Sadie and Oliver in Dad’s chair

Early morning on January 8th, I arrived at the first of three airports on my way to visit my Dad in Kansas.  As the taxi pulled up to let me off, I got a text telling me that Dad had died. For several stunned minutes, I pondered whether to turn around and go home or to keep going. With travelers rushing in every direction, I closed my eyes and asked for clarity. What came to me was, “a body in motion should stay in motion.” I continued on my journey to Topeka, hoping I could come to terms with his death while there and help my dad’s wife, Becky, in some small way.

The next morning, when I finally opened the door into Dad and Becky’s home, I immediately felt his presence. He was in every corner of the house. His books filled every wall and were also piled on his desk, his bedside table and every coffee table in the house. Dad was a collector but not a very tidy one. His travel mementos were on every shelf. A bronze sculpture of a young protester standing on a tear gas container, clapping and singing, that he commissioned after marching with Martin Luther King Jr., greeted me in the front entrance. Sadie, his beloved Havanese barked suspiciously at me and Oliver, his cat, braved a rub-up against my leg showing Sadie I could be trusted.

The few times I had visited their home in the past were for raucous family reunions. I was surely distracted by being with my extended family; the sound of the cousins laughing together; someone banging pots and and the smell of something delicious coming from the kitchen; one of the kids pounding on the piano. I noticed Dad’s treasures then, but only had the fleeting thought that there was just too much stuff. I was grateful I didn’t have to dust the shelves!

This time though, my eyes lingered on each book, the stacks of magazines he hadn’t yet read, the pile of 2022 promotional calendars he had received from all the non-profit organizations he supported, and his empty reading chair. Instead of feeling sadness, I felt like he was still in the room with me, or at least just down the hall. It felt impossible that he wasn’t still there.

This week when Vietnamese Zen Master, Thich Nhat Hanh died, many shared his quotes in remembrance of his teachings. One in particular really stood out for me. “Tomorrow, I will continue to be. But you will have to be attentive to see me. I will be a flower, or a leaf. I will be in these forms and I will say hello to you. If you are attentive enough, you will recognize me, and you may greet me. I will be very happy.”

Canadian Geese take flight

While I felt Dad’s Spirit in his love-filled home, I really heard him calling to me as I walked Sadie every day. We would bundle up and walk their property, eventually getting to the icy pond behind the house. As we approached, the Canadian geese numbering in the hundreds, who had been wintering there, would take flight. They filled the sky creating beautiful patterns and honking their annoyance at Sadie and I for disturbing them. Every single time I felt awe, literally God-smacked. (Yes, I mean that and not gob-smacked!) My face turned upward and I stared, filled with gratitude at the sight. In those moments, I understood how much Dad loved this land and why he never tired of watching the geese in the winter and working in his garden in the summer.

Dad was a voracious reader and a born storyteller who turned scripture into lessons that felt both modern and relevant. As a kid, I would beg to hear his sermons on Noah’s Ark, the Loaves and the Fishes, or Jonah and the Whale, like other kids beg for their favorite bedtime stories. Those early sermons planted the seeds for my own love of storytelling and likely led to my choice to dedicate my life to a spiritual path, albeit a yogic path instead of a traditional church path.

His first ten years of ministry were spent in Japan where he worked as a Christian missionary.  While there, he also took us to visit Shinto and Buddhist temples so that we would understand that there were many paths to the same goal of being a loving human.  After returning to the Unites States, he spent 5 decades sharing his wisdom from various church pulpits, the last thirty years at the First Congregational UCC church in Topeka.

Naturally, when Becky told me that in his last hours he asked her to get paper and pen because he had some notes for her, I figured what he wanted to emphasize in his final day on this earth would be profound. Given that this was happening on January 7th, following the Epiphany, I assumed he was inspired to share some deep insight he had as he lay in his hospital bed.

Imagine my surprise when Becky told me that he gave her a list of things to do!  Apparently, in those final hours, Dad came to the surprising conclusion that he really wasn’t going to recover. His parents had lived into their early nineties and we had all assumed he would as well. He was an active 87. In fact, he had been doing yoga on Zoom with me all year and using the Stairmaster to try to build up enough strength to visit us in Spain. He knew we walked a lot and he wanted to be ready.

He had plans for this summer and more books to read. His Myasthenia Gravis, an auto-immune disease, had been in remission for twenty-five years. In his mind, this current Myasthenia Gravis crisis which landed him in the hospital was something to get over and then get back to the business of living a full life.

When he realized that wasn’t happening though, he dictated a list. Number one on his checklist was, “Get rid of Stinky Car.” Stinky Car was named by Becky’s grandson Holden, because Dad hauled compost around in the trunk every summer, thereby guaranteeing that no one else would want to ride in it. Known as the King of Compost, he taught master gardener classes in compost and could hold court on the many benefits of compost for hours if you let him. Some people master a recipe for chocolate chip cookies; Dad created the perfect compost. He took the time to gather the ideal ingredients: used coffee grounds from his favorite cafe, chicken poop from a near-by farm, buckets of kitchen waste, dead fish and bags and bags of dried leaves.

Other instructions on the list involved the care of his massive vegetable and herb garden; keeping his three tanks of tropical fish alive and making sure Becky put a deposit on a cabin in Estes Park, CO where they spent every September. The last request, for her to go to the cabin, she told him she could not do without him.  That was “their” place and she did not want to go alone.

When I heard about the checklist, I realized just how much I was like my father in this regard. It made me laugh out loud. I may not know how to create magic compost but I could imagine myself dictating a similar list to Rocky.  I’d probably insist there be small boxes next to each line so he could check things off as he went. A fully checked-off list of things-to-do always makes me so happy.

In his final moments, what was most on Dad’s mind was not a favorite Bible verse, a quote from one of his favorite authors or poets, but making sure Becky knew how to manage the tasks he usually did himself. He also tearfully apologized to her for leaving.

The night before, Dad had rallied after asking that the feeding and breathing tubes be removed, and had been able to talk to each of his four kids. My sister Chako, had been at his bedside with Becky for several days and she helped facilitate conversations with the rest of us by phone. No small task considering we live in four different time zones. Dad was loving, conversational and so lucid that it was impossible for me to imagine that he didn’t have more time. I told him I was on my way and scrambled to get flights from Spain as soon as I could.

Chako and Dad, who was a devoted score-keeping, game-recording Kansas Jayhawks basketball fan, watched a game together from his hospital bed in Kansas City. He also talked to his grandkids via phone or text and visited with his stepsons. Tobias, the pastor of the church where Dad had been a minister, also stopped by for a visit. After three decades of working closely with Dad, Tobias was an honorary son. They talked, prayed, hugged and cried together.

Later, when Chako asked Dad if he wanted to listen to his favorite music, he waved his hands around in the air with a smile and said, “I’ve been listening to music all evening.”  When she asked him what he meant, he explained, “I’ve been hearing the BEST music. Hearing everyone’s voices was the best music. It was so wonderful.”

That evening, Dad was transferred to a hospice facility in Topeka to be closer to home. His final words to Becky were, in fact, devastatingly heartfelt. As she sat holding his hand, he said, “Good-night forever, my Love.”

The week I spent with Becky after Dad died was cathartic. In addition to long walks, meditation and yoga, I usually process big emotion by cleaning. Becky let me clean and organize her kitchen. She may have a hard time finding anything she needs now, but at least her spices are organized alphabetically! My sister Liz also joined us for a few days. She changed lightbulbs, bringing light to rooms that had gone dark during the weeks that Becky had gone back and forth to the hospital every day. The three of us played Scrabble and Quiddler because we love word games, and ate berry pie, Dad’s favorite. We laughed, we cried and we laughed some more.

Dad loved nature and took us camping and back-packing every summer when we were kids. I know I will feel him with me on every path going forward. I will sense his delight when geese fly overhead or when the moon is full and shining on the water. I’ll try to be attentive as Thich Nhat Hanh suggested, so that I can recognize him in every leaf and every flower. Good-bye for now. I love you. We will meet again someday, Papa.

Sadie standing watch