I hardly know what to say. I'm here in Nebraska, sharing some precious moments with my family. My dad passed away this morning, here at home. He was 59. It was expected, but expectation doesn't erase the paradoxal numbness and sharpness of this new reality- I'm keenly aware that I am in a fog.
I don't hear his oxygen machine anymore.
I see his wheelchair across the room.
His books on tape are piled on the side-table in the living room.
His well worn Bible sits on the shelf.
His childhood teddy bear sits in bedraggled forlorn-ness on his dresser like it has since I was a little girl.
Over in the corner of his bedroom I see a pile of medical things: soap, gauze, antiseptic, syringes, pill containers, latex gloves.
His bed is stripped bare, reminding me that only 24 hours ago he was lying there and squeezing my hand when I said, "I love you, Dad."
I love you, Dad. I'm glad you're with Jesus.