37. Letting Go
Today is 3 days from the first anniversary of Dad’s passing. I’ve committed to writing 40 stories about him as that day approaches. Forty Steady Stories.
Emma and I had barely made it up the mountain the previous night. We’d left Charlotte right after I finished a part I had in the 2nd Christmas Eve service at Waypoint (our church), and the snow began falling hard the closer we got to BR. The car started having trouble getting traction on 321, but by God’s grace, we made it to the house. Another 5-10 minutes later and we wouldn’t have been able to make it up the mountain to join everyone else at the house. And that was only the first of a series of little miracles we experienced last Christmas as we all gathered, celebrated, and spent time with Dad.
Exactly one year ago to the hour that I’m writing these words, just after 2:00 PM, our entire immediate family walked into Mom and Dad’s bedroom in Blowing Rock. Dad hadn’t eaten in a few days at this point, and we all felt like it was time to gather kids and grandkids around him to pray and to sing. It was one of the most holy and intimate times of prayer I’ve ever experienced. God felt so near to us even as Dad seemed to be slipping away.
As we all walked into the room, I took my brand-new iPad that had been given to me the week before by a friend in a small group. I tapped the record video button and placed it on the top of an armoire in the corner of the room. Unable to see the screen, I said a little prayer as I tried to blindly guess the angle toward Dad in the bed, “Lord, please let me capture this moment with Dad.”
We all gathered around the bed where Dad was sleeping. As all 21 of us came into the room, Dad woke up a little bit. We told him we wanted to pray with and for him. I can’t explain it — and wouldn’t have known it except for seeing it on video afterwards — but Dad became so alert at we started to pray. His eyes were open while we prayed. Mom sat beside him and stroked the back of his head as he scanned the room of the faces of his family as we prayed.
Our friend Anthony was kneeling beside Dad. About ten minutes into our time, he began the most beautiful prayer I think I’ve ever heard. He said the words in between sobs, and I don’t remember a dry eye in the room while when he finished. We were all weeping. Here’s the prayer recorded on the video from Anthony:
“Heavenly Father, I just thank You for bringing Steady into my life and making me a better man — better man through God. Thank You for allowing me to learn from this great man and teaching me the things that I needed to learn at the right time, and doing it the right way that would please You, and allowing me to send that message to my family and friends.
And thank You for making me a bright light, so they could see You, Jesus, through me. For You to do that for me, and I’m so grateful that you brought Steady into my life to teach me that. Thank You, thank You, THANK YOU! I cannot thank You enough. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
If I’d had to walk up the mountain in the snow only to hear that prayer, it would have still been worth it.
After a while, we sang “Jesus Loves Me” together, and the grandkids and spouses left Mom, my brothers, Anthony, and me to say some final words. We told Dad three things: One, that we loved him beyond measure; two, that we would take care of Mom; and three, that it was ok for him to let go. At the end of the time, Anthony took the picture at the top of this post.
For twenty minutes, the leader of the band had locked eyes with everyone in the room. At one point, he even raised his arm and placed his hand on Scott’s daughter Symphony (see below). It was beautiful — even as we all sensed Dad understood and embraced the peace in letting go.
All I can tell you is that I wouldn’t change a single second of that twenty-two minutes with Dad. It was exactly the kind of moment that God gives us in this broken world to remind us that we are made for something more.
Merry Christmas y’all.
a stillshot from the video
