Last Day of Work

We knew it was going to be a full spring largely due to high school and college graduations, two of our five children preparing to launch from home, and all the ongoing responsibilities and competing priorities of everyday life. We dutifully chipped away at the associated “to-do” lists including senior pictures, medical forms, and countless trips to Target.

We had much to celebrate. 

Yet the ancient accuser was lurking in the shadows, hissing half-truths of guilt and condemnation. Regardless of how many checklists were completed and tasks accomplished, I was undoubtedly disappointing someone in a significant way. With five kids soon to be in five different cities, aging parents, and meaningful work that was still in launch mode, failure seemed inevitable. 

Every choice to tend to one aspect of life seemed to come at the expense of another.

We had anticipated a hectic spring, but what we didn’t know was that we would also lose my father. In May, he drove and checked himself into the hospital for what had been a recurring and treatable condition. We were sad that he would miss the kids’ graduations, but we were hopeful for a quick recovery. Slowly, we began to realize that this trip to the hospital may be his last. 

Weeks later, after multiple treks to Tennessee and back, I received a call from a nurse suggesting I head back over the mountain. My dad started making a list of what he wanted to leave for each grandchild. A teapot, a tennis racket, fishing gear, an old train whistle, and a small revolver that his great-grandfather had retrieved from a Civil War battlefield — small treasures, each a snapshot illustrating one brief scene in the epic narrative entitled “Darrell Wright’s Life.” 

Within hours of receiving the call, I was back on the road. That trip over the mountain was different from the many I had taken over the past thirty years. 

Facing death has a strange way of bringing clarity and focus to the moment. 

With the last of the kids at college, this was to be the year I’d be more available. Yet that availability, at least to my dad, was no longer relevant. The murmuring whispers crept in. If only I had known his days were dwindling, perhaps I would have made more time? Made different choices? 

What does it mean to live an integrated life when there are seemingly too many pieces to integrate?

Of all the good gifts my dad has given me — the love of language, good books, music, and friendship; compassion for the voiceless; the ability to see the innate dignity of every human being; delight in a child’s laugh or the taste of a warm gooey brownie or bowl of ice cream (any flavor) or juicy tomato plucked from the garden; the desire to listen well; the resolve to find joy and meaning in the midst of life’s disappointments — the last good gift was his powerful, beautiful choice to die well.

I’m struck that this choice wasn’t made at the end of his life. Rather, it was made over almost nine decades of small daily choices to trust, to live sacrificially, to surrender. He died as he had lived: fully present and with resolute hope. Hope found not in himself or in his abilities or circumstances, but in his Creator.

Though his body was shutting down, his mind remained alert. Dad had one foot in each world, yet the transition was strangely seamless. Through much of his life, he’d chosen to invest in the eternal. As a result, the  very best of him could not be snuffed out like a candle. It existed before time and will carry on into future generations. 

As if perfectly on cue , a small parade of visitors came on what was to be his last fully-alert day. Three friends brought and celebrated communion with him. From across the hall, I could hear the quiet reverence - and then the easy laughter that was borne from years of fishing trips to Canada and the sharing of heartbreaks and joys over cups of weekly coffee at McDonalds. The humble procession continued. Each brief conversation contributed to the sweet, bitter cocktail of joy mixed with grief. 

At the end of the day, Dad asked me who else was coming by to visit. I responded by telling him that the last had come by and he needed to rest. It had been a long day. He paused, then grinned his rascally grin. With a twinkle in his bright blue eyes, he responded, “That’s ok. It’s my last day of work.”

I was undone. Somehow, that simple response spilled light into the inky dark corners and drove out the deceiver’s lies. My dad understood that our work here on earth is to show up fully for whatever assignment we are given that particular day. We can’t be multiple places at once. We are limited by space and time. And those limitations are part of the Father’s good design, lest we get confused about who is the creature and who is the Creator. “My whole life,” he’d said only days before, “I tried to live to please only one person. I hope I’ve done that.”

Facing death has a strange way of bringing clarity and focus to the moment. 

I emerged from the month watching my dad slip slowly from this imperfect world into glory with renewed hope. A hope that’s found not in myself or abilities or creating the perfect portfolio of choices so I don’t let anyone down — but in my Creator alone.

Thank you, Dad, for living a life that wasn’t perfect, but for living a life that was faithful. 

Soli Deo gloria.