My Father’s Final Words

My Father’s Final Words to Me…

January 1, 2013. First day of a new year, supposedly a day of new beginnings, but I had no idea something would happen that day to change the way I lived my life.

It had started much like any other day, with me waking up to a sense of futility. Just a regular day of wondering what on earth I was on earth for. By mid-morning, I was so depressed I packed up all the copies I had of the books I’d written and carried them down to the laundry room to store. I didn’t want to look at them anymore. The sight of them only deepened my feelings of failure.

There was a time I believed God called me to be a writer. I was 18 years old in 1978 when writing became my goal, and between that time and January 1, 2013, I devoted all my time and effort to learning the craft and serving God through the written word. Some people thought that because I had published some novels and won some awards I had succeeded, but I knew differently. Because while in my outer life I was writing and editing and teaching, in my inner life I was someone who wasn’t good at all at running this seemingly mandatory race toward success, the race that—let’s face it—we’re all in as we clamber to be a winner, to be the best.

The voices that told me I wasn’t good enough started in childhood. I “heard” them all the time, the taunting loop of accusations that no matter how hard I tried, I would never make anything worthwhile of my life.

By my mid-twenties, as a person whose mind dealt in imagery and symbols, I began to picture all the negative thoughts and feelings as a knife to my head. For the next three decades the knife was always there, right at my temple, reminding me that my own mediocrity held me locked in a place of insignificance.

Still, I ran. I continued in the pursuit of success because, after all, that’s what we’re supposed to do during our one brief foray through the land of the living.

But by January 1, 2013, I was tired. I couldn’t keep running. I decided to admit defeat and be done with it. I sat on the boxes of books in the laundry room and cried.

After a time, Brenda, my father’s part-time caretaker, called to me from upstairs. Dad had lived with us for more than two years, and now he was bedridden and dying. “Ann, your dad wants to see you!”

“All right,” I hollered back. “I’m coming!”

I dried my tears, left my books behind, and climbed the two staircases up to my father’s room. He lay in his hospital bed, his face turned toward the window and the mountains beyond.

“Hey, Dad,” I said, “I’m here.”

He rolled over and started to smile, but then his eyes grew wide with concern. He raised a frail hand and brushed at the air beside my head. And then he whispered the words that would eventually change my life: “Take the knife out of your hair.” I frowned and leaned in closer to make sure I was hearing him right. He said it again, quietly but firmly. “Take the knife out of your hair.”

And with that, he withdrew his hand, rolled toward the window, and went back to sleep.

…And How They are Changing My Life

Some might say that my father’s words were the senseless rambling of a dying brain. And they may be right. But they may be wrong. A friend of mine, a hospice nurse, says that in the last two weeks of life, those who are dying begin to see the spiritual world. In other words, they begin to see the things that are really there. Two weeks after his final words to me, Dad died.

In the weeks and months following my father’s death, as I thought about his words, I came to understand two things. First, that the knife to my head was undoubtedly an accumulation of lies perpetrated by the one who works to destroy our lives, and that I ought to tell those lies to go back to the hell from which they came.

The second revelation rose up as a memory. When I was 20, a friend and I went to Times Square on New Year’s Eve to watch the ball drop. Neither of us being native New Yorkers, we emerged from the subway into the festive crowd and realized we were lost. We were in the right place but we didn’t know which way to turn to see the famous lighted ball. We asked a man beside us for help, and he pointed upward and said, “Keep your eye on that building.” And so we did, and at 12:00 everyone cheered and hugged and kissed and by 12:05 the crowd was already breaking up, and my friend and I looked at each other with the realization that the ball had dropped somewhere and we hadn’t seen it. Either our erstwhile tour guide had himself been misled or perhaps he had thrown back one too many drinks and was a little lost himself, but in the end he had us looking in the wrong direction. True, we’d been in Times Square on New Year’s Eve and had enjoyed the celebration, but even so we had missed the main event.

And that, God told me, was how I had been living my life. If there is something called a great salvation party, a celebration of eternal grace among believers, I have been right there in the midst of it all my life, having joined the festivities as a child. But at the same time, some worldly hand—our entire culture, I suppose, spearheaded by a powerful and powerfully misguided media—had me looking in the wrong direction and away from the main event, because the finger was pointing toward some glittering but ultimately inconsequential place called Success.

It took me a good long while to change the way I think, and in fact almost six years later I’m still working on it. It’s hard to think one way when every day you’re inundated by messages from the world around you that you should be thinking another way. Because the world says, “Live your life as a success story!” But that’s not what God says.

Through my father’s final words, God told me, “Forget success. That’s not why I created you. I want you to live your life as a love story with me.”

And that’s it. Loving God is the main event. Loving him is the whole point of our existence. And so I’m changing out the success-story fable for a true love story. As lies fall away, love flows in. I’m spending my time loving the One who created me to love him because, wonder of wonders, he first loved me.

2 thoughts on “My Father’s Final Words

  1. Thank you, Ann. This is a beautiful reminder of what and WHO is important, and a call to pray that we believe God’s truth instead of satan’s lies.

    Like

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