Life is Beautiful

     So, a lot has happened since I posted last. Not just a lot of small things, but a lot of huge, life changing, things. To begin with, I have added another Bachelors degree onto my plate. I am now not only a Counseling and Psychology major, but an Intercultural Studies major (that means I'm going to be a missionary!). That is huge. I have a heart for people who are lost. I have a heart for those that no one loves, those that no one see as worthy of their time. My heart breaks for the many people around this world that feel so alone. We live in a world of over 7 billion people. How is it that one can feel so alone in a world so large? It shouldn't be this way. We are called to go and to love people wherever we are.
 
     Another pretty drastic thing happened this September. My Dad died. He was only 39 years old. Since November of last year, he was struggling with pancreatitis, jaundice, liver failure (from his previous alcoholism), a development of diabetes, depression, and other ailments.

He was sick not only of body and mind, but of heart. 

     He had begun to maintain a sober lifestyle.
     He had gotten off the alcohol...and the drugs.
     He was down to 1 cigarette a day, which is HUGE for someone
          who used to smoke several packs.        
     He was seeking Christ.
     Going to church.
     Building a community.
     Went to get his college degree.
     Maintained a steady job!

     And right when things started looking up for him...boom. Satan struck. Right when Dad started living his life in a way that was honoring Christ...that's when things went wacky. One day, while he was in the hospital, I went to talk with him. On the ride there, I was asking God desperately to give me words to say. I didn't know what to address...I didn't know what I should leave unsaid. I plead with God on the way there that He would speak through me...because I didn't know how to.

     No one wants to see someone they love...dying. And that's what I would see whenever I saw him. He was yellow...he was thin beyond belief...and he could barely talk because he wasn't allowed to eat or drink much when he was being tested...It made me sick and depressed to even be in the room with him. I didn't want to scare him more by crying, but simply seeing him would bring me to tears. Having a conversation with him...knowing it might be my last...was horrible. I can't begin to describe the anguish that gripped my heart in those times.

     I could do so much more.
     I could drop out of school.
     Spend every day by his bedside.
     Holding his hand.
     Telling him it would be okay.
     Being there so he wouldn't get depressed and lonely.
     I should have been around more BEFORE this all happened.
     I'm a horrible daughter.
     What's more important? My career...or my Dad?

     At the same time...I NEVER wanted to be around him. I hated going to see him, not knowing if he would be having a good day or a bad one. Not wanting to see him dry heave as his deteriorating body wretched in pain. Not wanting to go over and put more blankets on him because he was too thin and sick to maintain a warmth in his body. Not wanting to face him because I KNEW...I...knew...that he wouldn't be here much longer. I always thought *I'd* die before Dad. I always wanted it to be that way. I'm not sure why, but I thought..."If I die first...that will be a testimony to him. If I get sick, I can show him how good God is through the pain and the suffering of death..." But that didn't happen. He went first.

     When I got to the hospital the day I cried out to Jesus on the drive...I arrived to see my Dad just as broken as before. Pitiful, pathetic, in pain. And I nearly wept. As Grandma Denny left, I went and sat next to him on his bed. Facing him...I asked him a question. "How are you feeling about God right now?" I didn't expect much of an answer because he wasn't able to speak much. But he did muster up a reply..."Well...I'm pretty angry at Him actually." "Me too."

      So many people think that it is unholy...heretical...or whatever to be angry with God. If anyone can handle my anger...it's going to be Him. I couldn't be mad at the withering away man that was laying on the hospital bed, as much as I tried to be. He brought this suffering on himself through years of abuse of his body...but I couldn't be mad at him.

     I could only cry out to God. Scream. Bawl my eyes out. Fall limp 
     at the feet of my Heavenly Father...and ask Him, "Why?...
     Why now? Right when everything was coming together...right 
     when he was being the Dad that I always wanted him to be. Why
     are you taking him from me now? When he's cleaned up his act
     ...when he's started to follow you? What did I do wrong that you
     won't let me keep my Dad that I have so earnestly prayed for all
     these years? You finally helped me to get him back...he's so much
     better when he's clean...so much happier...and now You've gone 
     and let him die...Why?"

     "Dad...I'm angry with God too...and that's okay. It's okay to be angry with him...to ask him questions...to cry out to Him. And Dad? Though you're angry...He's the only one who can fix this. He's the only one who can make you better. I love you so much...and God?...He loves you so much more. I know that's hard to believe. I know it's crappy that right when you got clean...this all happened...but God didn't do this to you. He's hurting just as much as I am...just as much as you are. He loves you." 

     Dad didn't say much to this...but his tears said enough. It's hard when people are expected to withhold their emotions. Their hurts, anger, fear, and sadness. Christ never told us that we weren't allowed to come to Him in our broken moments. Just the opposite actually. He wanted us to come to him, broken, unable to fix ourselves, and let Him pick us up and hold us together as our world seems to be falling down around us. 

   

     That conversation was one of many throughout the months ahead. He would be in and out of the hospital...he had too many near death experiences to count. Fallon and I actually became confident that he wasn't going to die...ever. Like Grandma Denny said, "He's like a cat! He's got nine lives!" 

     

     I got calls all the time saying, "I took your Dad to the hospital and..." It would always end in something like, "the doctors were not sure how he was still walking around and feeling good" or "his blood sugar was supposed to be around 130 and it was at 1,300! People go into a diabetic coma when their blood sugar is at 300 and he and I went shopping after we left the doctors. He was just fine!" 

     So, when the call came in to Mr. Low's house and I heard those words from my Mom...I didn't expect much. I sat across from Adam in the living room (learning to play chess), while Marcy, Jason, Nathan, and Mr. Low were in the dining room behind us and I was trying to hint to my Mom that I was busy and needed her to get on with it. 

     "Grandma called me this morning and..." *delay on the other line for what seems like an eternity* Oh my gosh...Okay? And? She calls you all the time. I get it. Dad's sick. What is it? I'm trying to learn chess here! Gah! Another "We went to the hospital today for another check-up and he's developed an incredibly rare disease that should have killed him 20 years ago, but he's fine! Isn't that crazy? Love you! Have a fun rest of your trip!" 

     But this conversation was not going in the direction that I thought it would. I thought to myself, "What is happening? Why is her voice so somber? This is ridiculous." 

"Daddy died last night." 

     No he didn't. He can't die. Remember? He's ALMOST died a ton. But actually die? What does die even mean? I'm not even sure that's a word...I've seen dead people...but my Dad didn't die. I'm 20 years old. I'm too young for my Dad to die. HE'S too young to die. This isn't real. What is happening again? 

Silence. 

     That's going to be my response? Really. I never expected to be so emotionally detached from such hideous news. Silence. No screaming. No losing my mind. No tearing at my hair as I fall into the fetal position. Silence. No crying. No passing out. No telling the people around me what happened. Silence. 

     "What?" Without saying a word to Adam or anyone else, I stood up, and I walked away. I walked to the spare bedroom. Shut the door. Sat on the bed facing the wall. Silence. Silent tears stream down my face as I try to understand the sentence, "Daddy died last night." I have somehow forgotten what death means. Can I still go visit him? No. But I can still text him and see how he's doing, right? No. Well, what about when I need a bear hug? I get to keep that don't I? No. 

     What is this death thing? I can't have a conversation with him again? Ask him how his relationship with God is? Tell him that I love him "most mostest infinity?" No. None of those things will ever happen. Ever. Again. What is this? Death? That doesn't sound like a real word anymore. I'm sure it's not. Right? 

     The problem was...he was getting better. Sure, he'd been really, really sick. I WANTED him to die so he could just be done with this illness. I begged God to take him from this earth while he was in right relationship with Him. I pleaded that he would be released from this agony. 

     

     But then God made him better. "I didn't mean it! I take it back! I'm sorry! I
     thought he would never get better...don't do this to me...I'm sorry...I
     shouldn't have ever prayed that You would take him...it's my fault. If only I
     made more time to visit him. If only I could have been around more and let
     him know that I really do love him. If only I had talked more about You.
     Then he wouldn't be dead. What if he did it on purpose...what if he got so
     sad...so lonely...that he decided it wasn't worth it. I killed him because I
     was too selfish. I should have dropped out. I should have sat by him every
     second so he would never have to be alone again. What have I done?
     ...He won't be there on my wedding day. He won't get to give my future
     husband permission to marry me. He won't get to see my children. He will
     never know that I decided to become a missionary, for real this time. He
     won't be there. For anything. He won't be there on my 21st birthday. I won't
     get to show him that you don't have to get wasted and party to have fun
     when you turn 21...He's missing everything." 

     As I sat there...and cried...and listened to my Mom's breathing on the other line, I could only think of questions, some answerable, some not so much. 

     How is everyone? 

     How is Fallon? How did she react? 

     How are you, Mom? I know he's your ex-husband, but you were still friends
         and you loved him like you ought to as the father of your children. 

     How is his Mom?

     How is Grandpa Vaughn?

     How is his Dad? And Grandma Connie? 

     His grandma's? 

     How are his siblings?

     ...How did this happen? 

     How did he die? 

     Where did he die? 

     When did he die? 

     Was he all alone? 

Oh God...he was probably all alone. He didn't die with ANYONE around to hold him through it. 

      How is this going to effect this weekend away that was supposed to be fun
         and relaxing. I'm going to ruin everyone's fun because my Dad died. 

     Why am I here? 

     Why couldn't I be in Joplin or Kansas City when this happened? 

     Why did God set up the timing like this? 

     Why did he allow my two best friends (outside of Fally) to be with me
         through this horrible thing?          
     Why am I not crying more? 

     Am I not sad? What a horrible daughter! 

     How am I going to take care of everyone that is sad?

     How will Adam handle this?

     How will Marcy?

     How will Jason, Nathan, and Mr. Low?

     

     When will I be home next? Today. Right now. No, I'm here for  reason. God is good. I'll go home soon. He has me here for a reason. He knew that I was going to try and take care of everyone else. He knew that I would not allow myself to be taken care of by people who were hurting just as much as I was. He knew that Adam and Marcy could handle my brokenness. My anger. My hurt. My fears. My buttloads of tears. He knew exactly what He was doing when He let this happen. 

     God knew that I would need a period of "pre-grieving." That's where I mourn the loss of someone or something far before I lose it. I know Adam is going back to school for the summer in 3 weeks, I begin the mourning process. I get some tears out between those week and then when we separate for the semester, it's not a floodgate that's been held back for weeks. 

     God let me see my Dad as sick as he's ever been. I saw him die before my eyes. I knew in my heart that he was dying. And then...he got better and better. He developed diabetes this summer, and he was doing well. He was keeping his sugar pretty good...he had a few mess-ups (one involving a car accident after he had a diabetic attack and blacked out), but overall he was better. He gained some weight back. He looked good. He talked to us. We ate together. He was good again. 

     And then he died. Just like that. We didn't expect it because he'd been doing so good. It wasn't this long drawn out process that would have made me bitter towards God. I didn't hold his hand as he wasted away before my eyes, unable to have conversation with him, or grow in our relationship. He didn't die suddenly without warning which would have made me angry at God. I would have been destroyed if he'd been taken away without warning. I would have never been able to have those hard conversations with him. 

     He declined, got better, and died quickly. God knew exactly how to prepare me for his death. He knew just what I would need. He knew that I would be full of regret if I hadn't had opportunities to tell him about Jesus. When a literal life and death situation faces you, you become a whole lot more serious about spreading the gospel, I've found. 

God prepared me. 

     He has not let my heart become embittered towards Him. He has used this terrible heartbreak as a way to grow me. Grow my relationships with some incredible people who were already in my life and who are more a part of my life now because of my Dad's death. He gave me people who would stand beside me, and hold me up as I wilted and fell limp in their arms. He gave me a podium to speak from at my Dad's funeral. An opportunity to show people who he really was, and to show them the God that he ended his life loving. 

     Don't get me wrong. There are PLENTY of days that I struggle. Just writing all of this was hard...and memory provoking and I am honestly torn as to whether or not I should post this. But I think that God works in mysterious ways. I love God. There are days when I feel so far from Him. Days when I wonder whether it's worth it to follow Him. Days when I cannot will myself out of bed to get quality time with Him because the sleep keeps me from having to think about hard things. 

But MY God...He is good. 

     As much as I want my Dad back. If even for just 1 day...1 hour even. I know that God is truly working all things for the good of those who love him (Romans 8:28). It might not always feel good. It might be hard. But God is good. He really is. He may not remove you from every painful situation that may come your way...but He will be there holding you through it. 

     There is a poem that my Dad always had on a plaque in his house. It is called "Footprints." I've posted a link to it below. This has been a poem that's reminded me through the years that my God is always with me. Even when it doesn't feel like that is true. He is holding me through the storms of this life. 

God is Good all the time. 

When everything falls around you, Jesus keeps you sane. 

Life is Beautiful. 

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