July 30 would have been my dad’s 100th birthday. He was determined to make it to 100, but he died three months short of his 98th.  In fact, he was determined not only to make it to 100, but he was planning to preach a sermon to some church congregation on his 100th birthday. I suspect his plan was then to take a post-sermon nap and die peacefully. We all hope for an ending like that, doing what we love to do for the last time, and then simply drifting away, but it never happens that way.

He lived a big and long life. He wanted to be a preacher as a teenager, was ordained at age 17, and pastored a church for the next 75 years. It’s all he ever wanted to do. Even at age 95 he imagined getting on his 3-wheeled cycle, pedaling across 4 lanes of traffic to a new subdivision being built. He was sure all those people moving in would need a new church started, and he could be the pastor.

He went from moderately independent to hospice care in the matter of a month. His decline was precipitous, and the end came relatively quickly. I’ll spare details, but it was interesting in that while he could not preach in his final weeks as he had hoped, he chaired a number of church committees from his recliner in his small room in nursing care. He conducted business, greeted people, asked questions, gave instructions, and planned for his congregation’s future all from his recliner, and to people only he could see and talk to. His hallucinations were vivid to him, and fortunately they were of tasks he wanted to do and with people he wanted to be with. I suspect they were people I would remember; Oscar White, Orville Weathers, Carrol Little, deacons from churches past. Deacons long dead themselves, but alive in his room at the nursing facility. I wish he could have told me who was in the room with us, but he was no longer aware that I was in the room. 

During one of his final days, after a morning of sitting, watching, and trying to converse, I said, “Dad, I’m going to get some lunch. I’ll be back in a little while.” He looked at me and without hesitation replied, “Could you make 6 copies of this while you’re out?” I was suddenly part of the meeting in progress; I was given a task to do during lunch so the rest of those in the meeting could continue with business. 

“Sure, Dad, I’ll do it.” 

That was the last sentence he said to me. By the end of the day, he was no longer conversant. No longer conducting business. The committee had been adjourned. He could mumble and moan, but no longer any words. His life had been built on putting words to ideas, beliefs, principles. Now even the words were gone. And in a matter of hours, so was he.