse told us. The signs are already there. As my brother Richard said, "I could tell a significant difference just from the time I left last night to when I returned this morning. His breathing had changed."
That was the final data point I needed. After discussing it with my principal, my substitute, our union representative, I made the hard decision over the phone with my wife Laura to stay here in Canton. I have plenty of paid wellness days I can use, and five bereavement days after the funeral. Besides, it makes much more sense for me to use the two days I would be flying back and forth to work on grading, instead. Most of my semester grading can be done online. With that, I changed my flight reservations. I'm staying. The decision gave me a profound sense of relief. I can be here to help support my siblings as we plan to honor our father.
There are challenges ahead. The fall semester at Vashon High School, where I teach, is coming to an end, and grades are due too soon. I need a quiet place where I can retreat, undisturbed, to work. Knowing this, my friend Ami Wagner found a place for me to stay with excellent wireless service. A close friend of hers quickly offered me (and Laura when she arrives) the run of The Compound, his large house here in the Falls. He's going to the West Coast during the upcoming week, and so the house will be empty. I'll be able to retreat here over the next week in the midst of funeral preparations. I'll just have to be incredibly disciplined so that I can get my work done in the midst of this emotional chaos. My wife Laura will have her own challenges: she is scheduled to fly to D.C. on Tuesday, so we'll just have to play that by ear.
Meanwhile, Dad continues to have visitors. They fill his room, eager to show their love. They join our family in singing hymns.
After taking a picture of the siblings with my unconscious father (other siblings have shared this photo online), I left the hospital, grabbed some sustenance with a friend, and came to The Compound. By then, I was getting texts from my siblings. Dad had regained consciousness, recognized them, talked with them. Exhausted, I didn't return. After an hour, Dad returned to the invisible world he now inhabits alone. I collapsed into bed and slept for about three hours. After finishing this, I will sleep. Tomorrow, I'll return to his bedside. I know he might pass by then, but he also might not. I've learned I need to take care of myself first if I wish to be of use to my family.
Yes, I know. My epistles keep getting longer. Perhaps so long that no one has reached this final paragraph. :-) But if you are, thanks so much for staying beside me during this journey, for giving me your wonderfully reflective and supportive comments (I read every one with great interest, even if I don't respond with anything more than a LIKE), for loving my father, and for earnestly holding our family and father in your most gracious thoughts.
THE EARL REPORT: FLIGHT F-I-N-A-L
The Compound, Cuyahoga Falls, OH
The Compound, Cuyahoga Falls, OH
Sunday, January 17, 11:59 PM.
My mind is tumbling tonight, trying to grasp what is happening.
Dad is clearly preparing to leave. The physical signs are unmistakable. There is little recognition from him of what's going on around him. Although he did wake up briefly this morning, and even more briefly this afternoon, he is mostly unconscious. When I returned to the room tonight from a friend's birthday dinner, my sister Rose had me grasp Dad's arm. I was confused. She picked up her notebook where she takes notes on what is happening, and came over and squeezed part of Dad's arm herself.
"See the way the arm responds when you press on it?" she said. "The water is separating. The heart is working too hard, and is pushing water out to the body's extremities."
It only confirmed what I had already learned. When I arrived this morning after a good night's sleep, I spoke again to Dad's nurse, Sam. We talked about what might be keeping Dad here. One thing is his heart, of course, which is tenacious. His parents both lasted to age 96, and I'm sure Dad's heart thinks it should survive that long, too. The second thing, Sam speculated, might be that Dad is waiting for someone to release him. By midmorning, my older sister Marjorie had told us about her own struggle to let Dad go. She finally did. So now, I hope, it's just Dad's heart.
Tonight, my siblings shared some of their memories of Dad. As I listened to them and sang with my brothers and sisters, I was reminded of a vinyl record that Dad often played to our family: FLIGHT F-I-N-A-L. The piece is an allegory written by evangelist Forrest McCullough. It compares death to a supersonic flight to heaven, narrated by an imaginary journalist.
I found the old recording of FLIGHT F-I-N-A-L online tonight, and I'm listening to it as I write. In McCullough's drama, the character of Jesus speaks in the language of the King James Bible, sounding very British with lots of Thee's and Thou's. It still affects me powerfully, especially the music on the album. It makes me wonder about the flight that my father must be contemplating tonight. Serendipitously, McCullough, an evangelist with a stentorian voice, dreamed up the vocal production while flying home from his own father's funeral.
As I sit here in the early morning hours at my desk, images of my father flood my mind: short panting breaths through his constantly open mouth, bushy brows twisting as they react to things we cannot know, and occasional moans for help. My father's eyes remain shut almost all the time, his face completely focused on breathing. Is my father experiencing the approach to the departure gate that McCullough describes?
"Darkness seems to be falling all around us as the passengers approach the gate of death. But everyone seems to be moving along at a steady pace as if there were a guiding light, for they are proceeding without fear of any kind. Friends and loved ones standing about in the Terminal of Life gather around the gate now, extending their hands and bidding farewell. For those left behind, the parting is a sorrowful one...."
Although my father may be unable to focus on anything but his pain, the room around him has been anything but solitary. There were times when we decided that Dad needed to be alone. But those times were rare. Perhaps because it was a Sunday, my father had many visitors today. some in their church clothes. Some of the families sang: it's what our community does during a loved one's passing.
Why the music? For an 85-year-old man who has spent approximately 4,400 Sundays, morning and evening, listening to or singing hymns in Church, hearing those harmonic tunes must be reassuring. We hope it encourages the dying soul (hearing, they say, is the last sense to go), strengthening them in their faith as they prepare to triumph over Death, the ultimate Antagonist. We hope the soothing sound of our vocal music makes the darkness less solitary. The songs are peaceful and melodious, sung a cappella by children and adults. The short clip I've included features the Mark Yoder family.
There are other traditions that came back to me today. The fact that very young children accompany their parents in the presence of death might seem unusual to the rest of the World, but in this community, death is a central theme in sermons and stories with a focus on preparation for it. Even children are taught that death is nothing to fear, that Christ triumphed over Death, and so shall we. This is underlined even in church activities. I remember regularly visiting elderly people in their homes as a child on Wednesday evenings with Mom and Dad and my siblings, or in nursing homes as a teenager with the youth group on Saturday evenings. We sang together for the residents, encouraging them.
Watching my siblings work together today was also striking. The last few days have allowed us to spend a lot of time together, but even in a situation like this, we all have our roles. I won't go into the specifics here, but in my memoir, I compare my brothers and sisters to Winnie the Pooh characters. No doubt A.A. Milne was talking about my family, starting with my father as Winnie the Pooh, and myself as the storyteller, Christopher Robin. [I'll let you figure out the rest of us: Marcia, Rose, Marjorie, Dave, Tim, Richard, and Heidi.]
Unfortunately, having us gathered in the same building couldn't last forever. Tim and his family had to return home to their jobs in Pennsylvania today, and my "baby" sister Heidi had to return to her husband Adin and her five children. The rest of us siblings stayed behind, singing to Dad, sharing favorite moments with each other.
Taking care of a dying parent is painful. There was nothing pretty about watching Dad wheeze and pant for air, his body occasionally choking because of the mucus building up in his airways, forcing him to fight for air constantly. His heart has begun to work harder and harder. I have to wonder how close Dad is to lift-off on his own Flight F-I-N-A-L. He played that performance so often when I was a child, we all had it memorized:
"Welcome aboard Interworld Airlines, Flight F-I-N-A-L, nonstop supersonic service to the New Jerusalem. Your captain is the Lord Jesus Christ, and I am your Chief Stewardess, the Angel of Mercy. You will find your seatbelt in Psalm 23: 'The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. Yeah, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil. For Thou art with me. Fasten your seatbelts, please."
Tonight, my birthday friend (a powerful prayer warrior) accompanied me to the hospital to pray for Dad: "Ancient of Days, we come before you to ask you to comfort your Servant as you prepare to receive him into your Presence."
Watching my friend pray, and listening to her read the whole of Revelations 22 afterwards, with its blazing descriptions of heaven, was reassuring to me, and comforting. But I worry.
Afterward, I asked my friend whether I was grieving correctly. Perhaps I should have stayed longer at the end of the evening with the five siblings there, rather than returning to The Compound. After all, Dad could die tonight. My friend reminded me that there is no one correct way for anyone to grieve, and if people put pressure on me to do one thing or another to express my grief, I should write off their efforts as emotionally manipulative. Everyone grieves differently. You're someone, she explained, who needs time alone to grieve, working out your feelings through the keyboard.
So here I am alone at The Compound, thinking through the day by tapping out words on the keyboard of my MAC, trying to make sense of it all by writing down my thoughts here.
The questions linger. Why would God force my father to go through this much pain? Why build a man with a heart this perfect, and then allow pancreatic cancer to devastate him years ahead of its expiration date?
My sister Rose, trying to make sense out of it all, reflected on what the body is doing. "God planned for the death of the body," she said, "in the same ways He planned for its birth. An infant's body folds up so that it can enter the world. So too, our father's body is now shutting down its organs, packing them away one at a time, getting ready to close down his earthly life."
It was a beautiful metaphor. As I sit here reflecting, I can visualize that. When I combine Rose's words with McCullough's dramatic allegory, the picture of my father's departure becomes clear.
I can imagine the spirit of my father right now turning about to take a final look at the recesses of his aging body. He decides it's time. He won't do much packing though: not much to take with him.
I can imagine him at the airport with all of us, perhaps limping away from us into the crowded walkways, and eventually through the departure gate. He's exhausted from these last few hours of painful struggle, but still able to greet the angel at the gate with his sunny, signature smile. As he moves through, his steps are firming up, his step getting lighter and lighter as he strides up the ramp, ducking to slip into the passenger cabin.
If I know Dad, he'll take awhile getting to his seat. He'll need to say hello to everyone in the cabin traveling with him.
The Chief Stewardess, I imagine, will want to drop by, ostensibly to offer him a new guitar and matching golden harmonica, but in reality just to get a chance to say hello and talk before the plane begins departure. She'll have to wait. Dad will be entertaining the cabin, perhaps telling a joke or two, leading them in a few of their favorite hymns, even telling them about how he met my mother, and performing one of her favorite songs. When the four engines fire up, he'll take his new guitar, strap on his seatbelt, and peer out the window. That signature smile will have returned, stretching from ear to ear. He'll be ready, no, impatient to begin his own Flight F-I-N-A-L.
May the flight be smooth, Dad. May the flight be glorious. But most important, may the flight be soon.
THE EARL REPORT: “ANNOUNCEMENT OF DEATH”
Denny's, Belden Village, OH
Monday, January 18, 2:30 PM.
Dad passed at 11:40 AM this morning. He kept the faith, and his pain and struggle are over. Details to follow.
THE EARL REPORT: “DEATH OF A PATRIARCH”
The Compound, Cuyahoga Falls, OH
Monday, January 18, 11:59 PM.
While we were watching round her bed,
She turned her eyes and looked away,
She saw what we couldn’t see;
She saw Old Death. She saw Old Death
Coming like a falling star.
But Death didn’t frighten Sister Caroline;
He looked to her like a welcome friend.
And she whispered to us: I’m going home,
And she smiled and closed her eyes.
She turned her eyes and looked away,
She saw what we couldn’t see;
She saw Old Death. She saw Old Death
Coming like a falling star.
But Death didn’t frighten Sister Caroline;
He looked to her like a welcome friend.
And she whispered to us: I’m going home,
And she smiled and closed her eyes.
~Taken from "Go Down, Death" by James Weldon Johnson
Last night I left the hospital, fully expecting never to see Dad alive again. He sounded so bad. I kissed his forehead, told him I loved him, and said "I'll see you in heaven." I decided there was nothing magical about watching him pass. I was exhausted, I needed sleep, and I needed to grieve in my own way, by reflecting in a journal entry.
So I did. I stayed up until 4:30, when I posted my blog and went to sleep. This morning, I awoke about 9 AM, and reached for my phone. No message about Dad passing. I opened my post, saw the reactions, watched the video again, and then read the post myself. By then, tears were beginning to flow, but when I scrolled back up and watched the video again, I turned my face into the pillow. My body shook with sobs. "Oh, Daddy," I said, once again an eleven-year-old child. "I miss you."
After a moment, I got out of bed, showered and shaved, and then drove to Starbucks for a cappuccino and a sandwich. I took the time to eat it. I was getting urgent messages by then from my sisters.
"Dear Steve, what are your plans this morning? Dad has had a rough morning. We'd be glad to have you with us. I could not tear myself away from Dad. We three girls stayed all night."
"Dr. Stetler expects it will be hours...."
"Dad's breathing like water gurgling through a pipe. Just wanted you to know. Seems like it can't be long."
I took care of myself first, knowing that I needed sustenance for the day. When I got to the hospital at 11:25, the halls were empty and quiet. Dad's room was closed, so I opened the door and slipped in. My three sisters were sitting or lying in chairs, looking exhausted. Dad's mouth was open, his breath coming roughly. His face showed the strain of the battle he has had for the last few days.
Rose came over immediately, catching me up on what had happened. Not wanting to disturb Dad, I opened the door and stepped outside with Rose. She had barely started her explanation when the door opened, and Rose flew inside. I followed.
The room was silent except for the trickling water of the fluids. Dad lay still, his face suddenly yellow. His eyes were open, still. I glanced at my watch. 11:40 AM. I moved over to Dad and stood at his feet. Rose and Marcia were trying to figure out if it was all over.
Marj reached for Dad's open mouth, wanting to close it, and suddenly the mouth moved of its own accord. My heart gave a brief leap, but then I realized the body had simply given a physiological reaction.
I heard one of my sisters begin to sob, broken-heartedly. Rose left the room, and then there were several nurses entering, examining the body. It was no mistake. Dad's struggle was over.
Dad was gone.
Then Richard was beside me. He had just gone to eat, his body exhausted from his all-night vigil, and he had missed the passing. He turned to me, offering me a hug. We embraced. It was hard to believe the pain was over.
After the initial tears, I saw my siblings quickly turn practical. We went to work, splitting up the calls we needed to make to other siblings and relatives who needed to hear from us personally.
Over the next few hours, we made basic plans for the funeral, making some financial decisions. We contacted the funeral home. The nurses cleaned Dad's body. We went to the cafeteria so that my sisters could eat. We planned a time when all the major stakeholders this week could meet to plan the specifics of the viewing and funeral.
I left the hospital as my brothers and sisters were helping Daphne, a funeral agent from the Arnold Funeral Home, prepare to transport Dad's body to the waiting hearse outside. Going to Denny's in Belden Village, I sat down and wrote the obituary for Dad, using Mom's as a model. From there, I went to my parents' home to join most of my siblings around the dinner table. We worked through the plans for this week's events.
The viewing will be held at 2-4 PM and 6-8 PM on Thursday in the sanctuary of Hartville Conservative Mennonite Church. People can file through, getting a final glimpse of Dad's body. Meanwhile, there will be a group of volunteer singers at the back of the church, singing a collection of Dad's favorite songs. What was almost heaven for Dad was sitting for hours singing hymns that he loved. So anyone can join the singing group for as long or as short as they wish.
The funeral will be held at the same location at 10 AM on Friday. It will also feature music, starting with a group performing more of Dad's favorite hymns in the back of the church beginning at 9:15 AM when the doors open. The service will include special musical groups, lots of congregational music, the Denlinger Quartet, a devotional by pastor Dave Miller, a sermon by Johnny Miller from Minerva, Ohio, and a reading of the obituary and eulogy for Dad.
It's going to be cold and snowy that day, but we will have a brief graveside service for anyone who wishes to attend. Dad actually worried about this because he had gone through his share of these. So briefly, there will be one of Dad's favorite poems, and some comments committing the body to the earth. Then a group will sing while volunteers begin shoveling earth. I didn't realize how unusual this experience is until one of my friends not raised in my community pointed out what a shock it is to see the shovels of earth fill up the grave in front of the family. It's a very raw experience, but one that gives a sense of completion to a life well lived.
Finally, we'll go back to the church and have a full meal, cooked by members of the church our family attends. Once the meal is over, everyone is invited to go back to the sanctuary for a time of family reflection, a sort of Open Mic for close relatives. There will be stories about Earl, both humorous and memorable. There will be music, even a dramatic rendition of "Go Down, Death."
And then it will be over. Laura and I will be leaving to go back to Seattle, where I will be working frantically to catch up with what I've missed in my classes (end of term is next Thursday).
One of the most memorable moments of the day occurred at the end of our family meeting. Daphne, one of the funeral agents at the Arnold Funeral Home, who helped us bury Mom, told us about the impact Dad and Mom made on her life. "They invited me to Bible School," she said. "They welcomed me into their lives."
How many people have told us that about our parents? They were known for their hospitality and Dad's love for music and gentle humor. Hartville Conservative Mennonite will no longer have the couple who eagerly welcomed strangers to our church, and were the first to invite them home to share our Sunday dinners.
Mom left us in the warm sunshine of a June summer, Dad has left us in the bitter cold of January. Mom's coffin was white, and Dad's coffin will be charcoal. How we shall miss them both. But James Weldon Johnson got it right.
Weep not, weep not,
She is not dead;
She’s resting in the bosom of Jesus.
Heart-broken husband--weep no more;
Grief-stricken son--weep no more;
Left-lonesome daughter --weep no more;
She only just gone home.
She is not dead;
She’s resting in the bosom of Jesus.
Heart-broken husband--weep no more;
Grief-stricken son--weep no more;
Left-lonesome daughter --weep no more;
She only just gone home.
THE EARL REPORT: “EULOGY”
Delivered at my father’s funeral
Hartville Conservative Mennonite Church, Hartville, OH
10 AM, Saturday, January 23
I DELIVERED THE eulogy at my father’s funeral, standing behind the pulpit in the bare, sparse sanctuary of my home church, 28 wrenching years after I left home for London.
I was dressed in the charcoal grey suit my mentor had given me 20 years previous, my white shirt set off by the light green and grey tie I had worn at my wedding. Below me, my wife sat with our friend Ami on the front bench. Behind her, my entire family -- siblings, spouses, nephews and nieces, aunts and uncles -- filled in the first few rows.
Moments before, we siblings had sung our favorite bedtime hymn for Dad one last time, soft but clear, the audience listening, the utter silence occasionally broken by a baby’s cry.
Jesus, Tender Shepherd hear me,
Bless thy little lamb tonight,
Through the darkness be Thou near me,
Keep me safe till morning light.
THERE ARE THREE words that describe Dad, I think.
Music.
Love.
Faith.
DAD LOVED MUSIC.
During his late 70s, Dad and Mom had settled into the brand-new home my brothers and sisters had built for them. My father was working at Altercare, the local nursing home, as the Entertainment Director. He was playing both his guitar and harmonica for the patients, singing for them and encouraging others to sing. More than one of my friends told me stories about my father playing music at the bedside of dying patients with families requesting him.
I sometimes stopped in to see my father work. One time when he saw me, he convinced me to sing vocals while he accompanied me. He was leading a disparate group of patients in the chapel. So I found myself singing, and my dad playing guitar, to an audience that loved my father.
When I was but a boy in days of childhood
I used to play til evening shadows come
When winding down an old familiar pathway
I heard my mother call at set of sun.
What I noticed was the joy Dad brought to his music. He was focused and relaxed and confident. No wonder people request him when they die, I thought. He really knows how to care for them.
I found this ironic: my father was of the age when most men had either passed on, or were in a nursing home. Not Dad. He was working in a nursing home.
DAD ALSO KNEW how to love. It took me years to see this. When I reflect on that year I spent with my parents, from 2009 to 2010, I remember the shock I felt at beginning to see my parents through the eyes of an adult.
I remember as a child watching the affection my mother and father showed for each other. There were no puritanical ideas in our home. Dad was always openly affectionate with Mom. We saw them kiss before he went to work, her reaching up to put her arms around his neck. The words “I love you” were a regular part of their conversation.
That wasn’t new. What was new was realizing what love meant to my father. I saw why my father’s marriage had lasted for 58 years. His secret was time and attention. Any time he had a chance, my father chose to spend time with my mother. On his breaks while working at the nursing home, he chose to come home to have lunch with her. This had always been the case as I was growing up, but I’d simply never noticed it before. Perhaps I wasn’t looking.
He also loved helping her around the house, and he did so with enthusiasm. He did the dishes on Sundays so my mother could have time off. In the evenings, they played board games together, and the laughter coming from the kitchen sounded like a couple that had just fallen in love.
Most important, my father always put my mother’s wishes first.
If it’s true there are love languages, then my father’s language was Gifts of Service. He knew that language well. Politeness, kindness, patience, attention—all of these were skills my father used to strengthen his marriage. It kept his marriage healthy and happy, even in the toughest of times.
THE THIRD QUALITY my father owned was a powerful Faith. Dad was a prayer warrior. One of my friends recently wrote to me on Facebook, telling me she knew she was on Dad’s prayer list. “Now that he’s gone,” she said, “one of you children needs to pick up Dad’s prayer list and continue praying with it. I don’t want those prayers for me to stop.”
Her comment reminded me of an unforgettable moment from that year I spent at home. I had returned from almost a decade in Los Angeles, and I was feeling pretty beaten up. My parents welcomed me home, their smiles and hugs giving me hope for the future.
In the large basement of my parents’ home, I took one side—a kind of suite with a bedroom, a bathroom, and a desk just outside the bedroom. My father limited himself to the other side of the basement.
I remember one morning waking up and going out to my desk.
As I booted up the computer, I glanced over. The sun was coming through the window, and it lit my father, who was kneeling at his office chair. I caught my breath. It was like glimpsing a painting. Dad was praying. The light captured the now-ancient lines of his face, the red beard turning gray. The hair on his head was thinner than I had ever seen it. His head was bowed. Before him on the chair lay a sheet of paper. I knew that on that sheet were the names of all the people for whom he prayed.
I’ve often thought about that vision. Watching my father pray was nothing new. As a child and adolescent, I’d seen it happen every morning. My father had a will of stainless steel, and no matter how tired he was, he rose early every morning for his private devotions. He never missed it. Even during the worst financial times, with eight children and a wife to feed, my father took the time to pray. He modeled true spiritual discipline for all of us.
The rest of the world never saw my father pray, not like this. My father took seriously Jesus’ words. When you pray, go into your closet and shut the door.
SO HOW DID that faith work out when he faced his Final Battle? In the last few weeks, I wrote about the pain my father was experiencing.
“The poets talk about "a good death," I wrote on Facebook. “But I don't know what that means. Nothing about this feels good. My father is walking through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. It's scary and brutal for all of us, but especially for him.
“How do we encourage our father during this very difficult transition? None of us have gone through this. Dad is way ahead of us, stumbling deep in the darkest part of the valley, struggling to see and move forward by faith toward a light he knows is up ahead.
“But there is patience in the midst of Dad's fear and pain,” I wrote. “Perhaps those moments of sitting beside the beds of dying patients has given him a unique compass, a steady light shining faintly, guiding him and helping him to manage his fear.
“Is he now experiencing what he has so often looked forward to through the lens of faith: finding true rest in God's hands? If not, I pray he will feel that soon.
PERHAPS IT WAS the maturity of growing older. Perhaps it came with watching my father face his pain so bravely. But sometime across the course of Dad’s Final Battle, I realized that my perspective on my father had shifted.
My father was the first portrait I ever saw of God. His actions, for good or for ill, have had a great deal to do with how I view, trust, and relate to God. There's no way around that.
During my father’s last few days on earth, his eyes remained shut almost all the time, his face completely focused on breathing. He wasn’t alone, however. His room was anything but solitary. Visitors came. They read the Bible to him. They prayed. And they sang, entire families.
The music was important. I calculate my father spent approximately 4,400 Sundays across his 85 years, morning and evening, listening to or singing hymns in Church. Hearing, they say, is the last sense to go, and we hoped those harmonic songs encouraged him as he was dying, strengthening him in his faith as he triumphed over Death.
MY FATHER LOVED the reel-to-real recording he had of Flight F-I-N-A-L. This was a musical performance dreamed up by evangelist Forrest McCullough after attending the funeral of his own father. Our father played that performance so often when I was a child, we all had it memorized:
"Welcome aboard Interworld Airlines, Flight F-I-N-A-L, nonstop supersonic service to the New Jerusalem. Your captain is the Lord Jesus Christ, and I am your Chief Stewardess, the Angel of Mercy. You will find your seatbelt in Psalm 23: 'The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. Yeah, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil. For Thou art with me. Fasten your seatbelts, please."
In Dad’s last few days, I struggled to make sense of the grief I was experiencing. The questions lingered. Why would God force my father to go through this much pain? Why build a man with a heart this perfect, and then allow pancreatic cancer to devastate him years ahead of its expiration date?
My sister Rose, also trying to understand it all, reflected on what Dad’s body was doing. "God planned for the death of the body," she said, "in the same ways He planned for its birth. An infant's body folds up so that it can enter the world. So too, our father's body is now shutting down its organs, packing them away one at a time, getting ready to close down his earthly life."
It was a beautiful metaphor. And when I combined Rose's words with McCullough's dramatic allegory, the picture of my father's departure became clear.
DURING THOSE LAST few hours, as Dad prepared to leave this world, I imagine his Spirit turned about to take a final look at the recesses of his aging body. It was time. He didn’t need to do much packing: not much to take with him.
I imagined him at the airport with all of us, perhaps limping away from us into the crowded walkways, and eventually through the departure gate of death. He was exhausted from these last few hours of painful struggle, but still able to greet the angel at the gate with his sunny, signature smile. As he moved through, his steps must have firmed up, getting lighter and lighter as he strode up the ramp, ducking to slip into the passenger cabin.
If I know Dad, he took awhile getting to his seat. He needed to say hello to everyone in the cabin traveling with him.
The Chief Stewardess, I imagine, dropped by, ostensibly to offer him a new guitar and matching golden harmonica, but in reality just to get a chance to meet Dad personally before the plane began departure. She probably had to wait. I’m sure Dad was entertaining the cabin, perhaps telling a joke or two, leading them in a favorite hymn, even telling them about how he met my mother, and performing one of her favorite songs.
When the four engines fired up, I imagine he took his new guitar, strapped on his seatbelt, and peered out the window. His signature smile returned, stretching from ear to ear. He was ready, no, he was impatient, to begin his own Flight F-I-N-A-L.
I’M SURE IT was a glorious flight.
THE END
