When I write, it is my time to talk to God. It’s how I process, how I express, how I absorb the world around me. I never really know if my meanderings are helpful to the reader, but I sometimes think when you know someone else is going thru or seeing things in the same way you are, it helps.
I also generally want my writing to be uplifting and encouraging, but there are times in life when that’s just not possible. We all have what my mom used to call “dark nights of the soul.” We all have times of pain, times of grief, times of despair.
A few weeks ago I posted about my dear friend, Tom. To repeat a little bit:
Ten years ago, we asked Tom and Barbara for their blessing and support as we launched the Military ministry at North Coast Church. For 10 years, Tom came to almost every event, every activity. He made coffee, emptied trash and did KP duty. Tom is a retired Lieutenant Colonel, did I mention that? Did I mention that the man who quietly, with the most gracious servant’s heart emptied the trash at every military breakfast is a retired Lieutenant Colonel and Viet Nam veteran? He became my advisor, my mentor, my friend.
My father was a career Marine. He was just a career Marine that had his career cut short. He died in Viet Nam in 1965, when I was 5. He was 32. He was a Captain. For you Marines – he was a Mustang. I don’t remember his voice. I don’t remember his smell, his walk, his mannerisms, his laugh or even his temper. I don’t remember him. But as I have grown to know Tom, I have grown to hope that this is the type is man my father would have been if he had been granted a longer life. A man of character, of integrity, of grace, a man of God and a man for God. A man who serves with a quiet heart. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard Tom call me by name. He always calls me “sweet girl.” I’m sure he calls others the same, but I choose to think this term is entirely reserved for me.
In July, Tom was diagnosed with MDS (myelodysplastic syndrome.) Simply, it’s cancer of the blood. Three weeks ago, it progressed to Acute Leukemia. He has been in the hospital 4 weeks and two days.
Tomorrow I will lose my friend. Or maybe it was yesterday when he slipped into a world apart from the one we know. Or maybe it was today when he went further down the road into a place where we could no longer reach him. But tomorrow, after weeks of treatment, weeks of hanging on, his body will no longer inhale. It is very seriel to know this. It seems to be too much knowledge to know when someone will die.
It is an extraordinary thing to witness the transformation of body to spirit. To see a life lived become something else, something intangible, become a memory. I had a similar experience watching my mother die. It is so difficult standing by as someone leaves this world. At a point, everything in this world is shut out and it becomes such a personal and private journey between them and God. I’ve come to believe to bear witness to a loved one’s death is an extraordinary gift, an honor. It’s a gift from the person, to witness the incredible intimacy between them and God, and the further realization that this world we hold so dear is so temporary. This life we struggle with, fight over, and hang onto is just a blink of an eye in eternity.
Recognizing the God piece and wandering down the unknown pathways and spiritual what-ifs, doesn’t by any means lesson the pain and anguish of losing someone you hold dear. I am losing my friend, my mentor, my “father.” I have a peach, nectarine and apricot tree in my yard, because Tom and I share the love of gardening. I loved to watch him, hands in pockets, stroll through my garden taking in my latest projects or DIY experimentations. But there are so many things I love about Tom. And so many details I’ll miss. I never knew my father, so I never knew what to miss. I only missed “having a father” … until Tom came into my life. Saying goodbye to Tom …
I will never again see him selflessly serve,
I will miss sharing gardening secrets,
I won’t get to serve him Father’s Day brunch on my patio,
I won’t get to see his love of my cooking, especially my enchiladas,
I won’t hear his laugh,
I won’t be witness to the incredible and sweet adoration of “his girlfriend” who he has been married to for 44 years.
I will miss how he always asks permission to hug me,
I will miss how honored he is when I hug him first,
I will miss knowing a man of such Godly character, honesty, integrity, and valor
I will miss his voice calling me “sweet girl”
What is the sound of a heart breaking? It is losing a father again. It is the sound of a flood of tears hitting the floor. It is the sound of a too quiet hospital room.
Semper Fi Tom A. Turner, Jr. You are an exceptional man among men, a good and faithful servant, and the doors to heaven are wide open tonight. I love you.
