Family Squeeze (15 page)

There lives more faith in honest doubt,
believe me, than in half the creeds
.

A
LFRED
, L
ORD
T
ENNYSON

I’m sneakin into heaven’ with a borrowed halo
.

C
HRIS
R
ICE

W
e have a dog by the name of Mojo, which is a Bible name, of course. Named after Moses and Jonah (Moses who stuttered, and Jonah who ran away from home a lot), this Maltese–Shih Tzu lap dog does not appreciate my laptop computer. I was typing away one night when Mojo leaped onto my lap and somehow managed to push Control+Alt+Delete, a sequence that completely shut my computer down. I kid you not. The dog had no sense of remorse whatsoever, just sat there begging to be scratched, unaware that she might have erased the last hour of my life, and possibly some truly deep thoughts.

After Mom and Dad moved in, Mojo became Dads number one fan, following him around their suite, pouncing on his lap whenever he sat down, grinning up at him past crooked teeth. The two sat by the window happily munching bananas, lost in a one-sided conversation.

Dad loved the old saying, “If you can start the day without caffeine, live without complaining, eat the same food every day and be grateful, relax without liquor, and sleep without the aid of drugs, you are probably the family dog.”

“That dog is a blessing,” Dad would say, and not just for the company but for what she was teaching him about doubt and fear.

He had been experiencing his share of both lately.

One night, in the midst of a short conversation, Dad asked, “Do you have any books on doubt?”

His words caught me by surprise. My father? Doubt? Are you kidding? I am young enough to have doubts, but not this rock-solid Christian who has loved and served God for almost seven decades. Preaching when called upon. Telling others the certainty of what Christ has done for him. How many times did he tell me that our faith is a fact, not a feeling? Perhaps there is more of Thomas than Peter in him, after all.

Dad seemed to notice my raised eyebrows, so he voiced the question again: “Do you have any books on doubt?”

“I think so,” I said. “Uh…is it for a research project?”

“It’s for me,” he said, unashamed.

Ever since I can remember, Dad has turned to books for comfort and guidance. Our house was filled with them. They lined the hallways and bedrooms and counters and bathrooms. We weren’t big on artwork, saving our money for bookshelves instead. Winter evenings were spent playing ice hockey and rarely concluded without the benediction of a good book.

Favorite books of my childhood are in my study now, their covers torn, the pages bent. After Dad’s request, I ran my fingers along the shelves.
Tom Sawyer. Robinson Crusoe. Arabian Nights. As
a child I wished I could add pages to these books; they were always too short. The happy endings were like discovering a quarter in your piece of birthday cake, a bonus to an already breathtaking day.

Is my father wondering if a happy ending can be written into his story? After all, who pens a tale where the hero ends up old, forgetful, and forgotten, reliant on others for everything? For the majority, old age is the most difficult chapter, with Doubt and Fear playing the lead roles. We spend our lives writing our story but one day realize that no one gets out of life alive. That the only way out is the way of trust.

What shall I say to my father?

In Bible college I learned all the standard responses to doubt, but I’ve never encountered it in someone so near. Frederick Buechner calls doubt the “ants in the pants of faith.” It’s like the stinging nettle on our golf course. You go looking for your lost ball, and this pesky plant haunts you for the rest of the round, requiring that you spend more time scratching than slicing golf balls. But sometimes it’s the nettle that assures you you’re alive; that breeds stubborn determination to find answers, to press on.

In my study, I managed to locate two good books on the topic. Dad thanked me for them, but a few days later when the subject arose, he didn’t mention the books. Instead, he gave me a verse he had handwritten on a piece of paper and was carrying in his pocket. A verse from Psalm 23:

One word was underlined:
surely
.

David did not say, “You know, it is quite likely that goodness and mercy may possibly, perhaps, probably, if I’m really lucky, follow me around for a week or two.”

No, the verse speaks with assurance that God’s goodness will provide, that His mercy will pardon. Forever.

Amid the unnerving changes in his life, Dad needed the promise of a changeless God. With the uncertainty of where he would live, he needed a reminder of his heavenly home. With his memory beginning to fail, he found comfort in meditating on the One “with whom there is never the slightest variation or shadow of inconsistency” (James 1:17, Phillips).

And God didn’t just use that verse. He used the dog, too.

One June evening we were lounging on our covered deck, watching the sky change color in the west. Ragged edges of black appeared over the Rockies, growled a warning, and started their slow march toward us. Mojo was slumped on Grandpa’s lap, but once the clouds rattled with thunder, she began to shake like she had one paw in a light socket.

“It’ll be okay,” Dad whispered, patting her Ewok head reassuringly. But she wouldn’t be comforted. “I’ve got you, don’t worry,” he murmured, massaging her shoulders. But she wouldn’t listen. An irrational fear had gripped her tiny body. She trembled. She shook. She panted. And as the clouds tumbled closer and the rain touched down, she leaped from his lap, darted under a wheelbarrow, and refused to come out.

“Come here, Moje,” Dad beckoned, leaning forward. “Don’t be silly. It’s gonna be okay.”

I couldn’t resist saying something. “So do you think God feels a little like we do right now?” I thought of the bumblebees I kept in jars without lids when I was a child. “Trying to comfort poor dumb, frightened creatures who can’t understand what’s going on? Do you think He’s trying to tell us to trust Him? That’s it’s all right?”

As Dad sat talking to the wheelbarrow, the storm ended and the dog emerged from her hiding place, creeping across the grass and back onto his lap. A smile lit up his face.

I know for a fact that the doubts lingered and the questions remained unanswered. But they seemed to fade into insignificance that night as he massaged Mojo’s shoulders, perhaps thinking of a heavenly Father who holds us in His arms amid life’s storms, whispering, “Don’t be silly, My child. It’s gonna be okay.”

Keep changing. When you’re
through changing, you’re through
.

B
RUCE
F
AIRCHILD
B
ARTON

M
y mother, a homemaker and author, seamstress and personal chef for five, is taking her leave of this earth in a bedroom twenty feet from ours in the suite we built during easier times. Beyond her window lies the eastern sky, from which numerous preachers promised Christ would return one glad morning.

“I never thought I’d live to be this old,” she whispers as I rub her feet—feet that are colder and smaller than I remember them. Dying people have no reason to be less than honest. And she insists she is dying, that she doesn’t want to go on, that she simply won’t stand for it.

“We were told the Rapture would happen during the war,” she frowns. “Then they said we wouldn’t live to have children. That the end of the world was near. That we’d never see the year 2000. Now I wonder what was true and what wasn’t.”

I smile and shake my head. I must have missed the Bible college class when they told us what to do when your aging mother embraces agnosticism. Mom was forever the woman of faith. Quick with a Bible verse. She was the one who brought Old Testament stories to life for me, soothing my insomnia with promises of God that I’ve clung to in some
dark hours. And she spanked me. Yes, she certainly did. But her heart was never entirely in it. Her spankings were more like apologies. When she said it hurt her more than me, I believed her. And I loved her for it. I caress her hands now and wonder how they ever held the leather tightly enough to administer those timid doses. I grew up listening to these hands tickle the piano, while her soft voice sang hymns that still comfort me.

The last few months I’ve needed that comfort. With increasing frequency, Dad has been asking questions he has always known the answers for, and Mom has been concerned about him. A few days ago in the middle of the night, she fell, leaving dark bruises on her forehead and ribs. I don’t know if she passed out, but somehow, despite the pain, she stubbornly managed to find her way through the laundry room and into our bedroom where she flipped on the light and announced that the end of the world was nigh. It was three in the morning, and it was like the angel Gabriel himself had opened the door, held a trumpet to his lips, and blasted a high C. After I ruled out the angel, I thought it was Dad playing one of his practical jokes, but there was nothing practical about it.

“She needs to take these, and she needs bed rest,” a busy doctor told us a few hours later, his voice filled with optimism. “She should be fine.” But as the days pass, we realize that she is far from fine. Her speech has slurred, her thoughts are jumbled. It may be the medication, but whatever it is, Mom has taken a bad turn, not knowing up from down.

And just like that, we are facing the fact that a chapter is ending, that both Mom and Dad need more care than we are capable of giving them. For a time, we hired a home-care nurse, but the folks now require twenty-four-hour care. We need to keep track of their medication, pay their bills, cook meals, and do the laundry.

Sometimes the door is left open in the night when the temperature is below freezing. Dad is confused much of the time. One morning he
tapped on my study door, though it was already open. In his hand he held a blank check. “You fill it in,” he said. “I’ll pay whatever you want to stay here.” I blinked and swallowed, wondering what to say.

My brothers and sister and I huddled together, seeking wise medical, financial, and spiritual counsel. We’ve prayed so many times that the ending would be easier than this, that we wouldn’t have to pry the dog from Dad’s lap and put him in a home. But I’ve also been praying each time I travel that the house would be standing when we return. That the stove and microwave and gas fireplace would be off.

One night I had quite an angry talk with God on my evening walk, informing Him of some things I was quite certain He had not thought of yet. It ended with me explaining that He couldn’t possibly know what it was like to shoulder the responsibilities of having to care for an aging parent, and suddenly I was silenced by the realization that Jesus was no stranger to my situation.

What was He doing while in agony on the cross? John, the “disciple Jesus loved,” humbly tells us in
chapter 19
of his gospel:

As I rubbed Mom’s feet, these thoughts swirled through my mind again. While in horrible agony, Jesus was thinking of, caring for, and honoring His mother.

Honoring our aging parents means not despising them for the “inconvenience” their age and fading health brings us. It means respecting their difficulties and shouldering their burdens. It means treasuring
them and helping them and getting them a drink, as they did for us when we were whiny little kids. And sometimes it means putting them in the care of others.

One of the most difficult things I have ever done was take the car keys from Dad. Something inside me died that day. I took the dog from his lap and wished I could go somewhere and cry for about a week.

When I was twelve or thirteen I saw my parents wrestle through these same questions with my grandfather. In the end, I watched Dad carry his fathers small suitcase to the car and drive Grandpa to his last earthly residence: a small seniors home.

Today a chapter ends and a new one begins, as I find myself doing the same.