“Can you please get me some Sunny-D and cook a batch of French fries?”
During his last remaining months alive, my father had developed an affinity for some odd combinations of food.
Most of his meals were now being taken in bed and he was looking frail but not hopeless. Since he was diagnosed with the cancer a year or so prior, he had maintained that the Lord would heal him.
My father was a very honorable man. Classy is the word that comes to mind. He drove bus for half of my growing up years, and I knew he had to deal with a lot of difficult people. Yet he never really complained. This was typical of his generation.
Some of my favorite memories of him included playing golf together, throwing the baseball around and seeing him wake up early to read his devotions before heading off to work.
Sometimes I think God is most pleased with the folks who humbly make their way in the world with an unworldly peace in their heart trusting He’s going to take care of them. This was my father.
My mother, older brother and his wife were his constant companions while I drove back and forth from college when I could – mostly on weekends. We would talk, read scripture together and sometimes, sing.
Almost 20 years ago, on the morning of April 5th, he told my mom that Jesus was going to take him home that day.
And, around 7 in the evening, my dad’s cancer was healed.