Psalm 30:5b - "Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning."
I've been waiting for that morning to come since the wee, dark hours of the morning on Tuesday, December 4, 2018. My life changed that day. I lost my father. He was 61 years of age. I was 26. Since my wait began on December 4th, many would assume the night of weeping began when I lost him, but that wasn't the beginning. It wasn't even the day he was officially diagnosed (again) with cancer. It was the day they found the spot on his lung. You see, he was first diagnosed with bile duct cancer in October of 2013. It was in his liver. The doctors informed him and my mom that he had six months to live, and he wouldn't see me and my twin sister graduate from UConn. The doctors were wrong. They didn't know the power of our God. We went to Sloan Kettering in New York City where they performed a risky surgery, and in December of 2013 he was officially declared cancer free. He was the first survivor of this cancer that his doctors knew of. It was a miracle. We were told that if he made it past two years without a recurrence, he would be in the clear. That was the best Christmas gift I would ever receive.
He was healthy, but I was still nervous. I had planned on attending graduate school out in Ankeny, Iowa but that was too far from home for comfort. So I decided on Baptist Bible College (now Clarks Summit University) out in Clarks Summit, Pennsylvania. Only a few hours from home, it was the logical choice. It also helped that my best friend attended school there at the time. Two years passed quickly and, before I knew it, not only had my dad lived to see me graduate from UConn, but he was now watching me graduate with my Master's degree. That was a special day. Earlier in the year, doctors had told my dad that he could begin an annual schedule for his CT scans rather than the six month schedule he had been on for the past two years. We were still nervous each time he had another scan, but the nerves had settled down a bit now that we had passed the two-year mark.
The years that followed were filled with new life lessons and new memories. One of those memories is bittersweet. I had expressed my desire to see the Hotel Del Coronado at Christmas to my father many times and he decided to fulfill that wish in December of 2017. We flew out to San Diego the day after Christmas. That family vacation was one of my favorites. After all, how can you beat ice skating on the beach at sunset on New Year's Eve? The sky was alive with vibrant hues as Point Loma stretched out proudly in the distance. Behind us was the Hotel Del Coronado lit up with thousands of twinkling lights. It was magical. Dad had come down to the rink to watch me and my sister skate. While we were there, a stranger offered to take a picture of the three of us in front of the rink and the hotel. To this day, it is one of my favorite photos. Later in the week, we visited one of the "secret" local spots to watch the sunset. My sister snapped my favorite photo of my dad that night as the family stood on a cliff watching the magnificent sunset. The photo we used at his funeral a year later.
We flew back home after New Year's. We didn't know it then, but we had just returned from our last family vacation. Dad had his annual scan scheduled for a couple weeks later. It would have been his last annual scan as it had been four years since he was declared cancer free. Only he wasn't cancer free. Not anymore. They found a spot on one of his lungs. They couldn't confirm it was cancer until more tests were done, but I knew. I remember collapsing to the floor at my job. I can't explain how, but I knew from the outset that he wouldn't win this time. But just because you know something doesn't mean you don't hope for a different outcome. A better outcome. I still had hope that the Lord would spare his life a second time.
The next few weeks were a blur filled with appointments and tests, where they confirmed his cancer had come back. Metastasized. Stage four. We tried multiple different treatments throughout the coming months, but none worked. I had felt God preparing my heart throughout that year to lose my father. I can't explain that preparation. I just know it was there.
The Monday before Thanksgiving 2018, dad was rushed to the hospital. He was struggling to catch his breath and his heart rate was sky high. He had pneumonia. They transferred him to St. Francis hospital in Hartford the next day. He never left. The next fourteen days were filled with overwhelming fear, little sleep, little food, an overabundance of God's grace, and lots of sacrificial love from family and friends. I won't get into the details of those days for now, but I will some day. After all, they factor largely into the way I'm grieving. For not only am I working through the pain of losing my father, but the pain of how I lost him.
My mom, my sister, and I lived with my dad in the hospital for those two weeks. As painful as those days were, part of me is grateful for them. I spent many hours sitting by his side, holding his hand. We read six of his favorite books of the Bible out loud to him: Galatians, Ephesians, Philippians, Colossians, Romans, and Psalms. Those were wonderful hours. He was close to a coma so he couldn't say if those hours were a comfort to him (although I imagine they were), but they were certainly a comfort to my mom, sister, and I and to his brother and sister who had flown up to Connecticut to be by his side. Nurses and doctors mentioned to us later on that they had heard us as we read. I hope we planted some seeds.
We finished reading the book of Psalms to him on Monday, December 3rd. He went home to be with his Savior soon afterwards. Sometimes I wonder if the 4th day of every month will always symbolize another month gone by without him. Only time will tell, I guess. I get my love of writing from him, you know. And now I'm using that love to write about navigating the journey of grief from losing him. A little ironic, isn't it?
Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning...I can't tell you how many hours I've spent weeping. I think I cried close to 300 days out of the 365 days in 2018. And many hours of 2019 have been spent crying. The joy will come, though. David ends Psalm 30 with these words: "You have turned for me my mourning into dancing; you have loosed my sackcloth and clothed me with gladness, that my glory may sing your praise and not be silent. O LORD my God, I will give thanks to you forever!" I trust the Lord will one day turn my mourning into dancing. He will loose my sackcloth and clothe me with gladness. Did you notice the little word "that" in the last verse? I like that little word. It's a connector. It shows that the purpose for David's relief was to bring him to the point of praising the Lord. It reminds me that I am meant to glorify my God. I may not yet have reached the point of dancing and being clothed in gladness, but I can still strive to praise my Lord. No matter my circumstances, He is WORTHY.
"Great is the LORD, and greatly to be praised, and His greatness is unsearchable." - Psalm 145:3
