My account of things.

It's mid August, year 2020, the year that will go down as one of the worst in modern history. In the midst of a global pandemic, political unrest, rioting, an oil and gas crises, earthquakes, fires, tornadoes, hurricanes, and bizarre insect infestations, I have also had to say goodbye to my dad. His unexpected diagnosis hit the same month that society came to a halt. This has been a bad year for all of humanity, so I know everyone has some sort of story. This here is simply to serve as my own reminder, so that I never forget some sacred moments that have occurred over the past several months. So I never forget the strength of my family and the awesomeness of my God.

Backing up to mid-March, it all came like a wild stampede with no warning. I think of The Lion King and the scene where Simba is in the gorge when a charge of wildebeest shows up fast and chases him until he finds a dead tree and a fragile limb on which to climb. Simba dangled there, barely hanging on, while chaos thundered around him for what felt like forever. This is the visual I get when I think of my last 6 months. For me, it began with the rumblings in the news of a new virus, and, like everyone else, Chris and I were trying to figure out how severe it was, if it really was coming our way, and what it all might mean.

Then the call came from my mom, mid-morning on a Saturday. She said dad had another fainting spell, and that it seemed different this time. And it was. I remember standing at the front entrance of the Clarmore ER, being greeted by a nurse in complete, head-to-toe protective gear, and begging her to let me go in. But because of the virus, they refused. I sat in the parking lot and fought back worry and tears until mom's call came with the news. Dad's MRI showed a large, inoperable, and aggressive brain tumor. I remember it well because I was juggling calls from the kids about campus' being closed while juggling calls with my mom about hospitals on lockdown and what to do next. I remember asking myself, what kind of faith do I have. I remember telling myself, I have to keep it together.

Within days of dad's diagnosis, my home became a student union for three young adults and two office suites for Chris and I. All the while, mom's living room became a hospital room. A bed was dropped off by an overly cautious, elderly man in a mask, and medical equipment showed up with no instructions for use. Prescription bottles filled the kitchen counter with little oversight on how to administer the contents inside them, and tele-health doctor appointments filled the calendar. Conversations around chemo, radiation, and home health care became the norm, all while nothing was normal. I remember asking myself, what kind of faith do I have. I remember telling myself, I have to keep it together.

Our new restaurant, too, became a new source of concern. The new business we poured our life savings into went from hustle and bustle to ghost town almost overnight, as rest of society tried to understand Covid-19. How were we to survive, and how do we keep our employees safe and employed? Fears of losing all we had built, worries about the safety of our employees, and personal concerns of my own furloughs and a possible layoff were joined by questions of how to help my mom help my dad while keeping them safe from Covid. My thoughts were supercharged with all these things, all while watching my dad decline drastically every day, and all while wanting to create a safe and comfortable home to help ease the fears and worries of four other loved ones under my roof. I remember asking myself, what kind of faith do I have. I remember telling myself, I have to keep it together.

As if all this wasn't enough, church also changed. Media (my role with the church) became a mess. When we started "parking lot church," new technology was brought in, and a new screen meant new systems that didn't work with the old. Every Sunday brought stress and confusion that I didn't have to spare. Nothing worked the way it was suppose to, and I missed everything I ever knew about the church. I grew confused by a faith that taught me all my life that fear was from the enemy and to always find strength in corporate worship. Yet here we were afraid to meet and do church together. I remember asking myself, what kind of faith DO I have. I remember telling myself, I HAVE to keep it together.

So I was forced to dig deeper into my faith in new, more personal ways. And I did, along side Chris. We continued our daily devotionals and held hands as we prayed together. I spent every morning and evening on either the front porch or back, praying, listening, and searching for God's provision. When I was very young, I learned an old Sunday School song in children's church. I hadn't thought about it in probably over 40 years, but it came to mind one morning. "The Wise Man Built His House Upon A Rock" became my personal, private mantra, and I have no doubt it was from God.

As days turned into weeks, Chris and I decided that we would look for God's blessings in all of the uncertainty, rather than let all the negative news get to us. For most of my life, I have strongly believed that blessings are everywhere if we just open our eyes, look for them, and recognize them for what they are. I also was drawn to Philippians 4:8. It reads:

Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.

So as I stopped and looked, I quickly realized some miracles were happening right before our eyes. For example, my two hour commute to work and back was now over, and my home office allowed me more freedom and productivity. Furloughs gave me time with my dad that I wouldn't have had otherwise, and my job security became stronger than ever. What kind of faith do I have? The kind that created this in the midst of chaos.

Miracles happened with the restaurant. People have decided that eating healthy is important, and business has improved. We've learned how to do things differently, to streamline operations, saving money in the long-run. We were able to apply for and receive government assistance due to the pandemic, and our top competitors in the Tulsa market have permanently closed their doors. We are more financially stable now than we were 8 months ago, and not one of our employees became infected with the virus. What kind of faith do I have? The kind that has not only sustained our restaurant, but has enabled it to thrive.

Miracles have happened with relationships. Chris and I were 5 months into being empty nesters when the virus came. I was missing my (now adult) children so much and was wondering if I had spent enough quality time with them these past few years. Not only did I get to spend months of dedicated time with my two, I also had sweet Rachael here to get to know and love. We cooked together, ate meals together, played games, had porch time, went on walks, watched movies, and filled the pandemic with memories I would have never had before. What kind of faith do I have? The kind that says, no regrets here!

So, yes, there were miracles. But not for my dad, unfortunately. He passed away a few weeks ago, and I caught myself not too long ago wondering why a miracle didn't happen for him. I prayed so hard for healing. Other people pray for healing and often receive it for their loved ones. Why not for dad?

But I was quickly reminded that there have been miracles. So many wonderful things have happened that I could have easily missed or discounted if I didn't recognize them for what they were. The miracle is that dad is in heaven, where we all long to be in the deepest part of our souls. And the miracle is that God and dad are both sending us signs and reminders of their love and of their presence with us, even now. But lest I forget, I must recall them here.

A miracle came in the form of a single white dove that came to visit the day my mom gave me the news about dad's tumor. I was in shock and had escaped to my porch to let it sink in, when this dove flew right in front of me, perched on the limb, and watched me for a bit. The dove is the symbol of the Holy Spirit, and I believe it was sent my way that day as a reminder that we were not alone in this, and God was (and would be) right by our side the whole time.

Other amazing miracles started happening the second dad left this world. They started with the humming bird that fluttered around my sister as she walked in mom's front door at 3 am, right as dad as taking his last breath. We've never seen hummingbirds at my parents' place, and hummingbirds are diurnal - only active during the day. I know it was dad telling Jodie goodbye.

I saw a miracle the day after my dad's passing in the double rainbow that appeared early morning when there had been no rain. I know it was God and dad wanting us to smile.

The day of dad's memorial service was a miracle, too, in that it was oddly cool. It is never cool in August in Oklahoma. Dad knew how much mom hated the heat. What a gift!

And then there's the day after dad's memorial service. A pile of sand was left over in our driveway from a patio project we just finished, and I thought I'd surprise Chris by getting rid of it and making the driveway clean for the first time in months. Washing sand with water from a garden hose is a fruitless exercise, and as I grew frustrated with my lack of progress, I looked to the sky and said, "Dad, you always taught me to push through hard work, but this is ridiculous." Within minutes, the clear, blue sky opened up, and rain fell for 20 minutes, washing the driveway clean. I will never forget that morning, standing and laughing in the most bizarre rain shower I'd ever seen.

Another miracle came in an unplanned meeting at a car dealership when mom agreed to sell dad's pickup for something she could more easily drive. Dad loved it when his girls were together, and mom needed all the emotional support possible to trade in dad's pride and joy truck. But we hadn't planned on going to the dealership that evening - none of us. We didn't call or text each other, but there we all were - his wife, two daughters, and grand daughter, running into each other at the same dealership late on a weekday evening, completely unplanned, making it happen with ease.

One of my favorite miracles happened just last week. It was a golden window illuminated by the sunset as mom and I sat on the front porch talking about what heaven might be like, what dad might be doing there, and reminiscing. The sun was setting and mom gasped with awe as she told me to look at our neighbor's window... she snapped this pic with her phone.

I had read Leighton Ford's book, The Attentive Life, and in it he writes....

"There is something almost magical to me about the border time between afternoon and evening when the sun is setting and casting its glow. Sunset, the 'vespers hour,' like sunrise, is a liminal, in-between time. Like the rest in a musical score, it calls us to pause, to come to a stop between light and night, busyness and quietness, between winding up and winding down.

Late afternoon takes my mind back a long time, to the years when our Debbie was little and every night I was home I told her a bedtime story. Almost invariably she would insist, “Daddy, tell me about the house with golden windows.”

Whether it was a story I made up or one I had read I do not remember, but it was about a father and his little daughter walking at the end of the day and in the distance seeing a house “with golden windows.”

Entranced, they walked quickly toward that house, but as they drew nearer the golden windows disappear and the windows become just plain old glass. They walk away and then just as suddenly the golden windows reappear.

At last the little girl exclaims with sudden recognition, “Daddy, that’s our house! But why does it only seem to have golden windows?”

The father replies, “Every house has golden windows if you only look closely and carefully enough at the right time.”

With a sigh of wonder and contentment, Debbie would slip off into sleep.

The lure of the golden windows speaks to the universal longing for home in almost every human heart, a longing that often seems to summon us with a special pathos at Vespers."

During dad's last days, he often begged mom to take him home, but mom did her best to tell him he was home. Was he longing for the home Leighton Ford speaks of here? I believe so. Mom and I were sitting in the pathos of Vespers when this beautiful moment where the golden window appeared. What a miracle!

Another miracle came while mom, Jodie, and I were tending to dad's gravesite last Saturday, hoeing, raking, planting grass seeds, hanging flowers on a hook, and reminiscing. Out of no where, two humming birds showed up again for a very brief minute. We stopped and smiled, and talked about who dad may have brought with him this time.

Reflecting now on all that has happened since March, I feel like a different person. Mom, Jodie, and I, by dad's side, experienced the most delicate, spiritual, and precious parts of life and relationships. We spent 6 months together, the four of us, taking care of dad and each other.

I watched mom move and work with grace and strength that only comes from years of deep love for her soul mate, personal faith, and lots of prayer support. She administered medicine, took care of dad's daily needs, cleaned, cooked, took him on walks, and held his hand. I watched Jodie lift him out of bed and into the car and back again on those rare days he went to the doctor, amazed by her mental and physical strength.

Though some days we saw improvements that filled us with a bit of hope, we somehow knew this time was precious and going fast. And it did go fast. The last three days with dad were the hardest and the most sacred. Days I never want to forget. The hours, days and nights blurred together as mom, Jo and I took turns sleeping and giving dad his medication every two hours or so. We told stories from childhood and looked through photo albums. We played hymns, worship songs, and Jim Reeves from our phones, put lotion on his arms and legs, and swabbed water onto his lips to keep them moist. We kept him comfortable, changing which side he laid on, and eventually turned on oxygen to help him breath easier. And in the end, we counted seconds between breaths and prayed like never before.

I'm not sure what the future hold for any of us. I do know that death is a part of life, and we all will experience it someday. And yes, these past 6 months have been more difficult than I ever imagined. But I hold tight to miracles and all that we've experienced as a family recently. I am convinced that God sends messages everyday if we just look for them. I never want to forget. And I look forward to seeing more.