Moby Dick
The last and most profound lesson I learned from my Dad came to me in mid-September 1988.
It was two days before he died.
The melanoma cancer that attacked my Dad when I was in high school had gone into remission for the last eight years before this. He was given a clean bill of health just a year earlier, in September 1987. He had a green light on life, and we were excited about the news.
Until my Mom called me seven months later, in April of 1988.
"Tim, you and Lisa need to come home right now. Dad's in the hospital and not doing well."
Lisa, my bride of two years, joined me as we dropped everything, packed up our Volkswagen Rabbit, and hit the road to Prineville, Oregon, my hometown. Fortunately, we lived in Eugene, Oregon, so it was just a three-hour drive.
We arrived at the hospital, and the doctor started explaining what was going on with my Dad.
The cancer had come back with a vengeance. Dad had tumors on just about every internal organ imaginable. The cancer had quietly been at work inside of him for months. The tumors grew so much that, finally, when he was turkey hunting with his friend Eldred, they attacked his stomach. That was the pain he felt earlier that day. He was in so much pain that he could barely walk, so he went to the hospital.
Honestly, I don't remember much of anything from that moment. My head was spinning, and nothing seemed to make sense. A year before, my Dad was declared "cancer-free." He had a green light on life. This news just couldn't be right. I vaguely remember asking the doctor why they couldn't remove the tumors. "There are just too many of them," he said.
I remember being back at our house, and we were all crying—even my Dad. And then he said, "Let's pray."
Yes, pray. That's what we need to do. So we prayed. I prayed like I'd never prayed before. Then we prayed the next day, the next week, the next month, and the month after. Nothing changed at all. In fact, he continued to get worse.
My Dad, whose faith was so strong, believed God could heal him. Early on, so did I. Of all the people who deserved to be healed, my Dad was a perfect candidate. He exemplified what it meant to be a follower of Jesus. Not the church-ey kind, but a genuine Jesus-follower. He quietly gave to others. He let people live rent-free if they were in need. He secretly dropped off food to those he knew needed it. He always put the needs of others – including my Mom, me and my sister – above his own. He modeled self-sacrifice like no one I've ever known.
Why the fuck wouldn't God heal him, I thought to myself.
Each day that went by, I burned with quiet anger towards the God I grew up with. This didn't make any sense. None. Nada. Zilch.
It was that hidden anger, confusion, fear, and angst that my Dad addressed that mid-September afternoon.
We were in our family room, which had been converted into a hospital room for him by the fantastic hospice nursing team. He reached out and gently grabbed my hand. His bony fingers caressed my hand, and he then squeezed it.
He uttered some random words to me, something about a mat. Then he was quiet for a few seconds, turned his head, and looked at me with his sweet eyes.
"Did that make sense?" he asked me.
"No, sorry, Pops, it didn't." He was hopped up on morphine to fight the pain, so I thought he was mumbling nonsense.
He proceeded to tell me these were a few words from the middle of his favorite book, Moby Dick. They didn't make sense to me because they were out of context, he explained.
"I know you're angry, and none of what is happening to me makes any sense to you," he continued. "And that's okay," he assured me.
He told me what was happening to him, and our family was like those few random words. Out of context, the pain, the hurt, and the confusion of our situations sometimes don't make any sense.
"When you read all of Moby Dick – which you should read it – then those random words make sense," he said, squeezing my hand as tears rolled down his cheeks. "It doesn't make sense to me either. But I don't know the entire story yet, son. None of us do. One day, however, we'll all sit around our Creator and hear the most incredible story ever. It's going to be way better than Moby Dick or the Iliad. It will be the vast story of this universe and humanity's existence. And we'll all see how our finite little stories – our random words – fit into that story."
I heard him and took it all in. However, two days later, when my Mom called and told me that my Dad had died, I tuned his lesson out. I was still pissed at God and struggled through my Dad's funeral and the years that followed. Years of a life without my Dad, without my best friend. It didn't make any sense, and a story about Moby Dick didn't help.
Eventually, life continued. Lisa and I would experience all sorts of ups – adding Delaney and Carson to our family, and downs – more losses of loved ones and other pain. Some experiences made sense. Others didn't.
Over and over, I would hear that faint voice of my Dad mumbling nonsensical words from Moby Dick.
Now, over thirty-five years after my Dad died, I not only hear his voice, but I soak in his wisdom. His wisdom and life lessons have shaped the faith I have today, and I am forever grateful for that. And, as I've been blessed to live a life he didn't get to live, I realize I don't need to make sense of everything. As he reminded me, I don't know the entire story. I’ve learned my Dad was trying to teach me not to worry about finding the meaning. That's a senseless exercise. Instead, embrace whatever is happening here and now. Embrace the seemingly random words at this point in your life. Whatever your part in the story of life is, make it a great part of this amazing story we are all part of.
So, to my family – or anyone else reading this – embrace all of the life you're given. Grab hold of every moment. Celebrate the good days. And mourn the painful ones. Then, sit back and wait. Wait for the most incredible story of all, that epic story, when we all get to learn how our life stories fit into the vast tapestry of human existence.
