A Blessed Assurance

A Blessed Assurance

by Joseph Weilenbeck

2009

The first hint of daybreak began to show at the window. The lights of the monitor next to Dad’s bed had been the dominant source of light for the past eight hours.  A dim light over the sink had provided barely enough light to read.  And muffled sounds of the hospital staff at work had occasionally penetrated the stillness of the room.  It would be one of the longest nights of my life. But, far too quickly, it came to an end.  As the light outside the window slowly began to grow brighter, the sounds of life-sustaining breath I had been intently listening to throughout the night grew noticeably weaker. 

I called my family to tell them to come to the hospital.  My mother, my sister, my wife, and my daughter were all staying together at a hotel just a few minutes away.   I told them there was not much time left.  

Within a minute or two of making the call, my long night was over.  Dad’s breathing had stopped. I called for the doctor, who confirmed what I already knew.  As I then waited for my family to arrive,  I looked down at the now lifeless body of the man I had always looked up to – the man who began as my father, and became my friend.

This last month at the hospital had been a time of hope and disappointment, a time of prayer and agony.  Each day brought news of another procedure, another test, another set of possibilities, and another prognosis – sometimes good, sometimes not.  We anxiously waited for each report.  We spent every moment possible at Dad’s bedside.  We knelt together in the chapel and prayed.  We read.  We talked.  We even laughed.  But always, we hoped.  Our hopes, however, were not to be met with the results we wanted.  Instead, we came to this last night.

All of the tests, procedures, and possibilities had been exhausted.  The doctors, who had hoped with us and who had delivered each report, had to now offer their final prognosis.  Dad was dying.  He had one more day at the most.  Though the last several weeks had been slowly preparing us, the news was more than difficult to hear.  It had been so hard seeing this once strong and vital man appear so weak, so frail, and so ill.  It would now be so much harder still to watch the last signs of life leave his body.  As the reality of this final report sunk in, we wept.  And we prayed.

I knew the strain, both physical and emotional, that the past weeks had visited upon my mother. I encour­aged her to go to the hotel – along with Cathy, Mary, and Dottie – to get some rest.  I would stay with Dad throughout the night, and I would call them if it looked as if Dad’s passing was imminent.  We all agreed on that arrangement, and they left the hospital for their nearby hotel room.

 

The nurses prepared a place for me to sleep in Dad’s room.  I had spent every night, for the past five weeks, at the hospital.  Most of those nights were spent in the ICU waiting room, trying to convince my body that the chair I occupied was really a bed.  But, on the occasions when Dad’s condition presented the greatest risk, I was granted the privilege of staying with him in his room.  But, this night was different. This night was darker, longer, and absent the hope that accompanied all the others.

 

After removing some equipment that was no longer needed from his room, the nurses made their final checks, dimmed the lights, and left Dad and I alone.  I sat in the chair next to Dad’s bed and near the one light in the room, holding my Bible and my journal.  I never made use of the bed they had prepared for me.  I sat in the chair all night long – watching Dad, listening to his breathing, praying for him, remembering, and occasionally writing in my journal.  I read from the Psalms.  And, all night long, I prayed.

I prayed in thanks to God for the father He had given me.  I prayed that God’s will be done.  I confessed my trust in His will.  I prayed that, if possible, Dad’s health would be restored and he would remain a living blessing to his family.  But, I had no delusions at this point.  I also prayed, if it were God’s will to call Dad home to be with Him at this time, that He would give us peace, comfort, and hope beyond our loss.  I thanked God for the faith He had given me – faith to trust that His help is sure, and His will is perfect.

My remaining hope was centered on God’s promise of eternal life to His children of faith.  I knew that Dad’s passing from this life would mean his presence with the Lord.  Beyond mere belief in the possibility of “a better place”, I knew without a doubt, by the faith God had given me in the promises of His Word and the work of His Son on the cross, that Dad would soon be in a paradise inconceivable by man.  Dad would be home.  Dad would be in Heaven.  Little did I know, as I sat through the night listening and praying, my faith would soon be given a startling confirmation.

Not long after I telephoned the hotel, my family arrived at the hospital.  Mom, my sister, my wife, and my daughter all rushed into the room – anxious to come, but dreading what awaited them.  I had to tell them that Dad had just passed away.  Those were the hardest words I had ever had to say.  The man who had been a loving, faithful husband to my mother; a strong and loving father to me, my sister, and my brother; a wonderful grandfather, uncle, and brother; now was gone.  Grief and tears filled the room.  Just five weeks ago, we all laughed and joked with Dad as we drove to the hospital for what we knew was a serious, but common and highly successful, procedure.  We thought that we would all leave the hospital the same way.  But, what began in laughter was ending in tears.

As all of us joined together in a single hug next to Dad’s bed, we wept.  The pain that came with my grief was like a blow to my chest from a sledge hammer.  I had never before felt such intense physical pain from a non-physical cause.  I felt grief for my own loss; but I also grieved for my mother’s loss – and Dottie’s, Cathy’s, and Mary’s.  We held each other tightly.   And we wept.  

Then, something remarkable happened.  For reasons known only to God, I was given a gift – a gift that would not only bless me, but would bless my whole family, especially Mom.

We were still all huddled together as one – hugging, weeping, and comforting each other – pressed down by the weight of the grief that filled our hearts.  Suddenly, as if warm oil had been gently poured over me, I felt a soothing warmth spread from the top of my head, slowly moving down to cover my entire body.  And with that warmth came peace and joy that defied the circumstances.  I lifted my head.  I saw a vision of Dad standing before me – appearing not only alive, but well!   His face and features were absent the toll that the last weeks had taken upon his physical appearance.  He said nothing; but the message was clear.  He was okay!  He was better than okay!   My tears of grief changed to tears of joy.  I cried out, “He’s okay!  He’s okay!”

As the tears flowed from my eyes, I struggled to speak clearly through my emotions.  I assured Mom, and everyone, that Dad had not just gone, he had gone home.  I told them what I had just experienced.  I told them what I had felt, and what I had seen.  I gave thanks and praise to God.  We all gave thanks to God.  

We all knew of Dad’s love for God, his strong faith, and his trust in God.  We knew and we trusted in God’s promise of eternal life.  But, for whatever reasons He might have, God chose to give us a particular demonstration of His love and mercy.  Our weeks of hope, agony, and prayer culminated in an event that brought us, at once, both profound grief and blessed assurance.  In the midst of our sorrow, God gave us a reminder of our joy.  Our sadness was great, but Our Lord is greater. 

Jesus said…, “I am the resurrection and the life.  
 Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live…”

~ John 11:25 ESV ~

I will not offer an explanation or justification for the special assurance we received that day.  I only give testimony to a gift given by God – a gift that blessed me and my family – a gift that remains a blessing to this day.

Afterword

In my college psychology courses, I studied and learned the steps of dealing with grief:  denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.  While I accept that many people may, in fact, negotiate this sequence of steps as they deal with the loss of a loved one, I know that God offers more than this.  

My brother died from injuries suffered in an automobile accident at a point in time before I had come to a new life in Christ Jesus.  My response was similar to the process I later learned in psychology class.  I, however, started with anger.  I was not certain to whom that anger should be directed; but, I was angry just the same.  It would be several years before I was able to find peace with the loss of my brother.

In contrast, at the death of my father (as recounted above) my response could not have differed more.  Because of the faith that God had given me, by His grace and the power of the Holy Spirit, I immediately experienced both the most profound grief and a complete acceptance.  My grief was real and substantial.  But, my acceptance and peace were just as real.  I was spared the anger, denial, bargaining, and depression of man’s way.   I did not have to rely upon psychologists’ steps, empty platitudes, or time.  I could walk in the gift of faith, and rely upon the grace, mercy, and help of God.  

Since the death of my father, I have lost all the remaining members of the family I knew as a child.  Through each loss, God has sustained me in faith and given me peace, comfort, and hope beyond my grief.  In each time of grief, through the darkness of loss, I was able to walk in the light of my Savior.  Praise God!  Praise Him – Father, Son, and Holy Spirit!

Dear brothers and sisters,

Grace, mercy, peace, hope, truth, light, and life – independent of your circumstances – all can be found at the Cross.

Find blessed assurance – by grace, through faith, in Christ.

Joseph