Gone

My Dad died.   One year ago.  365 days if we're keeping track. If a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years like a day in heaven, he's spent just a few seconds there.  Yet I've missed him every second of this last year.

It seems like I've said, "man, I miss my Dad" or "I wish my dad was here" more times than I can count.  Although I wouldn't want him back here the way he was.

Dad died on a Sunday and I spent the night the Friday night before at my mother's.  Everyone had gone to bed.  My mom had fallen asleep in her chair.  The house was quiet, save the oxygen machine for my Dad.

I pulled a recliner as close as I could to Dad's bed.  I tried to monkey with the settings of his bed to make the levels even with the recliner and at the same time,  not wake my Mother up. I laid in the recliner, pulled a pillow close to him and held his hand; my thumb skimming the back of his hand.  My mind catching the irony of how our roles had reversed. Every once in awhile I'd check his chest to make sure he was breathing.

I hummed old hymns that we use to sing together, I whispered stories about my kids, tears spilling down my cheeks, into my ears and onto my pillow.  I told him about my relationship with the Lord, my hopes, my dreams, my fears.... just as if he could respond.  Then I hummed some more.  I rubbed his arm and my eye caught his tattoo.  It sagged across his upper arm.  It was a picture of a bulldog with U.S.M.C. underneath.   He was always ashamed of it while I was growing up.  Always covering it up; trying to hide it.  He said he had gotten it while he was drunk when he was in the Marines, before he knew the Lord.  However, I didn't know that when I was a child.  All I saw was, well, blue mush that sort of looked like a dog with letters underneath.  I told my friends at school that my dad had a tattoo of his dog that died named Usmc.

The only photo I have of his tattoo

However that night, that tattoo represented that my dad was once a man.  A strong man.  One that proudly served in the United States Marine Corp.  Who lied about his age just so he could serve his country.  I didn't see any shame in that tattoo, I saw honor.  I saw valor.  I saw a glimpse of who my dad use to be.

Love a man in uniform =)

He wasn't an old man that was reduced to a shriveled skeleton with skin on...a mere 70 pounds.  He was Ivan Gerald Christianson.  My father. Bigger than the world.  Who could do anything, was afraid of nothing and could love everyone.

I turned 39 last Friday.  It was profound to me because that's the age Dad was when he had me.  It made me think of how in the end our roles had reversed.  I had wiped his eyes clean.  Helped carry him.  Helped change and bathe him... brush his hair, put his shirt on.  How many countless times did he do that for me?  Most dad's in the early 70's were "hands off", but my dad was in the delivery room, and took care of me just like a little mama.  I remember sitting on his lap in church, playing with his silk tie, sucking my finger and just feeling...safe.  I wonder if dad felt that way when I held his hand that last Friday stroking his hand.  Did he feel safe?  I remember being afraid after a bad dream and wandering out of my bed seeking comfort from my mom and dad in their room.  Before I could reach it, I saw the back of my Dad in the living room strumming his guitar and humming old choruses and hymns.  It soothed my heart and brought me comfort.  I went back to bed without anyone knowing.  I wonder if that Friday while I was humming those old choruses did it soothe his heart and bring comfort?

I rememeber coming back from my voice and piano lessons in Madison with Dad and he was sharing some of his ideas and dreams for Special Kids N Us (mom and dad's ministry).  He got all excited and sped up on the Interstate.  It made me feel special that he would share such intimate thoughts and dreams with me.  I wonder if Dad felt special when I shared with him about my children, my hopes and dreams, my fears and doubts?  Or if he heard me at all?

But that's the thing about my Dad, just when you think he's not listening, he squeezes your hand, or winks at you or tells your story to someone else.  The last day of Dad's life he sang with me.  Not with his voice, but he mouthed it.  He was listening the Friday before... that was one of my hopes.  I prayed for that.

He accomplished much in his life.  He had a long, loving marriage, 16 kids, a ministry to special needs children, 100+ foster children.... yet his greatest accomplishment was his relationship with the Lord.  That's his legacy. That's what he wanted to pass down to every one of his children.  Not money.  Not possessions, not heartache...but a true knowledge of Christ.  Everyone needs to work out their own Salvation.  I know that.  But Dad pointed us in the right direction.  He was the compass that pointed us to Christ.  That was his gift to us. I pray I can be the kind of parent that he was to me.

I'm so proud to be his daughter.

I miss you, Dad.

Hope

Hope

I watched my Father's chest rise and fall... his ribs really.  I can't really call it a chest.  He's mere bones.  A man's chest is strong, muscular, firm, heavy.  Not small, weak, frail... boney.   His body looked like a holocaust victim. No grown man should weigh 90 pounds. It's not right.  I shifted to his eyes.  They seemed to have disappeared with his body.  Not right at all.  It was a depressing sight.

It seems all my growing up years were etched with sadness.  As I was sitting with Dad, my Mother and I were reminiscing over the years.

When I was twelve, I came home from school and my sister, Sue, wasn't feeling well.  I looked at one of my other sisters, Darla, and rolled my eyes.  It seemed like Sue was always sick.  Little did I know that this afternoon was a lot different.  Mom told Darla to call the ambulance but for some reason, Dar couldn't get through, so Mom got on the phone.  All of a sudden, Susie yelled out "I'm going to have a seizure!" then went limp in the chair.  It obviously was not a seizure.

She stopped breathing and Mom cried out for Darla and I to start CPR.  Darla was 15 and I was 12.  It floors me to think of that.  Micayla is 15 and Nikki will be 12 in a couple of weeks.  Susie was just a little thing, but she was so heavy to Darla and I.  It took everything within us to lift her to the floor.  I start the ventilations and Darla was doing the chest compressions.  The whole time was surreal to me.  I couldn't believe this was happening.  My mom got off the phone; the ambulance was on its way.

A few moments later, Sue vomited in my mouth.  I completely broke down.  Mom took over while I went to the bathroom to clean up.  I told my Mom, for months I thought I had killed Sue.  I thought it was my fault because I didn't have her head tilted back far enough, all the air got in her belly instead of her lungs.  It was several months before I discovered it was a bleed in her brain stem that ruptured that caused her death.  She died in the chair; there was no bringing her back. Yet, I carried that guilt with me for so long.  I felt guilty because I rolled my eyes and didn't take her being sick seriously.  She was always sick.  Who knew she was really that sick?

Darla and I were so young.  It baffles me now.  She was 27, I was 12.

Then, the year after that the grandma that had lived with us for four years passed away.  I helped take care of her.  Helped bathe, feed, change, catheterize her... love her.  She died at our home.  I was 13.

Then the year after that, my other grandma died from cancer. I adored her. I was 14.

Then the year after that, my sister, Deanna died from breast cancer. She died in our living room.  She was 30, was 15.

Then the year after that, my brother, Dave died from adrenal gland cancer.  He died in our kitchen. He was 27,  I was 16.

Then the year after that, my brother, Joey died from heart complications. He died in my Mother's arms.    He was 4, I was 17.

Then the year after that, my sister, Angela died from complications in surgery.  She was 13, I was 18.

It sucked.  So much sadness.  So much sorrow.

I was reading in Lamentations last night.  What a sorrowful book. Basically this book of the Bible is five funeral poems.  This dirge talks of how awful Jerusalem is; how much she's crying; how barren and left alone. How betrayed, forsaken and forgotten she is.  Sad. But smack dab in the middle of this sad, miserable book, there is hope:

"Yet, this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail.  They are new every morning, great is Your faithfulness.

"I say to myself 'The Lord is my portion therefore I will wait for Him.' The Lord is good to those whose hope is in Him, to the one who seeks Him; it is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord.

"Let him sit along in silence, for the Lord has laid it on Him.  Let him bury his face in the dust-there may yet be hope.

"For men are not cast off by the Lord forever.  Though He brings grief, He will show compassion, so great is His unfailing love."  Lamentations 3: 23-26, 28-33

There is hope.  Although the storms may swell and rage, there is hope that the waters will be still and tranquil once again.

Although my family was dropping like flies on a window sill, I knew the Lord was going to be there every morning to hold my hand through the day.  I knew He was the one constant in my life that wouldn't change.

Even though I was angry, hurt, frustrated, confused, lonely, guilt-ridden and just plain sad... after all the flowers had lost it's petals, the cards had been put away, the visitors had forgotten us...I laid in my bed and soaked my pillow with tears.  It was the Lord who showed His compassion and love, looked at his heart broken daughter, picked me up, cradled me to His big, strong chest and rocked me back to healing.

Hope.

The Word tells us that the Lord "gives and takes away."  (Job 1:21 Message) My Dad's journey will soon be ending here and beginning in heaven.  My niece, Becky is about to give birth.  God's giving a new life; bringing home another.   He has cradled Becky's new child to His big, strong chest, and He will soon be welcoming my Father to His chest as well.  There is hope in the Lord.

The King Is Coming

The King Is Coming

Busy. Frantic. Rushing. Crazy. Those adjectives describe my morning.  I made a list last night of all the things I had to accomplish today.  I'm going to Women of Faith tomorrow morning right after I slow down at the curb and kick the kids out of the mini van for school, and there are a lot of things I needed to cram into this day.

Twenty minutes before my alarm clock went off, I woke up.  I turned a lazy, crusted eye to the clock and winced at the constant ache in my head and neck.  My mind was torn between my dreams and reality.  Reality won.  I immediately thought of three more things to add to my list.  I grabbed my iPhone and added to my growing list.

As I rushed from school to school, to the doctor, to church, the store, post office, home, back to the store again, then back to get the kids; my mind kept going to my Dad.

My Mother called me yesterday and told me the nurse had asked him if he was afraid.  He nodded and contorted his face as if to cry.  I so wanted to go out and see him yesterday, but I couldn't.  The kids' schedules were so crazy.  And here I am again today.  My day was shot.  Then tonight Micayla had driver's ed and there were still things I wanted to get done around the house and I still had to pack for this weekend.  But what if tonight was the last night for Dad?

So after school the girls and I fell into the van with cold fries and hot sandwiches from Arby's.

No matter how much or little time has passed, it is always a shock to see Dad again.  To see the robust, strong man, that carried me when I was small, lifted the handicapped children with ease and held my mother's hand so tenderly, reduced to a frail, tiny man that weighs a mere 103 pounds is sad.  Alzheimer's is cruel.

I knelt beside him and rubbed his chest telling him hello. His hollow cheeks sucked in and out, a soft snore filling the room.   I leaned over and kissed his wrinkled forehead.  I brushed back his grey, thin hair.  I remembered when his hair was black and full(er) and he coiffed it with Dippity Do.   It was then I started to just talk to him.

I told him how much I loved him.  How whenever I mention his name to someone, they get a grin on their face and tell a story of how he has impacted their life.  I told him that he can go see Jesus now.  He can see Dave, Sue, Deanne, Joey, his mom and dad, his sister, Bev... all his loved ones that have died.   He doesn't have to be afraid.  Everything will be alright.  Mom will be taken care of.  Everyone will be taken care of.  I listed all of us kids.  Josiah, Jed, Jon, Sally, Jessie, Darla, Debbie, Anne'... we will all be okay.

I said, "Imagine Dad, seeing Jesus.  You get to walk the streets of gold.  See the pearly gates, the Jordan river.  All the questions that we talked about when I was growing up, you can ask Jesus.  You'll be able to remember again."

Again, I told him how much I loved him.  That it was okay for him to die, that Jesus would take care of him and that he would give him peace.  A peace that passes all understanding.  I told him he was the best dad that I could have ever asked for. Every good childhood memory I have has him in it.

I started to rub his temples. "Remember when I was a little girl and you use to rub my temples when I had a seizure?  You said if you could, you would take all the pain away.  Dad, if I could, I would take all your pain away."

Of course I was crying and snotting by this time.  I started to pray. I prayed that God would take him home.  That he would release Dad from this shell.  "Dad has loved You with all of his heart, now let him love You with all of his mind."  I wiped my tears off of Dad's neck.  I put my lips close to his ear and just groaned and cried.  The Bible says in Romans 8:26 that "God's Spirt is right alongside helping us along.  If we don't know how or what to pray, it doesn't matter.  He does our praying in and for us, making prayer out of our wordless sighs, our aching groans."  I love that verse because that's what I was doing...groaning.  God knows.

I laid my head down on Dad's chest and felt it rise and fall.  I heard the irregular beating just below the surface.  My thoughts drifted back thirty years ago when I was a little girl sitting on his lap in church.  I had laid my head against his chest then too.  I tried to match him breath for breath, but my lungs needed much more air than he did.  I heard the thumping of his heart against my cheek, strong and steady.  Just like him.   His arms had enveloped me; I breathed in his fragrance. Old Spice. It smelled like safety.  I felt protected in this man's arms.  I didn't know any difference.  It's where I had fit.  It was home.

Now, I laid against a very different chest.  The strong, steady beat, is replaced by an irregular, weak patter.  The strong arms that had surrounded me, were no longer tan from the hard work in the sun, but now were rather very pale and laid limp on his inverted belly.  The fragrance that was so familiar as a child is now replaced with laundry detergent and stale breath.  Yet, I still felt like I fit on his chest; it was still home.  I'll always be his baby.

I sat up, brushed his hair back and kissed him on the cheek.

When I was a baby Mom and Dad use to sing "The King is Coming" to me as a lullaby.  They'd pat my butt like a basketball and I'd fall asleep.  On through toddler years and even as a child, they'd sing it to me.  I remember asking them "just one more time."  Before I left, I sang this to him:

"The marketplace is empty, no more traffic in the street
All the builder's tools are silent, no more time to harvest wheat
Busy housewives cease their labor, in the courtroom no debate
Work on earth has been suspended as the King comes through the gate

Oh the King is coming, the King is coming
I just heard the trumpet sounding and now His face I see
Oh the King is coming, the King is coming
Praise God, He is coming for Dad."

Now, originally the song ends "coming for me." But Dad changed it to "coming for Becka." And then would list all the kids in the family as well.  I loved that song.

I found it fitting to sing this to Dad for a couple of reasons.

One, Dad sang this over me, and now I get to sing it over him.  The roles have truly reversed.  He has become completely dependent on other people for his needs. I had cleaned out his eyes tonight. It was an honor.  I sang to him my lullaby.  It was an honor.  He is my dad.  It is an honor.

Two,  The King IS coming for Dad.  I don't think the King is coming by the way of The Rapture, but the Lord is bringing him home nonetheless.

Never in a million years would I have thought I would pray for my Dad to die.  I love him so much.  Yet, I believe he's ready to see Jesus.  As I left tonight, I took his hand and whispered in his ear, "the next time I see you, it will be in heaven."  He squeezed it. It broke my heart.

I came home, looked at my messy home and thought, from now on, take a deep breath, embrace the mess, the dirt, the kids, the hubby and the chaos.  The King is coming.  That's what's important.