The Trees
The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.
Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too.
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.
Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.
On 24 October 2022, Dad died after a long battle with Parkinson’s, and a much shorter battle with heart failure.
The timing was strange. We sat by his bed for weeks, all of us taking turns to catch his last breath. We’d all said our goodbyes many times over. In the end, I was on a work call, Fie was resting, and Mum was making a cup of tea.
Today the loss is immense. People have told me, terrifyingly, that it doesn’t dim with time.
My sun has gone out.
Love you always Dad.
Before I say a few words about Dad, some of you may know that for the last 8 weeks of dad’s life he was cared for palliatively at Fie and Pete’s home in Berry. It was a very special part of dad’s final journey to be at peace.
Mum Fie and I would like to thank everyone who either came physically to see dad, or sent their best wishes from far away. In particular, we thank the care team that came to look after dad, the ever present Dr John Thompson and Natsai Chiweshe who provided dad with such sensitive and dignified care. We want to also thank those who were with dad during that time - his siblings, his family as well the special friends that came to visit. To those that made meals, looked after children and sent messages of support, we are truly grateful for everything you did, for us, but also for John.
And of course we thank you Fie and Pete and Anna for opening your home to him. For creating that safe place. For allowing him to be surrounded with love. An immeasurable gift.
…
As a boy I remember sitting, where you are sitting now, staring up at the pulpit on a Sunday morning, as that tall man scaled the steps to give his weekly sermons. He was a tall man, granted. But from the perspective of the congregation, up there, he looked like a giant. Enrobed in white, his snow white hair standing out like a beacon. A shuffling of his notes. A moment’s silence as he looked out over the congregation. He would take a breath in, then out, and start his sermons the same way:
May the words of my mouth, and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable unto you, oh god. Amen.
Today I find myself attempting to say something that might touch the sides of who that tall man was, and wondering whether I might do well to say that same prayer : That the words of my mouth be acceptable unto him.
But I think Dad would be embarrassed by such a prayer. Because seeing you all here, I know that the words of my mouth and the meditations of all of our hearts today, would not just have been acceptable to Dad. He would have been jealous. The deep love in this room. The long-journeyed relationships. The prospect of being able to be in fellowship with each and every one of you here, one more time, would have set his heart on fire.
…
Shortly John’s sister, Christine, is going to read two passages from the Bible: The Road to Emmaus, and the Prodigal Son. One story about journeying together and recognising the presence of Christ among us. And another about wrapping our arms around the imperfections of those we love. There could not be two more appropriate passages, I think, to sum up Dad’s life. To journey alongside, to listen deeply, to understand what was going on for the other, and again and again to treat hurt, with love.
I’ve never met anyone, who lived their beliefs so truly and on such a daily basis as my father, that tall man. He wore his values - his faith, his inextinguishable sense of hope and his love of life - like an old coat. They fit him well. And he wore them everywhere.
How to capture who Dad was?
Just one story of my relationship with Dad.
When I was a little boy, I used to suffer from epileptic fits. The seizures came regularly, at home, at school, and through their regularity, there came with them a certain routine. I would lose consciousness somewhere, know very little of the next hour and regain consciousness in a hospital bed. During that time dad and I invented a game which we used to play as I surfaced from the darkness of unconsciousness to be present in the room again. Dad would hold my hand, and in tiny, almost imperceptible pulses, he would squeeze it. In return I would try to squeeze his hand back, even more imperceptibly than he had squeezed mine. Back and forth it went between us. Each squeeze softer than the last, sometimes I would wait what seemed then to be hours, when I’m sure it was more like minutes, for him to squeeze me back, trying to catch the other person out. ‘Maybe he already went, and I missed it’.
We never spoke of this game. Not before hand, or at the time, or since. It was just something we did to pass the time. To reach out in the dark, and let each other know we were still there. I can still remember laying there in that hospital bed, with him seated next to me, his large hand in mine, a father and son, passing secrets in the dark, the way Fie and I would whisper secrets in the dark to each other from our beds before we fell asleep. The way, I suspect, everyone here could name a time when, to one degree or another Dad reached out to you in your dark, and provided what? Comfort. Silence. A knowing that you were loved, and that you were not alone.
As we heard on Monday, in later life, Dad became fixated with the painting of the Return of the Prodigal Son by Rembrandt, which he travelled to St Petersburg to sit for a day and look at. A print of the painting hung in the room in Fie’s house where Dad was so lovingly cared for in the final weeks of his life.
The story of the prodigal son is a well known one of course. But what I‘ve come to understand is that the power of that story for him, I think, is that it’s not just a story of the father putting his arms around a son, it’s a story of a person putting their arms around brokenness, around doubt, around shame, hurt, loss… and transforming those things into togetherness, hope, joy and love. It is a finding, in that transformative act, of the most simple expression of what life is about. To be fully human. Together.
And I think more than that, Dad knew that, in the long run, to live that way, to be fully human together, is the only type of life worth living. It’s as simple as that.
When the father reaches outs his arms and puts them around the prodigal, he welcomes him… home.
Home is what dad was to me, of course. And there is a sense that, to be without him, that tall man, is to be without a home, to be homeless.
But I take some heart from the fact that even with all his ability to sit with darkness, Dad was, ultimately, about the light.
Be not afraid says Proverbs. Be not afeard says Caliban. “For the world is full of wonders.”
Dad knew that. He lived it. The fear, and the wonder. Alongside each other. In all its complexity. And despite it all, he didn’t want to miss a minute.
“Were not our hearts burning as he spoke to us on the road?”. I know mine was.
But today, I find myself thinking of dad lying on his bed at Fie’s house in his final days. I am holding his hand. I’m squeezing his hand the way we had all those years ago. Only this time I am waiting for him to squeeze me back. And it doesn’t come. His body is still. But as I press my head to his chest, I swear I can hear his heart still beating as if it is on fire.
My hero. Your courageous fight to squeeze every last breath out of the life you so dearly loved and we so dearly love you for, is over now.
Today the loss feels immense.
But here at the last, you’ll excuse me Dad, for quoting from Freddie Buechner, because he’s right again:
“What’s lost is nothing to what’s found. And all the death that ever was, set next to life, could scarcely fill a cup.”
May we all “Go gently”, as you always did.
With Grace and Peace.
