Letting our souls catch up with our bodies

Sometimes our best advice to others is forgotten by ourselves.

Not very long ago I admonished the worshippers on Sunday morning to slow down, do less, and take a true Sabbath rest. We tend to get swallowed up by life’s demands and forget the important stuff that really matters.

I told my listeners the story of the young, high-strung, typical Type-A, American tourist who was exploring Africa. He hired a guide and gave him the jammed packed itinerary. The tourist had a tight schedule because he wanted to see as much of the African wilderness as he possible could in his limited time. The first morning, he was up early and moving, rushing from one site to the next. The second day was much the same as he relentlessly kept to his agenda like a hound dog after his prey. The third day was the same. But on the fourth day, the tourist awoke and couldn’t find his guide. After a quick search, he saw the guide resting under a tree. The American was incensed and wanted to know why the guide wasn’t ready.

“We must stop and let our souls catch up with our bodies,” the guide calmly said.

It happens to us, doesn’t it? And you don’t have to be a young, activity driven American tourist to feel it. I talk to retired people who tell me they are busier than before retirement.

I awoke today, longing to go and sit under that tree with the tour guide and let my soul catch up with my body.

Sometimes life comes at us like several action movies being played in our mind all at the same time. And even when the movie is over and the screen goes white, the script still plays inside our heads.

And it’s not just the filled schedules that can overwhelm us. The absences of life, or fear of them, can create vacuums that suck the wind from our sails, leaving us adrift on the sea of life.

This summer we buried my wife’s dad. And a few weeks ago, my dad was diagnosed with a terminal illness.

Several times I’ve awakened and felt my heart thump, thump, thumping. I had to admit that it has been weeks since I’ve had the Sabbath rest I advised my listeners to take.

“So, I’ll just clear my schedule and take off for the Abby of Gethsemani,” I thought this morning and then I halted after weighing the consequences of cancelling commitments.

Glancing out the kitchen window, I saw the small bench some friends gave Lori when her father died several months ago. The early morning sun was spotlighting it, catching my attention. The bench seemed to shimmer and beg, “Why not? I’m here. Won’t you come and join me?”

And so I did.

But before I sat down, I read the inscription on the bench. I had read it before, I felt sure, but had not really thought about it.

Until now.

“A father holds a child’s hands for a while…their hearts forever.”

I recalled a photograph of Lori’s father, George, holding her hand when she was 8 or 9 years old. His youthful smile had a “take on the world” confidence to it. Lori’s eyes are sparkling, proud to have her daddy’s hand. He’s been gone several months now. But his presence I still feel in Lori’s heart.

And I felt my dad’s hands there on the bench, too, my hand latched to his when at about 10 years of age I tried to keep up with him as we scurried across the downtown square to pick up a package one cold Christmas Eve, his hands full of youthful energy, transferring the anticipation of Christmas to mine.

Those hands, once the steady hands of a skilled dentist, now tremble when I help him up from his wheel chair.

“None of us are going to get out of here alive, David,” Dad reminds me as he answers my question, “What did you think when they told you it was cancer.”

“So, there’s no sense in being sad about it and dwelling on it,” he concludes.

We let go of the hands, finally and forever.

But not the heart.

It’s with us always.

We have to remind ourselves of that because we tend to forget. Sometimes we have to stop, rest a while, and at least let our souls begin to catch up with our bodies.

And embrace the things that last forever.

Dad’s still Dad

“I miss you tucking me in bed.”

The words were not from one of my children, now grown and away from home, longing for the comfort of days gone bye.

The words were from my dad. He had been diagnosed with cancer several weeks earlier and had just completed his first treatment when I visited him. The prognosis for longevity is not good---less than a year.  

Dad told how me how he missed our nightly ritual after I had returned home from my visit with him and Mom.

I quickly learned Dad’s routine of getting to bed. First, of course, I help him get undressed and into his pajamas. I make sure his trousers are creased on the hanger and his shirt collar buttoned.   “Would you put my shoes on the far end of the closet?” He repeatedly reminds me he doesn’t need my help with his shoes, even though we both know he is not able to bend down low enough to get them on and off.

Dad was a dentist, so brushing his teeth is mandatory.  “Would you please hand me that toothpaste from the medicine cabinet?” Always the polite gentleman, Dad prefaces his requests with, “David, I hate to ask you this, but…”

We then switch his electric mobile wheelchair (mobi) with his regular wheelchair and place it next to his bed.

Dad instructed me on how to roll up a towel and place it against the bed railing to support his back while he sleeps. My sister-in-law, Joy, had perfected this technique when she was helping him to bed before my visit. If I didn’t get the towel wrapped tightly enough and in the correct spot, he would gently remind me how Joy did it. I couldn’t help but smile.

After having prayer with Dad, I would bump fists with him. A nurse started this little tradition with Dad, and my older brother Mark picked it up. After bumping fists, they would make a swishing sound as they slowly pulled their hands away from each other. This always made Dad laugh, for some reason, and so I continued the ritual.

The moment Dad told me how much he missed me tucking him into bed, I thought of how often the roles of children and parents reverse as they age, although Dad wasn’t the one to tuck me in when I was a child. Mom did that.  And after tucking Dad into bed, I would make my way to Mom’s room in the assisted living area of their retirement complex and help her to bed.  But that’s another story.

For both of them, I am still their son, and they are still my parents. At times it feels like our roles have reversed, but it’s not so much that they have reversed as that they have changed. When I am with them, I am a caregiver.

And the time will come when my role will change in another way. As I struggled to get Dad’s shoes on him, my son, Dave, who was there with us for a few days, bent down to help, and I wondered when he might someday be assisting me with my shoes.

Time flashes by just as quickly as the swooshing of our hands after we do our fist bump at bedtime.

Only yesterday, it seems, Mom and Dad were waving bye as I drove off to college for the first time. I had a lump in my throat then.

And I felt it again when I got into the van to leave for the airport after my stay with Mom and Dad. Dad was determined to follow me to the parking lot. There, we made one last fist bump followed by the swoosh.

I think Dad must have had a lump in his throat too, for there he was, in the rearview mirror, waving from his mobi, tears welling up in his eyes.

I may be a caregiver for him.

But Dad’s still Dad.