The Birth of Hope (Part 4)
"Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance, perseverance character; and character hope." (Rom. 5:3, NIV)
So, you see, my Dad was a godly man. He taught teenage boys in Sunday School. In his later years, he taught the senior men’s class. He regularly visited church members in the hospital, and while there, often prayed for their healing. Many of those he prayed for experienced miraculous healings!
Dad did all these things while laboring long hours to build his two businesses. By the world’s standards, he was a success. But that success never went to his head. He dressed simply and drove modest cars. The worship of mammon never marked his life. He paid college tuition for all four of his children and their spouses. He was a man of integrity, with the colorful morality I spoke of in the last chapter. Those who knew him loved him. And in many ways, I knew him better than most.
Many years before his struggle with dementia, my mother shared something with me that I had already come to realize in my own life and relationship with Dad. Of all four children, Dad felt a special connection with me. It wasn’t favoritism; it was more like a chemistry between the two of us.
When I turned twelve years of age, Dad gave me boxing gloves and a speed bag for my birthday. He had come in second place three years in a row as a middle-weight boxer in the Navy, and Dad loved boxing. I was his third son, but either because he recognized something different in me, or more likely because he was less busy with work, Dad started teaching me how to box. It was 1969, and we drove weekly to the boxing gym on the other side of the tracks, the Black section of town. There, I experienced race relations first-hand. Black and white and red, we bonded through sweat and bloody noses. I loved it.
Later, at the age of fifteen, I began taking tennis lessons. Dad was an avid tennis player and very competitive. As I grew better and he grew older, we had some fierce battles on the tennis court. I’ll never forget a story my mother used to tell. She used to watch us play from time to time, and on one occasion, I hit a drop shot just over the net. Dad raced to it and hit another drop shot. When I retrieved his drop shot, we found ourselves just across each other at the net grunting and growling. Mom used to say she thought we were going to kill each other!
It was this special connection between my Dad and me that made his dementia so difficult. The man I had known for so many years became, at times, a raving lunatic, experiencing the most bizarre hallucinations. Paranoia began to rule his life as he accused his children of plotting against him.
We tried to provide a place for my Dad with my sister, Barbara. We paid to have a freestanding garage behind her home in Atlanta converted into an apartment. But Dad would not stay put. He wandered off, often at night. We worried he would get lost, or worse. Finally, we placed him in the Alzheimer’s unit of a local nursing home in my city. I visited him regularly. It wasn’t easy. There were some bright sides. The nurses used to, affectionately, call him “boss.” He had spent so many years in charge he was used to giving people orders! What blessed me most was that whenever Dad grew agitated, if we paused and prayed with him, he became very calm, and the visible peace of the Holy Spirit could be seen resting upon him.
After a few months in the nursing home, Dad fell and broke his hip. In the hospital, he contracted pneumonia and was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. We were told that without a feeding tube, our father would die. As siblings, we all agreed Dad would not want to live under these circumstances. We chose to withhold the feeding tube. I watched, helplessly, as he slowly died. We buried him Thanksgiving weekend, eight months after Mom’s funeral.
If you’ve ever lost a loved one, you likely know that the funeral arrangements can be the easiest part of what I refer to as the “administration of death.” Paperwork, insurance companies, courthouse personnel, lawyers, bankers, accountants, and a long list of things demand time and energy. My brother, Vince, was the executor of Dad’s will, but he was investing a lot of time and money in a new business and needed some help, so I volunteered.
I helped Vince as best I could. We were already close, but the time we spent together brought us even closer. We shared our hearts with each other and prayed often. Our love for one another was a source of encouragement for both of us. Then Vince was diagnosed with cancer.
The slow process of Vince’s death, and the unraveling of his business, which he worked so hard to build, was painful to see. I wept often. I struggled with depression and lost an alarming amount of weight. But honestly, few people knew the deep emotional struggles I faced. I threw myself into my work. There was plenty to do - preparing sermons, counseling, committee meetings, weddings, funerals, speaking engagements; my ministry was my escape, or so I hoped.
Our church was growing, and with that growth came change, but many of our long-term members opposed this change and actively fought against it. I faced constant attacks on my ministry, leadership, and character. Our church staff was also severely criticized. I descended into what seemed a bottomless pit of despair and hopelessness. But God’s grace sustained me. There were several vehicles of grace God used to bring me out of the pit, and I want to share those with you in the hope that you can experience as I did the words of the psalmist, “He drew me up from the pit of destruction, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure. He put a new song in my mouth.” (Psalm 40:2-3) That rock is Jesus, and that new song is nothing less than the birth of a living hope deep within.
I’ll continue this tomorrow.
In Christ,
Dan
Thank you Ptr. Dan.. I remember when we bumped with you at the bus after our worship service in SIBC pyeongtaek.. And had pictures with you and my familty..My husband Mark, and I discussed about how we observed you as a Ptr... We were grateful to witness that after the woship service, instead of grabbing the opportunity to hitch on the car of one of the church members vehicle, you opted to ride on a bus instead.. My husband told me, that is a real servant..he does not want to be served despite being a Ptr.. Thank you for that Ptr.. GOD bless you..