My Dad
While walking along the river with my older son yesterday, our conversation about bicycling had shifted towards some memories of my Dad -the one who was strong and fit enough to ride a bike even in his seventies up and over hills and mountains. He has been one of my people, and probably the one who had the greatest influence on me. He died at the age of 87 last year, and most likely, the bike wreck accident, which he had miraculously survived four years earlier (according to the doctor’s prognosis), had accelerated the time of his death.
Thinking about his last years of life, I must conclude that what I am capable of "doing unto others" is very limited. Not only because it required thousands of miles of travel to do anything for him, or because of his condition (he no longer could talk on the phone or write a letter), but also because of my own limits. During my last visit, I realized how much my Dad would have liked to move back into his familiar surroundings with my mother, instead of lying in some private room in a clinic. My heart was aching for him, yet there were only a few small gestures and a little conversation I could do on my part. Once more he had unexpectedly recovered from sepsis (according to the doctor) at the time of my arrival. It had been uncertain before I left the US, whether I would get to view his body/participate in the funeral, or have one more chance to see him alive. My wish had been the latter, of course. But only two weeks later, I had to take another long trip, and this time it was to pay my duty towards my mother. My father had died, and she wanted me to come and attend the funeral. -- The aching for my Dad's suffering came to an end, but the sense of my duty toward my people continued.
Thinking about his last years of life, I must conclude that what I am capable of "doing unto others" is very limited. Not only because it required thousands of miles of travel to do anything for him, or because of his condition (he no longer could talk on the phone or write a letter), but also because of my own limits. During my last visit, I realized how much my Dad would have liked to move back into his familiar surroundings with my mother, instead of lying in some private room in a clinic. My heart was aching for him, yet there were only a few small gestures and a little conversation I could do on my part. Once more he had unexpectedly recovered from sepsis (according to the doctor) at the time of my arrival. It had been uncertain before I left the US, whether I would get to view his body/participate in the funeral, or have one more chance to see him alive. My wish had been the latter, of course. But only two weeks later, I had to take another long trip, and this time it was to pay my duty towards my mother. My father had died, and she wanted me to come and attend the funeral. -- The aching for my Dad's suffering came to an end, but the sense of my duty toward my people continued.
Did I fulfill my duty towards my Dad?
He had recognized me. I had played some familiar melodies on a recorder. I prepared some fresh juice for him, helped feed him and, when it was sunny and warm, I took him outside in his wheelchair. I accompanied him to his last station, a home that specializing in providing care and comfort for the last stage of people's lives.
Easter Monday I had to take farewell. Everyone in my Dad's immediate family was present: Two brothers, my mother and I. I let him know, if there had been any possibility for me to transport him to our home, I would have done it. He would have been just one extra person to care for, besides my disabled son. I said that I couldn't imagine how I could get him on the air plane, however. Maybe my idea was a little irrational/ unrealistic?--Of course it was, but my idea made him smile, even laugh, and for me, it made saying "good-bye" a little easier. I trust that he understood, what I had meant: If there had been a way, I would have done it.
What I can do for others is so limited and little, but it is not meaningless or worthless.
He had recognized me. I had played some familiar melodies on a recorder. I prepared some fresh juice for him, helped feed him and, when it was sunny and warm, I took him outside in his wheelchair. I accompanied him to his last station, a home that specializing in providing care and comfort for the last stage of people's lives.
Easter Monday I had to take farewell. Everyone in my Dad's immediate family was present: Two brothers, my mother and I. I let him know, if there had been any possibility for me to transport him to our home, I would have done it. He would have been just one extra person to care for, besides my disabled son. I said that I couldn't imagine how I could get him on the air plane, however. Maybe my idea was a little irrational/ unrealistic?--Of course it was, but my idea made him smile, even laugh, and for me, it made saying "good-bye" a little easier. I trust that he understood, what I had meant: If there had been a way, I would have done it.
What I can do for others is so limited and little, but it is not meaningless or worthless.
What is "giving a cup of cold water"? We know that it can make the difference of life and death for certain people. Jesus understood our little/great needs.
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