Two years ago tomorrow, on 17th June, my father’s spirit left his
body.
In the big scheme of things, two years seems like a
very short time. At midnight on the eve
of my brother’s birthday, my aunt called to let me know dad had been taken to
hospital.
Dad being dad, he was kind enough to my brother to
wait until the following day, Father’s Day, to finally close his eyes forever.
When I arrived at his hospital bed, I whispered in
his ear sweet words of a daughter’s love.
During the following thirty minutes after he took his last breath, I kept
encouraging his spirit to “find the light” and “go and run up those stairs to enjoy
your time in Heaven.” He had earned it. He had done the very best any father could
have done for his children. He even
saved us from the authorities when they were threatening to take us away and have
us put in a children’s home.
I said “Your love has protected us, your love has
been true, faithful and non-judgemental.
You have not even condemned us for the some of the bad choices we have
made. You have allowed us to make our
own mistakes and to learn from them. You
have supported us with the examples you have given in your strength of mind and
your honourable heart.” Then I told him
to “Go, enjoy your time in heaven dad.
We’ll be with you soon enough.”
His hand was warm and I held it, like I had done
many times as a young girl. But this
time, as I felt him release his grip and grow colder, I didn’t want to leave
his side. I knew that, every dawn after
that would take me another day away from this day. At first I consciously counted them in
minutes, then hours, then days. Now, I’m
noticing only the years as they pass gently by, until finally, I grow old
enough to follow him myself.
My tears welled in my eyes, but I didn’t allow them to
fall because I didn’t want him to hear me cry.
I desperately grasped each moment as it passed and held on tightly,
knowing these final instants would be the last I would ever be in his presence. They were precious. God-given moments.
Just as Eric Clapton says in his song, I sincerely
believe, there are no tears in heaven. Not because God doesn’t care. But, because it is such a wonderful place to
go. Because there is so much love there and
no more pain. Though I’m unhappy he’s
gone, I’m glad that dad is finally free.
He never had much luck in life. He
suffered as a child through illness and pain, then through his adult life,
trying to find love through the women he married. All to no avail.
Now his spirit is free to either stay in heaven and dance
with the Angels, or to try another life in another body. Who knows?
I’m not a religious-type of person, but I do read
about all the ones that available for mankind to revere in their lifetime. And from that learning, I can see all the different
meanings they offer and the different ways of telling us how to live life. They are like metaphorical stories to me, giving
us guidance in a way that will connect with our own personal perception from
whatever culture we have been brought up in.
For all their differences, there is one sweet message
that all religions unite in:
Learn to love.
It’s obvious when you think about it. I don’t believe God to be vengeful and full
of wrath and damnation. Why would he do
that to his children? Not just the
little humans, but I believe that every living being on this earth – human,
animal, fish, plant or even a single cell germ at the bottom of the ocean, all
of it is a child in God’s eyes.
Aren’t all these hurdles and obstacles that we face
through daily life meant to burnish our souls?
Meant to help us be strong in mind, body and in our spirit? Meant to show us how to love by letting us
know that we are not in control? We all have hard choices to make in life. But the blessing is that we are given that choice.
Through my dad’s ability to let his children learn
their own lessons by making their own mistakes, I see how God does the
same. He allows us that freedom - without interference. And in turn, this teaches us to let go of what our 'ego' wants - and learn
how what love really is.
We have all been granted free-will. From this, we are able to make our choices
from what life presents to us. We make the
decisions - and we face the consequences.
Therefore, from this, we learn that whatever we do, whatever emotion we
experience, whatever mental or physical ability we place upon our minds and bodies,
in some way these have come about because of a decision we have made along the
line somewhere, at some point in time.
Be it in this lifetime, or a previous one.
And, isn’t understanding this, the key to forgiveness?
Learning to understand that when we forgive someone
else something they have done, we are really seeing that their deeds have come
about because of a choice we have
made. Because of an action we have done,
somewhere, sometime, long ago. A
response we made has come back to us, like a boomerang. I think of Carl Jung’s explanation with his
theory of the ‘collective consciousness’, or perhaps the Buddhist understanding
of Karma?
When I think of my dad’s life, I wonder what
decisions he made to arrive at this point.
Apart from snippets of stories that he eventually opened up after my
probing, most of his life was a mystery to me.
Through choice, much like most men, he spoke very little and when he did
it was short and to the point. I used to
feel that all the mixed-up ball of emotional turmoil I had inside of me was
contributed by dad. What he didn’t show,
I made up for it. I got a double-whammy
so to speak!
But I’m not blaming him for my sensitivities. This was my way of thanking him for it. He dealt with his physical pain silently,
never complaining or speaking about how he hurt. Even though I knew he did. His life path shows me that he tried and
failed, many times, to connect with this thing called love. In the end, he just gave up and lived alone –
though he never admitted to ‘loneliness’.
He had his beer, wine and cigarettes and his telly, too.
Even though I’m writing this today, I still can’t
believe I’m expressing his life in words that describe the ‘past tense’ because
dad still seems very much alive to me.
Perhaps I haven’t grieved enough?
Many times, I have wondered how I got through it so easily. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross recommends there are five
stages to the grief process. I
experienced them all at different times, and all at once. The thing was, as a psychotherapist who helps
people through their grief, I knew what I was going through - as I was going through it. And because of that knowledge, it helped me
to cope with the oncoming organising of his funeral arrangements and to deal
with the space in my life that he left vacant.
And I have dad to thank for giving me the strength
to deal with that.
He gave me the courage to commit to any task I put
my mind to. He gave me the encouragement
to live life to the fullest possible and instilled in me the wherewithal to go
for my dreams.
Through the life lessons he gave me, I have grown to
understand our body is like an overcoat.
When our spirit makes the decision to ‘go home’, it takes its overcoat off,
lays it aside and thanks it for its service.
It was in these thoughts that I found strength to cope with dad’s
departure from this earthly life.
When I left the hospital, I opened the door to his
flat and his overcoat lay casually on the back of his chair.
As I sat down in it, I hugged his coat and listened
to his clock ticking the minutes away while his spirit quietly ascended those
brightly lit stairs.
These things comforted me while I let my tears
finally fall here on earth, and not in heaven.
© Kaye Bewley 2014
