‘Peace, peace,’ they say,
when there is no peace.
15 Are they ashamed of their detestable conduct?
No, they have no shame at all;
they do not even know how to blush.
So they will fall among the fallen;
they will be brought down when I punish them,”
says the LORD.
16 This is what the LORD says: “Stand at the crossroads and look;
ask for the ancient paths,
ask where the good way is, and walk in it,
and you will find rest for your souls.
But you said, ‘We will not walk in it.’
17 I appointed watchmen over you and said,
‘Listen to the sound of the trumpet!’
But you said, ‘We will not listen.’
Jeremiah 6:14b-17 (NIV)
How I wish that I would have walked that good way that the ancient paths told me to walk. The ancient paths. Words and wisdom of God and life passed down from generation to generation of my family. I refused them. Trusted, tried, and true, yet I refused them. In the process, I broke God's heart, the hearts of my parents, and my own.
He died in the seventh month in the year of our Lord two-thousand and seven. He died during the worst heatwave that the South had seen in years. One minute outside left you dripping with sweat and struggling to breathe with the heavy, thick humidity. The skies were a glorious Carolina blue every single day- not a sign of a cloud for a drop of rain for relief from the heat. He had relief though. He had morphine and family. He also had a daughter who had not spoken to him for the last six months of his life. This same daughter had given him heartache and grief during most of her adult life. She was on drugs, living in hotels and cars. Her life was a complete mess. Each night she turned off her cell phone so that she could finally get some much needed sleep and not be awoken from a constant barage of drug seeker and drug dealer calls. The day that he died she forgot to turn off the phone. It was nothing short of a miracle. She got the call, and rushed to her Daddy. A little girl again crying all the way down the road with the accelerator pushed down farther than it was safe to be. When she arrived, she immediately heard the death rasp and she knew. She cleared the room. This was her Daddy. She laid across his chest for the last time. She told him how she loved him. She told him how thankful she was that he had been her father. She cried across her Daddy's chest. It was perhaps the only place she had ever been truly safe in her life. She held onto him and stroked his dying hand. Her mother looked on. It was their precious last few minutes together.
His family started to come. Another miracle from God. Nobody called his siblings. Yet, they all had a sense to come and visit him. One by one, they came to hold his hand and say good-bye. His daughter stood back but stood watch. The only time she left was to slip out and take a small amount of dope. She needed this. She needed something to dull the pain. For years, she had been taking something to dull the pain. It was only then that she could bear to remember. If there was nothing for the pain, remembering was impossible. The emotions would overwhelm her.
It was only then that she could remember the years with her Daddy. He had been her rock ever since she could remember. Even before she could remember really. Her mother told her that when she was a baby, her Daddy would leave for work and she would cry so hard that her mother would finally call him back home to console her. He was the one who attended her school functions, bragged about how smart she was, and cheered her on. He was the one who fed her Wendy's hamburgers for supper each night after picking her up from the babysitters or fried her eggs when she was too sick to go out to eat. He was the one who took her to church every Wednesday and every Sunday and tried to instill a sense of morals into her. When she went to the front of the church to be saved at 12 years old, it was her Daddy who went with her. It was her Daddy who cheered her on and practiced with her when she ran track, her Daddy who consoled her when she had her first broken heart, her Daddy who taught her to drive, took her to get her license, and helped her with her first car. It was her Daddy and his family with whom she found her identity. Sure, she loved her mother and her maternal relatives. But it was her Daddy's family that she claimed. She wanted the same attributes that they had, and she thought of herself as one of them.
Even when she started to smoke at 13, drink and have sex at 14, and was using cocaine and acid by 16, it was her Daddy that she loved. She sought his approval and his love constantly. Even when there were years of a war of control between them, she wanted his love. He wanted her to go to college; she wanted to be a wanderer. She won, and it broke his heart. Even then, he was her only rock. When she needed picked up from the police station or paid out of a bad check to avoid prosecution, it was her Daddy who saved her. He had fought men over her, argued with teachers, argued with the police, taken her side over everything. Now he lay dying.
Her aunt wanted some tea. With nothing to do with her hands, she went to make some. The Hospice nurse came to give her father a bath. After they had been in there awhile, they emerged. He had died. Her Daddy, her hero, had died while she was doing something as simple as making tea in her mother's kitchen. She walked outside and sat down. Her uncle sat down in the swing beside her. No words were said. Then, to her, the unthinkable happened. The mailman came by. The sun kept shining. The world kept going. Her world had stopped but normal things were still happening. It was surreal to her.
It was a turning point in her life. There would now be events categorized as "when Daddy was here" and "after Daddy died". Things would never be the same. She was an orphan, a fatherless child. Even at 37 years old, she was lost. She was stunned. The biggest man who had ever lived was gone. She watched as the funeral men carried her Daddy out in a bag. She thought she would die when she realized that was the last time he would ever leave their home.
The Greek word for death is thanatos. The word is mentioned 106 times in the New Testament. It was a lesson that ancient paths had left lessons on. If only this daughter would have listened to the ancients, the death may have not been so traumatic, with so little closure. But the daughter has chosen not to listen. I am sure of this. I am the daughter. The man who died was my father.
when there is no peace.
15 Are they ashamed of their detestable conduct?
No, they have no shame at all;
they do not even know how to blush.
So they will fall among the fallen;
they will be brought down when I punish them,”
says the LORD.
16 This is what the LORD says: “Stand at the crossroads and look;
ask for the ancient paths,
ask where the good way is, and walk in it,
and you will find rest for your souls.
But you said, ‘We will not walk in it.’
17 I appointed watchmen over you and said,
‘Listen to the sound of the trumpet!’
But you said, ‘We will not listen.’
Jeremiah 6:14b-17 (NIV)
How I wish that I would have walked that good way that the ancient paths told me to walk. The ancient paths. Words and wisdom of God and life passed down from generation to generation of my family. I refused them. Trusted, tried, and true, yet I refused them. In the process, I broke God's heart, the hearts of my parents, and my own.
He died in the seventh month in the year of our Lord two-thousand and seven. He died during the worst heatwave that the South had seen in years. One minute outside left you dripping with sweat and struggling to breathe with the heavy, thick humidity. The skies were a glorious Carolina blue every single day- not a sign of a cloud for a drop of rain for relief from the heat. He had relief though. He had morphine and family. He also had a daughter who had not spoken to him for the last six months of his life. This same daughter had given him heartache and grief during most of her adult life. She was on drugs, living in hotels and cars. Her life was a complete mess. Each night she turned off her cell phone so that she could finally get some much needed sleep and not be awoken from a constant barage of drug seeker and drug dealer calls. The day that he died she forgot to turn off the phone. It was nothing short of a miracle. She got the call, and rushed to her Daddy. A little girl again crying all the way down the road with the accelerator pushed down farther than it was safe to be. When she arrived, she immediately heard the death rasp and she knew. She cleared the room. This was her Daddy. She laid across his chest for the last time. She told him how she loved him. She told him how thankful she was that he had been her father. She cried across her Daddy's chest. It was perhaps the only place she had ever been truly safe in her life. She held onto him and stroked his dying hand. Her mother looked on. It was their precious last few minutes together.
His family started to come. Another miracle from God. Nobody called his siblings. Yet, they all had a sense to come and visit him. One by one, they came to hold his hand and say good-bye. His daughter stood back but stood watch. The only time she left was to slip out and take a small amount of dope. She needed this. She needed something to dull the pain. For years, she had been taking something to dull the pain. It was only then that she could bear to remember. If there was nothing for the pain, remembering was impossible. The emotions would overwhelm her.
It was only then that she could remember the years with her Daddy. He had been her rock ever since she could remember. Even before she could remember really. Her mother told her that when she was a baby, her Daddy would leave for work and she would cry so hard that her mother would finally call him back home to console her. He was the one who attended her school functions, bragged about how smart she was, and cheered her on. He was the one who fed her Wendy's hamburgers for supper each night after picking her up from the babysitters or fried her eggs when she was too sick to go out to eat. He was the one who took her to church every Wednesday and every Sunday and tried to instill a sense of morals into her. When she went to the front of the church to be saved at 12 years old, it was her Daddy who went with her. It was her Daddy who cheered her on and practiced with her when she ran track, her Daddy who consoled her when she had her first broken heart, her Daddy who taught her to drive, took her to get her license, and helped her with her first car. It was her Daddy and his family with whom she found her identity. Sure, she loved her mother and her maternal relatives. But it was her Daddy's family that she claimed. She wanted the same attributes that they had, and she thought of herself as one of them.
Even when she started to smoke at 13, drink and have sex at 14, and was using cocaine and acid by 16, it was her Daddy that she loved. She sought his approval and his love constantly. Even when there were years of a war of control between them, she wanted his love. He wanted her to go to college; she wanted to be a wanderer. She won, and it broke his heart. Even then, he was her only rock. When she needed picked up from the police station or paid out of a bad check to avoid prosecution, it was her Daddy who saved her. He had fought men over her, argued with teachers, argued with the police, taken her side over everything. Now he lay dying.
Her aunt wanted some tea. With nothing to do with her hands, she went to make some. The Hospice nurse came to give her father a bath. After they had been in there awhile, they emerged. He had died. Her Daddy, her hero, had died while she was doing something as simple as making tea in her mother's kitchen. She walked outside and sat down. Her uncle sat down in the swing beside her. No words were said. Then, to her, the unthinkable happened. The mailman came by. The sun kept shining. The world kept going. Her world had stopped but normal things were still happening. It was surreal to her.
It was a turning point in her life. There would now be events categorized as "when Daddy was here" and "after Daddy died". Things would never be the same. She was an orphan, a fatherless child. Even at 37 years old, she was lost. She was stunned. The biggest man who had ever lived was gone. She watched as the funeral men carried her Daddy out in a bag. She thought she would die when she realized that was the last time he would ever leave their home.
The Greek word for death is thanatos. The word is mentioned 106 times in the New Testament. It was a lesson that ancient paths had left lessons on. If only this daughter would have listened to the ancients, the death may have not been so traumatic, with so little closure. But the daughter has chosen not to listen. I am sure of this. I am the daughter. The man who died was my father.
