Fifteen Years

Today, still on the road, I remember my father who died 15 years ago this afternoon. He had ALS, a terrible disease. He was a man who was always in control, and yet had lost all control of his body. His mind was still sharp up until the moment he died. I have always believed that he probably knew which breath was his last. I was with him up until 15 minutes before he died. I knew that he wanted to go, so my prayers had changed from physical healing or even stopping the progression of the disease. That day as I left my childhood home, I prayed with no words, just an image of God's hand gently holding my father and taking his last breath--the holy breath that God breathed into us in creation--and returning it to God.

Thanks be to God for my father who was and is my champion, who never really understood me, but always loved me. Just as my husband tossed a found golf ball (one of daddy's favorite pasttimes) into the small grove where we scattered daddy's ashes with these words, so I offer them up today and always: "Here's to you, Mick."