Perspective

I took a flight yesterday. It was the return portion of a trip to Idaho. The plane was small and my window seat allowed a great view of the farmland below. I marveled how quickly my perspective changed as we gained altitude. The individual rows of crops and islands of trees transformed into a massive quilt made of blocks and circles outlined by roads, section boundaries and irrigation patterns. It was impossible to view this patchwork from the ground, yet it was clearly there and probably had been for generations.

The purpose of my trip was to spend time with my father. He is approaching his 95th birthday and perhaps his departure from this life. Don’t know which event will come first. My dad’s been in home hospice care for over a year, so when Harold also needed that service he was able to let us know what to expect and offer advice. Harold quickly overtook Dad on that journey. I was able to let him know our experience with the next stages. 

Dad and I regularly share our thoughts during nightly phone calls. In a conversation about a month ago, I told Dad he had to stick around because I wasn’t ready to lose both the men who've taken such good care of me my whole life. Dad laughed then said he would gladly trade Harold places. He then concluded with a phrase that often ends our conversations: What will be, will be.

When I made that request a month ago, I imagined I’d be feeling utter panic at this point. But I don’t. I still feel peace. My perspective has changed in a couple of ways. First, I don’t feel like I’ve lost Harold. He's just not here right now. Maybe that will alter with time but for today that’s how it is. I’m busy taking care of the business of life; trying to remember all the instructions he gave me and trying to figure some things out on my own.

There are poignant moments, like when I got to Dad’s and announced I needed to call Harold and let him know I’d arrived safe. There was a pause, I recovered and then added, “Guess he already knows.” Those are the times you just let the tears fall, not out of anguish but out of an overflow of tender feelings.

The second change is that I’ve learned about death. It's not frightening. It is a reverent, sacred experience. Because of this knowledge I feel better prepared to let my father go when his time comes. And just as I feel Harold’s continued love and watch care, I believe I’ll feel my father’s too.

Three weeks have passed since Harold’s death. Life continues to be good. As I ascended out of Idaho yesterday and watched my view of the land change, I wondered about Harold. How has his perspective changed? What does he see? What would he counsel me? 

I think I know.

He’d tell me families are forever. He’d tell me to continue in faith. I may be called to work in the rows and the trees of life now, but above that there is a grand design laid out by a loving Heavenly Father and made possible by our Savior, Jesus Christ. Harold would tell me to keep following that plan . . . and be happy.