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I can't even see normal


My next blog was going to be my wonderful yard transformation - and that may come yet - but that kind of a normal post will have to wait until I can see normal again.

Last July I walked beside normal as my dad told us he had cancer. At that time it felt my very breath was taken away and that life could just not go on. But it did.... we walked beside normal - dad took chemo and surgery like a trooper and life started to cross over the yellow line to normal.

Dad was figuring out how to eat and how to do life with his new body and set-up.

Normal seemed so close - just within reach. Dad was working and helping us with our yard. He built my fabulous sidewalk and deck and garden box. He was still figuring out eating. a little off balance and clumsy. vision not great - but he is 77, right?

Then normal zoomed off to some other dimension.

My dad's cancer came back - with a vengeance.

He now has cancer in his brain and spine. My dad will not get chemo. My dad will not have surgery. My dad will live until he dies with cancer growing inside of him like the weeds in my backyard - relentless, unyielding, choking.

My dad will die - as we all will - but he will die quickly and soon.

Our doctor says to imagine Christmas without him - that is next to impossible - another item that is in the next dimension.

I thought my waves of dismay were large with the first cancer news. Nothing can near the feelings I am having of wave after wave of pain and hurt and tears and anger and on and on. The waves come on unexpected - at weird times - out of the blue. They gush forward and most times I sob - not cry - sob.

At times I feel overwhelmingly guilty that i hurt this bad. I have been so blessed to have my dad for 48 years. I am blessed that he never had to watch his children or grandchildren or great grandchildren go before him. I am blessed that he will be married 50 years this August. There is so much that is a blessing to me. He has lived a fantastic 77 years. He is ready to go home. He is prepared for what's next. He desires to be with his god. He knows he will miss us but he knows that he has prepared us and prayed for us that someday we will see him again and him us.

However, in this moment, in this previous moment... in these sobbing, uncontrolled, sniffling, snotting, running make-up moments - I don't give a crap! I just want him to stay longer. I want his quiet wisdom to remain. His wry smile and really bad jokes. I want to continue to hear that Warkentin Humour. I want to listen to him tell me how to print mom's cards. I want him to help me build my back deck next summer. I want him to be at my daughter's wedding this august. I just want him to stay. I want him to see his great grandchild play hockey or dance. I want him to see new great grandchildren. I want. I want.

Guess it isn't about me.

My dad is... words fail. He is my rock. He is my guy. He is my dad.

My dad trusted me to drive tractors, harrow and cultivate fields, feed chickens, wash barns, drive lawnmowers, drive go-karts, shop for cars. He trusted me when i went out with boys and came home late. he trusted me with his vehicles and his stuff.

My dad taught me to love the Lord. He is teaching me to trust the Lord. This is a very hard lesson. I am working at it.

I love my dad. I know that we are only here with our passports for a short time. We were never meant to stay here. That, as a Christian, is not our goal. To accumulate wealth and riches was not our goal. Our goal is to serve God to the best of our ability. To follow his laws as much as we were able and understood. Our passports are temporary and we will all turn them in someday. And then we will all go home. And that is our goal - that is where we want to be. And dad gets to go there sooner than any of us thought. He will reunite with his parents, his brother, his nephews and nieces who have gone on before. There will be old chicken farmer friends and other friends that he made over the years. They will play golf and they will laugh and walk straight. Dad will sit with Jesus for supper at a table especially prepared for him. The food will be fantastic - it will all taste great - he will not be nauseous, it will not get stuck in his throat, it will not overflow from him - it will taste and sit well. This is the beauty my dad is going to see soon.

So I am selfish - I don't want him to see all that - but... It is good. It is well. It is with God that he walks. He won't be alone. We won't be alone - perhaps it will feel that way - but we will not be alone. God promises us to never leave us. I will trust that.

However, I will still hurt. I will still sob. I will still be mad and sad and confused and lonely. I will miss him so much that I can't imagine functioning.

But my faith will not allow me to sit there long. But my faith will also allow me to sit there for awhile.

God is good.

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