May 5, 2008 – Three Letters. One Day. Forever Changed (Part 1 of 2)
“The fundamental fact of existence is that this trust in God, this faith, is the firm foundation under everything that makes life worth living. It’s our handle on what we can’t see. The act of faith is what distinguished our ancestors, set them above the crowd.”
Hebrews 11:1-2 MSG
—
May 5, 2008
What should I make for dinner? I thought to myself as I opened the fridge, then the freezer. My uninspired culinary thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing.
“Hello?”
“Stehh-ph. Is Mike home?”
It was my dad, Jesse.
His strong, gentle voice was instantly recognizable and guaranteed to improve your day just by hearing it. And, after thirty plus years in Canada, his Filipino accent still gave him away.
My dad had walked me down the aisle the previous summer before officiating our wedding ceremony. His voice had cracked with emotion causing him to swallow hard and take a deep breath before composing himself enough to continue. His emotion took me by surprise, causing a lump to form in my own throat during his long pause. If his emotions found their way out, there’s no doubt mine would’ve too, along with everyone else in the building.
His few moments of pausing felt like minutes, but he was quickly able to shift gears from a father about to give away his daughter, to a pastor preparing two individuals to become one.
He even playfully scolded Mike and I during his sermon for being too busy smiling and giggling at each other to listen closely. I was kind of listening. He used a lot of basketball analogies. After returning from our honeymoon, we had moved a few hours south of our families where I was attending university and Mike was working.
The last time my dad had called, he began the conversation how he always did, “Stehh-ph… it’s your coach.” He always called himself my coach. We made small talk for a few minutes before I asked why he was calling. “I just want to see how you’re doing,” was his explanation.
I smiled, my heart warming at his gesture. As a young child, I spent lots of time in the garage with my dad as his little apprentice. I loved his orange hand cleaner so I would always find something in the garage to dirty my hands with, warranting the use of the citrus and industrial smelling scrub. As a teen, I went through a phase of being mad at my dad for never having time for me. This was no longer the case.
Now, with no drive to school, or basketball games to cheer me on at, he was simply calling to connect. We were ushering in a new season in our relationship— one where he wasn’t just my dad, and I wasn’t just his daughter. He wasn’t just going to be my coach, but my friend.
And I was looking forward to it. He worked part time as a corporate chaplain and one of his companies was going to extend his hours to the office in the city we lived in. He was going to spend a couple of nights with us each month when he was in town to do his work and we would get to spend time together.
But this didn’t sound like that kind of call.
“Is Mike home? he inquired calmly.
“Yes, he’s in the shower. Why?” I asked.
“Are you sitting down?” he asked.
Whatever this was, it didn’t sound good, but how bad could it be? I took a seat at our kitchen table feeling my heart rate quicken.
“I am now,” I told him.
“I hab bad news,” he continued, his voice still strong, calm and even. “The doctor said I hab A-L-S,”
He emphasized each letter, the combination of them beginning to punctuate my heart. “It’s fatal,” he continued. “I hab 3-5 years to live.”
My mind spun. I didn’t know what ALS was but I didn’t need to for grief to swoop in like a storm. I knew what fatal meant. And I definitely knew how to count.
Three to five years were not nearly enough for my only 60-year old dad, coach and friend.
