The Power of God

I don't usually discuss religion in a philosophical way here for a couple of reasons. First, religious people get it and already have plenty of religious things to read and non-religious people don't get it and don't want to read those things. The second is that it is often awkward for me to talk about these things in a less than abstract way because God is so personal to me. Call it the hiding-in-my-closet-to-pray-to-God thing.

I also understand that religious people see God's hand moving through their daily lives, while non-religious people typically just see coincidences. I've never believed in coincidences, largely because of my father's remarkable life which would have included far too many. For example, I doubt there are few men who served in three wars in three war zones without being in direct combat. Or few men could survive an accident, as my father did about a dozen years ago, in which his vehicle was literally ping-ponged between two 18-wheelers. But my father walked away from that accident.

I don't think it was a coincidence that Dad went to England on his second tour in 1955 and met a cute English girl that he had a difficult time talking to without a little alcohol to fortify him. Or that he managed to be married for 38 years to that same cute girl.

When my mother died 12 years ago, I was devastated. I was as close to my mother as a daughter can be, not just because I loved her, but because we liked so many of the same things: needlework, crafts, mysteries, movies, Scrabble, board games, puzzles, and more. Like most parents, my mother had developed the knack over the years of listening to her children's ramblings without comment or judgment, which had drawn us closer to her and made us more willing to talk to her about everything in our lives, even those things we might otherwise hide. I told her the minutiae of my life and she seemed to enjoy my stories as much as I enjoyed telling her.

My father, OTOH, wasn't like that. We had bickered and butted heads since my adolescence, and I generally didn't talk to him much. Just as I doted on my mother, it is sad to say I avoided my father because our exchanges were so unpleasant. Looking back, I realize that perhaps the reason those exchanges were that way is because I didn't talk to him otherwise and it probably hurt him a great deal.

My mother died after an all-too-brief bout of lung cancer (42 days), and our grief was severe and long-lasting. I remember wondering why on earth God had done that to us? We all loved Mom so much! She was so important to all of us. How could a loving God take this pillar of our life so soon?

Through the years, I came up with a variety of theological explanations for it: "if Mom was in pain and ready to go, God wasn't going to keep her here against her own wishes." Or "her work here was done and it was time." But the last few days, I've been given a different insight into her death. Perhaps God did what He did for a number of reasons, but I have to think that one factor in our interwoven fabric of lives was so that I would have the time to focus and re-establish a relationship with my father.

For the last 12 years, I've gone to see my father about twice a week, usually on Sundays and Wednesdays. Sometimes, particularly in the last few years, it's been a lot more often than that. Over time, our visits became richer and more meaningful. I would never try to tell anyone that I told my father the minutiae of my day--that's what my husband is for!--but we learned how to communicate without fighting and to appreciate our differences. We also discovered (or, at least, I discovered) how similar to Dad I've actually always been. My stubbornness, independence, and outspokenness are all admirable qualities from my father. And his quick-witted debate skills helped me develop my own over time. God knew that I needed solo time with Dad to get to know and appreciate him in a way I wouldn't have done under other circumstances.

A second experience of God's power--as opposed to "coincidence"--happened last night at Dad's viewing.

I think I'm a morbid person because, in some ways, I enjoy funerals. It's not that I like people dying, but in discussing the person who is gone, you learn such fascinating and funny things about them and about the many people who touched their lives. There's great comfort in these ceremonies to me.

For instance, last night, my oldest friend came. I've known this boy--er, man, since I was three and he was 18 months old. We grew up together, but, sadly, I hadn't seen him in more than 20 years. Yet somehow, a newspaper obituary spoke to him and caused him to come. We had a wonderful time visiting and catching up, and he gave my siblings and me insights into our father that we never knew.

A longtime friend from grade school and her mother also came. These were people I'd only seen at my mother's funeral, yet they found us again in a time of grief and shared their stories and anecdotes. Finding out what people have done over time, as well as reminiscing, is a terrific solace.

My closest friend also came with her mother. Unlike the other two friends, she hadn't known my father except through my stories, but her presence and comfort eased the pain as well.

There were other people as well: my minister and his wife, the chaplain from hospice, relatives of relatives. I found myself in awe of the number of lives touched by my father either directly or indirectly. And I realized yet again that there are no coincidences; everything, even the most heart-wrenching, has its own purpose.