Kiss Your Miracle

It’s been just over five weeks since my dad’s terminal cancer diagnosis and our emotions have rolled us in every possible direction, sometimes all in the same day. But as the cancer has spread and my dad has grown weaker, his pain steadily increasing, we have come to a place where we are starting to see his death as a release from the trap his body has become. As Christians we know that my dad’s soul is eternal and isn’t harmed by the cancer.

Still, the sadness is overwhelming. I find myself extra sensitive these days. We’ve flown in and out of Chicago several times this past month and I can’t look at its familiar, sparkly skyline without crying a little, thinking of how my dad has worked in his office on Wabash Street for years, but won’t be back again. Lately everything seems to remind me of my dad. And everything makes me miss him. He is still here in a sense – his heart is still beating. But he is not the same Papa who raised us. As the hospice workers have pointed out, “He has one foot in each world – ours and eternity.” Just breathing consumes all of his energy. He is now past the point of eating, talking, and even being awake.

This past week Adam and I flew back to Florida for a few days, and on Wednesday Adam’s grandma, uncle, sister and parents came over for dinner. I was happy to see them, but to be completely honest, a little tense too. I figured they would want to talk about my dad and I wasn’t sure I was up for it. I tried to be normal as they arrived, but found myself more comfortable working in the kitchen while they chatted in the living room. I was standing by the stove when Adam’s parents showed up. John, my father-in-law, immediately walked over to me and gave me a hug. Then he said, “I just want you to know how sorry I am that this is happening to your family.” His eyes filled with tears and he went on to specifically describe how my dad had encouraged him a few months back. My own eyes filled with tears and then he hugged me again. I felt my body breathe a sigh of relief and my tension faded. The whole interaction was probably two minutes long, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.

Later that night as Adam and I gave Sky a bath, I told Adam what his dad had said. “I don’t even remember his exact words,” I said. “All I know is that they were perfect.”  When I thought about it more, I realized that what John didn’t do was just as powerful as what he’d done. He didn’t asked me a series of questions. He didn’t pressure me to explain my feelings and he didn’t give me any advice. He didn’t tell me to try this or try that, or to pray this or pray that. He didn’t start talking about himself and his experiences or tell me that he understands how we feel. What he did was deliberately, sincerely acknowledge my family’s pain. And then he stepped back. We spent the rest of the night talking about other things and that was exactly what I needed.

I hope that the next time I’m close to someone in a crisis, I remember John’s example and how his nearness, his carefully chosen words, and then his space showed me the meaning of the word sympathy.

“A word aptly spoken is like apples of gold in settings of silver.” – Proverbs 25:11