Accepting death was not the challenge on that day. Cancer had become an ugly word in our family – a vicious enemy that had struck hard and often. Though some were struggling with thoughts of what might have been or what should never have happened, I had a different battle and was consumed with the details of the process. I’d heard that this process could be a long and gruesome one; that it would be painful to watch. My challenge: To have faith while we were waiting for my father’s transition.
The doctor reviewed the process so we’d know what was being done each step of the way. The nurses assured us of their attentiveness to meet any need that might arise as things progressed. The family circled his bed and began to pray. Each one, as they were led, talked with God about their relationship with my father and about my father’s tenuous relationship with God. After the last heartfelt prayer, the silence was weighty - pierced only by the beeps coming from the machines that reported each breath and recorded each heartbeat. We silently witnessed the removal of the breathing tube. We wondered how his body would respond to this brutal withdrawal. The ventilator had been set to breathe 12 breaths for my father every minute. His body was weak, so we knew that without the aid of the machine his breathing would slow to 0, and then he’d be gone. So we waited and we watched.
It was a nurse who suggested that we sing. Amazing Grace was sung in hushed whispers as tears began to flow. One by one, my siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles left the small room, no longer able to bear the heaviness of the moment. They did not leave the ICU hall, but somberly watched through the glass wall. I had no idea how much time had passed when I realized that I was standing in the room alone, holding my father’s hand. But I did not feel that we were alone.
I remembered how much he loved music; his beautiful baritone voice had not been heard in many years. It was this memory that prompted me: I sang, inviting God into the room. I sang knowing that although he could not respond, my father could hear me. And in the music, the Holy Spirit drew near. Disappointments faded; worries disappeared; fears vanished. “Great Is Your Mercy Towards Me”, “Lord, Prepare Me To Be A Sanctuary”, “’Tis So Sweet To Trust In Jesus”, “Day By Day And With Each Passing Moment”, … song after song poured from me as God ministered to me and I ministered to my father. It was the concert I’d never done. The nurse entered the room and her confused look drew my attention to the monitors. I realized that although the monitor had been registering 8 breaths per minute when I began singing, it was now reporting 14 breaths per minute. My father’s breathing was not decreasing, but increasing as I sang! He was fighting hard to stay and hear my concert. He was at peace as he listened to me worship!
I don’t know how long I sang, but I sang until my throat became dry and my voice began to crack. I eventually realized that I would have to stop singing and let him go. The family had discussed this truth and concluded that my brother should suggest that I stop to eat. They were surprised when I agreed because they’d expected me to fight leaving his side. But God had done His will. My father’s final minutes were filled with worship and he was not in pain. I told my father that I’d be back, and I returned to his side when they called us a few minutes later saying the end was near. My father transitioned early that Saturday evening, and the peace of God filled his room. The ‘Wait Zone’ was filled with faith through worship in song. And I learned the power of worship to anchor my faith. Hallelujah!
