There is More to This Life

Tonight is the seventh anniversary of my dad's passing.  He suffered from a disease called Scleroderma, which, over a period of nine years, slowly hardened the tissue surrounding his lungs until they could no longer expand. When he was diagnosed in the summer of 1996, he and my mom prayed that he would be healed but if that wasn't to be, that he would live to see his grandchildren. God honored that request and he lived long enough to see Samuel's first year.  Thank you, Jesus. As time passed, a large part of the grieving process for me was tied up in Samuel.  It was my job to represent the grandpa he would never know. What aspects of his legacy did I want to emphasize?

My dad was a police officer with the city of Phoenix for almost 30 years, but he would have been the first to tell you that his position on the department did not define him. It was his job and one he loved and was good at, but it wasn't who he was. He was a deacon and Sunday School president, but that couldn't begin to measure his love for the Savior he chose to follow when he was 32.  He loved music, especially Johnny Cash, movie musicals, and history. He had dry sense of humor and the ability to tell the truth in love just when it was needed.  He taught us to understand and respect the political system and our duty as a responsible citizen. (I was seriously busted for not voting in a gubernatorial election right after I turned 18.) He wanted us to understand Scripture and why we believed the way we did. To ask the tough questions and not be afraid to dig deep into the mystery of faith. He married his high school sweetheart and stayed faithful to her for just shy of 31 years, teaching us the value of marriage vows fulfilled. He was wise, compassionate, and kind.  How could I begin to tell Samuel (and, later, his brothers) who their Grandpa Brad was?

A couple of months ago, I was asked to write something that would preface a song about Heaven for an upcoming church service.  I tried a few things, but, eventually, I wrote, for the first time, about my dad's last night.

The room was dimly lit and cold. Emanating from the machines and monitors was a droning mechanical symphony.  My dad’s body was still, but not at rest, his mind and heart fighting hard to remain, despite the mounting desire to go home.  Most of the family had left the ICU for a much needed respite, leaving myself and a family friend to witness the struggle. In the air was the anticipation of the inevitable. Even with assistance, his breathing was labored and raspy and, because of the apparatus pushing air in and out of his lungs, he hadn’t spoken in hours.  It was too much work just to breathe. Yet, in a brief moment of clarity and purpose, his hand reached up and removed the mask from his face.  Looking straight at the two of us and yet at no one, he said. “There’s more than this life.”  His hand, shaking with effort, placed the mask back over his face and he closed his eyes.

The last words I heard my dad speak were an encouragement and a reminder.  There’s more than this life. There’s more than the grief, the struggle, the pain. More than the joy, the ecstasy, or the adventure of living.  More than this life, because this life is but a shadow of things to come. This life is just the beginning.   Hebrews says that “people who say such things show they are looking for a country of their own....they [are] looking for a better country - a heavenly one.  Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.”  A city “prepared like a bride adorned for her husband,” where “He will wipe away every tear from their eyes” and “death will no longer exist.” A city illuminated by God’s glory and whose lamp is the Lamb. Heaven.

This is my dad's legacy.  A unrelenting focus on Jesus and what that meant for him here and, more importantly, there.  A belief, that no matter what life brought, it couldn't compare to the glory of the Savior, to the mercy of the cross, and the hope of eternity.  This is the grandpa I want my kids to know. This is the legacy I hope they see lived in me.

Mom and Dad with Samuel on his first Christmas morning.