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In my parents' wedding photos, dad is a slim, straight-backed young man of 21. This was five years after he was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis in his spine and hips but before that disease stole his good posture, his height, even the ability to turn his head from side to side. He stood five feet, nine inches tall, a good seven inches taller than mom, five inches taller than my full height.
Over the years, rheumatoid arthritis - actually, ankylosing spondylitis - stole many things from dad, including the ability to run or walk fast and his original hip joints, which were replaced by artificial joints when he was just 36. It gave him other, unwanted, things in exchange - constant pain, frequent kidney infections, and recurring bouts of iritis. There were a lot of things, though, that it didn't take - a thirst for knowledge, a deep love for the Lord and for his family, and a sense of humor. Dad had a masters degree in social work from Wayne State University (the workplace he retired from was the VA hospital; he frequently said he just wished they could do more for the veterans there). In 1973, he was ordained as a Christian minister and spent many Sundays filling in for pastors at various churches so they could take a well-earned vacation. His grandchildren and step-grandchildren were the light of his eyes.
Three years ago tonight, I was driving home from my second-shift data-entry job, unable to reach either of my sisters, who had been keeping me informed of dad's status in the hospital, where he'd been admitted the day before with pneumonia. I prayed for a recovery, but I knew it wasn't a good sign that no one would answer the phone. I drove the 20 miles home, not knowing then if dad was alive or dead and thinking back to the last time I'd seen him, a few weeks before. He hadn't stood five feet nine inches then - he hadn't in years. When I was in high school, dad was still three inches taller than I was, but the last time I saw him, I think we were the same height. I finally got home that night to see Irish standing on the porch. When I got out of the car he just said, "Honey, your dad's gone."
Eight hours later, my sisters and my brother in law were in the car, heading for Texas. It was a 22 hour trip. Sometimes we talked a lot, sometimes we didn't talk at all. Sometimes, we tried to envision what in must be like for dad in Heaven. We don't know what Heaven is really like, but everyone has their own ideas. I know all of us kept thinking about dad, walking without a cane, running, turning his head freely from side to side and looking up and down without pain. Dad standing unbowed with a straight spine, pain-free joints, reaching his full height. Five foot nine.
Over the years, rheumatoid arthritis - actually, ankylosing spondylitis - stole many things from dad, including the ability to run or walk fast and his original hip joints, which were replaced by artificial joints when he was just 36. It gave him other, unwanted, things in exchange - constant pain, frequent kidney infections, and recurring bouts of iritis. There were a lot of things, though, that it didn't take - a thirst for knowledge, a deep love for the Lord and for his family, and a sense of humor. Dad had a masters degree in social work from Wayne State University (the workplace he retired from was the VA hospital; he frequently said he just wished they could do more for the veterans there). In 1973, he was ordained as a Christian minister and spent many Sundays filling in for pastors at various churches so they could take a well-earned vacation. His grandchildren and step-grandchildren were the light of his eyes.
Three years ago tonight, I was driving home from my second-shift data-entry job, unable to reach either of my sisters, who had been keeping me informed of dad's status in the hospital, where he'd been admitted the day before with pneumonia. I prayed for a recovery, but I knew it wasn't a good sign that no one would answer the phone. I drove the 20 miles home, not knowing then if dad was alive or dead and thinking back to the last time I'd seen him, a few weeks before. He hadn't stood five feet nine inches then - he hadn't in years. When I was in high school, dad was still three inches taller than I was, but the last time I saw him, I think we were the same height. I finally got home that night to see Irish standing on the porch. When I got out of the car he just said, "Honey, your dad's gone."
Eight hours later, my sisters and my brother in law were in the car, heading for Texas. It was a 22 hour trip. Sometimes we talked a lot, sometimes we didn't talk at all. Sometimes, we tried to envision what in must be like for dad in Heaven. We don't know what Heaven is really like, but everyone has their own ideas. I know all of us kept thinking about dad, walking without a cane, running, turning his head freely from side to side and looking up and down without pain. Dad standing unbowed with a straight spine, pain-free joints, reaching his full height. Five foot nine.
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