See you tomorrow, dad!

This is a longer English version of the column I wrote for the Swedish paper, Norra Halland, July 5, 2024. Read the shorter Swedish version here. This text is a very personal reflection of the last days I had with my father before he passed away. What you will read is certainly not the full story - there were many others there, and many things transpired - but it is my story. Yet, even if this might be the most personal thing I have ever written, there are still moments and feelings experienced during those days that I am keeping to myself. Some things in life are just too sacred and ought perhaps to be guarded in the chambers of our hearts. With that said, I am glad to share many other special moments and thoughts with you below. With love, Louis.

Obviously, in theory we all know that our parents will eventually die. But emotionally, this fact has not been that obvious in my life. Yes, lately I have seen my parents getting more entrenched by old age, but still, I never thought the day would come when they wouldn't be around anymore.

Until my father passed away.

It was a bittersweet experience. The sadness was overwhelming , but at the same time I was truly relieved - dare I say happy - that I could be with him when he took his last breath.

A few days before his passing, I had the strongest feeling that I must urgently travel to Utah, where my parents have been living the last two years. My sisters, along with our mother, have been amazing in their care of dad, but I also felt I wanted to be with him at the end. My father was there when I came into this world. I want to be there for him when he leaves.

I booked a flight and flew on Sunday, the very next day. I arrived in the evening, was picked up by my sister Gil, and we drove straight to the nursing home. When I entered dad's room, I instantly noticed how week he was. Hesitating, not wanting to wake him - and wondering if he would even recognize me - I walked over and placed my hand gently on his cheek. "Dad, it's me… Louis."

Slowly he opened his eyes. I smiled at him and waited. It took some time. At first he looked at me in surprise, as if he didn't understand quite what was happening. Then, slowly, his countenance changed. He sighed and I saw something in his eyes. It was relief. Oh, Dad!

He moved his lips in an attempt to tell me something. Unfortunately, most of it was unclear groans and mumblings. He had lost almost all sense of communication. Almost. I did make out two words: "Louis" and "wonderful". Those were the last words I heard my father say. Through my tears I also released a sigh of relief. I made it in time! Thank God for that inner voice!

On Monday, many family members and relatives came to say goodbye. It was a special moment. The sadness was palpable, of course, but there was also joy in the air. We related to each other beautiful as well as funny memories about dad, even the crazy things he attempted to do in life. He was a dreamer and an entrepreneur.

But he wasn't a very successful entrepreneur, if success is measured in monetary currency. Our father's currency was of a different sort. He provided adventure for his family. Sometimes high risk, yes, but there were few dull moments in our lives. He lived to make other people smile, especially the older he got, using his dry humor to crack silly jokes. And he showed us, in theory but definitely in practice, the value of hard work and never giving up on your dreams.

His currency was also love toward God. I can't count all the times when he expressed to me the appreciation he felt for the blessings he received from on high, and the awe he experienced when gazing upon God's beautiful creations. His prayers were long. Very long. And in them he always poured out his heart in gratitude to his Maker.

But my father was also very pragmatic in his faith. To him, loving God meant loving your neighbor. It meant service. It meant always being there for those who needed you. Yet, in saying that I don't mean he was perfect. He did indeed have his flaws. There were sign of pride and mild lasciviousness, as well as taking his patriarchal role too seriously. He should have listened more to my mother. I could say more, but it wouldn't be fair recounting all of his missteps to the public. Suffice it to say, he was human, like all of us. And because he knew that, he humbled himself before his Creator, and sought to find His forgiveness and grace.

Although dad never stated it specifically to me, I also felt that he viewed service and acts of kindness as his way of compensating for his weaknesses. Not that he sought to earn the Lord's forgiveness - dad knew that it was a free gift to all those who believe - but because he did receive grace, he wanted to extend that grace to others. It had just become a natural part of him. And in all fairness, that accounts for my mother as well.

This is how he lived his life. Even in the care facility, that same spirit of service and devotion continued. The staff and the elderly at the residence had loved Dad. Despite his pain and discomfort, he never complained. He was always grateful for the help he received. And he made others laugh with his awkward jokes. And whenever it was time to say goodbye to someone, he would tilt his head, put on a wide smile and say: "See you tomorrow!" (It was also his recurrent line in my video calls with him.) It was his way of saying: “I can't wait to see you again!”

Those words always made my happy. But now? Would there even be a tomorrow for him? Looking at his face, where it not for his struggling breaths it appeared as if he was almost gone. He seemed oblivious to any efforts on our part to communicate with him.

Or was he? Maybe we could give him something we knew he treasured: the gift of music.

We started singing songs for him. That's when things started to happen. It was as if he woke up from his unconscious state. His eyes remained closed, but he began to rock his head back and forth and attempted to part his lips. He wanted to join in on the music. It was a sad but sweet moment. Our father had the most beautiful voice, and it was heart-breaking to see him trying to use it one last time without being able to utter a single sound. At the same time, it was clear that his soul was singing full volume. It was beautiful to see. Soon he would be singing with the angels.

Perhaps the most powerful scene that played out before our eyes in that hospice room was when we played from Spotify some of my brother Per's beautiful ballads. Noticeably, dad's breathing became heavier and his facial expressions more vivid. How deeply those melodies had always touched his heart. As I saw him pressing together his eyebrows, engaging more emotionally now, I would have given anything to know what he was thinking. A soft melancholy seemed to descend over his countenance; Am I hearing this music for the last time?

Yet, I sensed a feeling of contentment and an overwhelming pride in what he had accomplished through his sons. Our father never held any one of us siblings as his favorite, of course. He was proud of all of his children. But it is also true that the music and artistry of his sons gave him a special kind of joy. So in this moment, when he heard and "sang" Per's songs, I believe he was singing his songs. Our songs were his songs.

In so many ways, we were an extension of him. The blood that ran through our veins - the love of life and music - was still running powerfully through his veins, though he was exerting the very last drop of blood now. Inside, he was singing all the way to the end.

But the end was coming soon.

Late Monday my mom and I decided to stay in dad's room all night. I couldn't sleep anyway. Plus, it was getting close know. We didn't want him to be alone when he passed away, so we took turns sitting by his side.

I remember it clearly. It was a peaceful night, something serene was in the air. I can't explain it properly, but it was as though the veil was starting to part, and someone on the other side was getting ready to receive Willy. He was laying on his right side, facing us. If there was any established contact earlier in the day, it was completely gone now. In some ways his breathing was calmer; the wheezing in his throat had subsided. I'm guessing the morphine played its part here. But his chest was working harder, a sign that all surrounding muscle groups had been recruited to assist with the air flow. On the outside everything looked calm, but on the inside dad was running a marathon.

I looked at this man who had been my father for 57 years. How he was fighting now! He was still trying to hold on. In truth, all the way to end, just a week earlier in fact, he was hoping the doctors would make him whole again. Why? So he could go on another mission with my mother. As if four mission wasn't enough, never mind him being 94 years old. That was my dad in a nut shell: he wanted to serve God all the way to the end.

In the early hours of Tuesday I took his hands in mine. While looking at them I got lost in space and time. I saw flashing images of him using his hands doing the dishes (he was good at that), grabbing straw bales at our ranch, playing songs on his guitar, crafting runestones, combing his silver-white hair, and even standing on his hands.

When younger, those hands had chastened me. But they had also held and comforted me when I needed it the most. Now I didn't want to let go of them.

But I wanted him to let go. I didn't want him to suffer anymore.

So I prayed. I prayed to God that He would take my father home. Could I even do that? Can you wish for someone else to die? I don't know. I just know I wanted it. "Please, God! Help him come home!"

I leaned forward and whispered in dad's ear: "Let go, dad. Your time on earth has been a blessing to so many, but now it's time to move on. Jesus is calling you. Go to the Shepherd of your soul, dad! Go! He is calling you."

Did he hear me? I don't know. His chest was still rising and falling at an even speed. But in the next early morning hours something did happen. The long "sleep apnea" breaks that the staff had warned us about occurred more often now.

By this time, one of my sisters had joined us. The three of us gathered around our father. It was a waiting game now.

By the time the apnea pauses became longer than normal, Mom thought for a moment that dad had passed away. So she leans forward and kisses him on the cheek.

 “Ahhh!” Dad took a deep breath - at that very same moment.

 "Oh!" mom uttered in surprise, "he's alive!"

"Yes..." I said, smiling through my tears, "there's still gunpowder left in the old man."

Dad took ten more breaths, then stops. Mom waited a little longer this time, then leaned forward to kiss his cheek. In the same instance, dad breathed again. 

And this is repeated four times.

I know I shouldn't be laughing but I couldn't help myself. "Mom, this is just like in the fairy tales. You keep bringing him back to life with your kisses!” Talk about true love's kiss.

I held her with one hand and took dad's with the other. The breathing pauses were getting longer and longer. Is it happening now? I see the pain disappear from Dad's face. He looks so peaceful. Mom gives him another kiss, but this time he doesn't come back to life. He has moved on. God has taken him home.

It was Tuesday, June 18, 10:28 am.

Reality hit me fast. I know I wanted dad to be released from his mortal bonds, but once it happened I cried like a baby. Maybe it was everything that was released inside of me. He was actually gone now! Yes, in a way heart rejoiced for him, and yes, I believed I would see him again, but I already missed him immensely.

Talk about bittersweet!

My sister, my mother, and I embraced for awhile. Then my mother sat down next her husband. With tears rolling down her cheek she whispered with a sigh: "He looks so beautiful."

He really did.

Eventually more family members and relatives arrived after hearing the news. We had a few solemn hours together, after which we took down family photos and drawings from the walls. At the end of his life, that's all he had left. No treasures. No possessions. Just images of family memories. Those memories were the treasures he valued the most. Those were the only treasures he took with him to the other side.

On the topic of family, in our last video call before he passed away, he said with a choked voice: "There is nothing more important than the love we share within our family." He paused for a moment, overcome by emotions. And then, almost inaudibly through his tears: "Louis, listen to me! Never forget that we are an eternal family! We will always belong together."

I will never forget those words. They fill me with so much comfort, especially at times when "family" is struggling. Because (newsflash!) we are just like everyone else. We are just a rugged crew trying to navigate through life. My parents had seven children (I am the youngest), and there are tons (yes, really) of grand- and great grandchildren. I love everyone dearly, and there's often love and harmony. But sometimes there isn't.

Looking at all the family members who now embraced Willy for the last time, eyes drenched with tears, I couldn't help feeling an overwhelming love for them, and for those who weren't physically present. And I found solace in my father's words: We are an eternal family. Our own efforts are not enough, I know that. We need the tender mercies of the Lord to be forgiven, to be healed of our wounds, to be united as a family. Only through the grace of Christ can that be attained. I believe in His promises.

When I said my final farewell I brought dad's comb with me. His hair was a bit ruffed up, and I wanted him to look his very best before the staff came to take his body away. I combed it gently, remembering how keen he had always been in keeping his hair tidy. It was thick, even to the end, and gray, even silver-white.

I cherished that moment. Even if it wasn't a big thing, it was still something I could do in return for his tender mercies toward me in my life. It was the very last thing I did for my father.

Putting away the comb, I hugs him tightly, laying my head on his chest, flooding his shirt with my tears. I knew that this was it, our very final goodbye. But I didn't want to let go. I was back in time, being that little boy again, just laying in his father's bosom, feeling safe and protected. There I stayed for a long time.

We gathered all of dad's last items from the closets and left for the parking lot. After packing the car I got the strongest feeling that I had forgotten something, so I went back inside. This time the room was empty. Nothing on the walls. No people. Only me standing in front of a body resting peacefully on its bed. It was my father, yet it wasn't. I felt in my heart that his spirit had been taken home. I can't begin to express how comforting that feeling was.

I had been urged back in the room for some reason. I now understood what that was. I had forgotten to tell my father something. So I walked up to him, ran my fingers gently over his hair, and kisses his forehead. In the midst of my sorrow I did my best to put on a wide smile for him to see, just as he had always done.

"See you tomorrow, dad! See, you tomorrow."