This morning I woke up early. It’s not really early, it still seems like yesterday so it’s not yet tomorrow. I’m roaming around the house trying not to wake everyone else up. My dog Izzy is up with me, curled up in front of the space heater (it’s winter now in South Africa). I couldn’t sleep because life is happening. My father will soon exit this life and enter God’s presence. I’m comforted by the fact that soon he won’t be confined to a bed or broken body. But I’m conflicted by the emotions that rush over me whenever I get an update on his condition. It’s not yet tomorrow, we’re in the hours of in between.
The sun is setting, but it’s not yet tomorrow
Dad has been unwell for a long time. We have been candid in our communication. The last time I saw him was in January this year. We had communion together as a family and then prayed. I knew it was very possible that it was our last goodbye so we hung on to that moment. Death isn’t convenient. It has no schedule that we can stick to. Dad’s final wishes are for him to have a service at his home village in Finland, I’ve already promised to be there for him. That is tomorrow’s work, but it’s not yet tomorrow. I’m now facing the setting sun of today.
I find solace in God during times like this because I’m sure where my Dad is heading. God’s presence is where he will find his healing. That doesn’t remove the sorrow I feel but it adds a strong layer of comfort. I understand that this won’t be goodbye, just see you later. This life is, at best, a breath of time. We would do well to understand that there’s more that lies ahead of us than what we leave behind.
Today I’ll wait for the sun to set. It’s closer for Dad than ever, may his sunrise be beautiful.
