Those who follow this blog know that our Pastor passed away a few weeks ago. You also know that 2 of his sons are in prison--one for 14 year and the other for 24-for spanking a child with a small switch. Each month they write a prayer letter to send out to the churches. This is Caleb's for this month. Please take the time to read it and think of what really matters in life.
Caleb D. Thompson
February / March 2009
I just got off the phone with Dad. It was probably the last time I will ever speak to him or hear his voice. The finality of that thought is earth-shattering.
He was always so full of life, so energetic, and I always thought that he’d be around to preach my funeral. I thought that trying to keep up with him would be the death of me.
Now I am struggling to hear his weak voice and to understand his broken thoughts. A mysterious and indiscriminate illness has felled this giant of a man. His love of life, his laughter, his enthusiasm and zest have been replaced with quiet resignation.
His waking moments are spent with mom by his side as he guides her through the decisions that his passing will necessitate. Mom received the chaplain’s call in the hospital parking lot and ran through the halls into the ICU where Dad was lying.
“Hi, Son,” he whispers. “I’m not gonna make it.”
We both begin to cry. My world, which has been in erratic orbit, has ceased to turn. Its guiding light is fast sinking in the western sky, bowing its head one last time before giving way to the long, dark, cold night of sorrow.
“You’ve been my best friend.” Each word saps his body of strength and leaves him struggling to speak another. “You always were special.” I listen intently, trying to etch every word on the tablets of my heart.
“I signed your ordination and your degree.” I sob with gratitude and tell him that I’ll always cherish them. “Adam’s gonna take the church. Everyone is glad. They’ve all done so well through the difficulties.”
He is silent for a moment as he gathers strength to talk again.
“Only a few families left us, and they still come around once in a while. They even call to check on me.”
I try to turn the conversation toward him, but he wants to talk about others. Typical Dad. Always the good shepherd. He begins to name people, wandering sheep, taking responsibility upon himself for failing them. I cry. Even in death his thoughts are upon the flock. He grows silent again, then whispers,
“You talk, Son, I want to hear your voice.”
“I love you with all my heart, and I’m so grateful to be your son. It’s been good. You’ve always believed in me, always been my biggest supporter, and knowing that has kept me going during the darkest nights. We made a lot of great memories, had so many wonderful times, and in them all, you always put Jesus first. We’ve been through some tough times, and you’ve trusted the Lord, no matter how bewildering. You’re incredible. I love you so much and although I’m not ready to say goodbye, I don’t want you to hang on any longer for me. Go in peace. I’m just envious that you will see Jesus so soon.”
I’ve cleaned out the chaplain’s Kleenex box.
“Dad, will you say a blessing over me?” I ask. “I don’t know if I’ve ever done that,” he whispers, “but I’ll try.” “The Lord bless thee and keep thee,” he begins. “The Lord make His face to shine upon thee. May He give you humility.”
He labors for breath. “Stay humble Son, stay humble. May the Lord make you great. May He keep you holy and keep you from sin. May He always be first in your life. Lord, help him. Bless him.” He struggles with every word. “May the Lord be your strength always. Son, I’m so proud of you. You’ve always been special from the very first. Your hands were so big when you were little and you gripped my finger so hard. You sure grew tall. Made me look small.”
He is silent for a minute. Dad talks about me walking around in his boots when I was little. “Dad, I’m still trying to fill those boots.” The chaplain pulls out more Kleenex to wipe his own eyes. “I can’t think of a single bad memory of you,” he says, “I sure did enjoy the years you worked with me at the church, talking everything through, praying together, putting together sermons, traveling to preach, I just enjoy you.”
“Dad, I enjoyed working with you. Thank you for the privilege. I only wish I’d have talked less and listened more. I’d give anything to go back to college and sit through your classes again.” Dad speaks again, “I regret not being part of your wedding.”
Mom whispers something, and Dad says, “but we were just glad to be there. I’m so proud of you. Thanks for writing the book. It’s really good. I’ve been sending it out and calling preachers to push it. It’s helping people.”
“I’m so sorry, Dad, that I can’t be there for you. I always thought we’d come home and life would go on, that nothing would change. I’m so sorry!”
“It’s been a nightmare,” he whispers, laboring for breath. “I’m sorry it happened. I still can’t believe it. I wish you were with me.”
He cries. “I’m sorry if I ever failed you.” “No, Dad, far from that. You’ve been the greatest.” “Things sure have changed,” he says. “It won’t be the same again.”
Silence.
Then, “Son, I’ve lived my life upon the Scriptures. I’ve slept on them. I’ve fed on them I’ve given my whole life to the Scriptures; they’ve never failed me. They’ve kept me and led me. They’ve been my life. Don’t ever forsake them, Son. I’m gonna ask them to let me go. I’m tired.” His words are faint. I can hardly understand him. I cannot stop the tears. If only I could hug him.
“I don’t know how to say good-bye, Dad. I will miss you every day of my life. I wish I could tell you what you mean to me.” “You have, Son. You have, better than you know.” “Dad, I’ll be looking for you when I reach the other shore. Oh Dad, I don’t even want to think about facing a day without you in my life. I’ll miss you so much.”
“I’ll always be with you, Son.” He whispers. “Always in my thoughts,” I reply. “And I promise you that your heart will live on in my breast. You’re the greatest man I’ll ever know. Thank you for all you’ve taught me. Thank you for all the good times.”
He echoes, “Good times, Son. Good times.” His voice is weak. “You should write a book, about the good times!” He speaks again, but I cannot understand him. If only, Lord. If only. The chaplain tells me to say good-bye. I don’t know how.
“Dad, I have to go. I love you more than I can say. I love you forever.”
“Forever and ever,” he says.
“Do you want one of my Bibles?” he asks.
“Yes, sir, your hats, boots, and belts too.”
“I’ll always love you, Son.”
He hands the phone to Mom. “Mom, please call again on Wednesday or Thursday.”
“He might not make it,” she cries.
“Are you ready?” I ask her. “I’m trying to be. He’s touched so many lives. He has done so much in his lifetime. I think of all the places we’ve been, all we’ve done, and I’m so grateful that it’s been with him. He’s a great man. It’ll be so hard to let him go.”
I’ve never heard her break up like this. “I’m so sorry I can’t be there for you.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says.
Silence.
Then Dad’s voice, faint and quivering. “I love you so much,” he cries, “so much. I treasure you. I loved working with you. Be steadfast. I’ll be looking for you, Son. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” I whisper to the dial tone.
