June 14, I was at a picnic lunch with people from work. I got a call from my sister. My dad was having a hard time breathing. He wanted a ride to the doctor. She called the ambulance. She was right. He went to the hospital. A touch of pneumonia. Some other stuff.

I packed up and left for Illinois.

My heart was troubled. My mom can’t be alone. She and dad needed each other, though, to be truthful, they couldn’t do a lot for each other. I knew we were headed for some significant decisions about places to live and kinds of care. I had a lot running through my head.

I was listening to music, the music that usually helps. And then I found a talk by Donald Miller, one from a book tour a couple years ago. He talked about rewriting the story that our life is telling. I’ve listened before. I’ve read the book. But something clicked as I listened. I started thinking about my parents, about the journey I was making, about what I could do when I arrived.

I tweeted:  ”What if ‘honor your parents’ means for me ‘help them finish the story of their lives as well as they can.’?”

And then I started thinking about how to simply summarize the story that their lives have told.

I tweeted: “and his story is ‘i kept my word to take care of her’ and hers is ‘i kept my word to make people feel at home’”

It changed how I listened to my parents for the next few days. I was looking for the story they were telling with their lives.

But how does that relate to the title? Dad didn’t come out of the hospital. And for his eulogy, I simply told his story.

—

Thank you all for your comments and your encouragement and your prayer and your support. If you know me well, you will know that reading that eulogy at the funeral without dissolving in tears isn’t my usual style. God was gracious to me as a speaker that day. I have a couple more posts coming about my dad. Bear with me.

Ah, dear friends, here’s the next part of the story.

I talked yesterday about my mom and praying. What I didn’t know then was that I would watch her on Monday afternoon lean over her husband and pray. As her husband, my dad, was taking his last breaths, she thanked God for his life. For their years together. For his goodness to her.

I’ll be taking the next few days off. We have a funeral on Thursday and a burial on Saturday and I will be looking for words for both of those. And doing a lot of driving.

I also understand the risk of publishing too many thoughts in the middle of grieving. C.S. Lewis’ A Grief Observed is a powerful reflection on the process, but it was written and edited and published as a whole. I think, perhaps, I will follow that model. Even social media chaplains probably should keep some things private for awhile.

I will say this, however. Every time we left Illinois for our various homes in Indiana for the last twenty-six years, Dad would say, “Call us when you get home.” It was one of those things that you know is love but feels like checking on. But I always called. Because I knew that he was following the route in his head, keeping his eye on the clock.

There were lots of things that way with my dad. I chafed a bit at the requests (“check the oil” “did you call your friend” “you are always welcome” “haven’t heard from you and we were just wondering if you are okay”) but I tried to remember it really meant, “I love you.” Because he did.

We made it home tonight. I’m telling you because I can’t call him.

But it’s okay.

He’s home, too.

My mom is having problems with memory.  There are lots of stories. I’m not going to tell you them.

Instead, I want to talk about a couple things she does remember. She remembers to offer us coffee. And tea. Often. She remembers to set the table for as many people as she hopes will come.

What I mean is that even when she’s not clearly remembering some things, she is remembering to be hospitable. It’s a habit running deep in her muscle memory.

She remembers to talk to God about her family, deep conversations, specifically for us all. There is remarkable pleading from this woman. It is a habit  running deep in her heart memory.

I’ve spent a few days with her, watching these habits and thinking, “What are the things that I do without thinking, when there is nothing but habit to guide me?”

I’m pretty sure that I have checking email down pat. I can check twitter in my sleep. I’m pretty sure that I can sit and flip channels.

But I have been finding out in the past few days that my habit of crying out to God isn’t nearly as habitual as it could be. As would be helpful.

I’m 52. I’ve got some years, perhaps, to be building habits that my heart and body will rely on when I begin to lose my capacity to make decisions. There is still time to tell God each day that I’d like his guidance for that day. If I start today. And tomorrow. And Wednesday. And Thursday.

Because I don’t want our kids to be writing their version of this post and saying,

“My dad is having problems with memory.  There are lots of stories. I’m not going to tell you them.  But he does check email really well.”