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The perfect gift

Joanne Long

Shopping for my father had never been easy. What he wanted, he bought for himself. Never excited about gifts, he always thanked the giver politely, but often left the package unopened. Yet I always sent a present for his birthday, Father’s Day and Christmas – another blue shirt, studio portraits of my three sons, a box of peanut brittle – something to let him know I cared.

But this Christmas, finding the right gift seemed impossible.

For weeks, Dad had lain in a hospital bed, slowly succumbing to the chronic leukemia which he had battled for five years. When word came in November that he was critically ill, my brothers and I flew to his bedside, where we spent three days. Our presence gave him the desire to rally.

Those hours were sweet, quiet ones, for Dad’s toughness had mellowed during many difficult days. For the first time since I had become an adult, he was willing to demonstrate his love by touching me gently and holding my hand. Still he could not speak the words I longed to hear. He couldn’t tell me that he loved me.

As a young medical student, Dad had embraced Darwin’s theory of evolution and forsaken his parents’ Christian faith. He became increasingly scornful of religion, until science itself became his source of faith – his guide – his god.

No wonder my father uttered his dismay when Jesus became the most important person in my life. Never had he expected such a thing to happen. “I can’t believe this,” he would say. “You’re supposed to be an educated woman.” In our frequent arguments, he insisted that even though I had earned two college degrees, my decision for Christ totally refuted my intelligence.

Repeatedly I attempted to explain my faith, but all my efforts for meaningful spiritual discussion with him appeared fruitless, falling on closed ears. Even when he learned of his serious illness, he refused to consider the possibility of eternal life and his need for a Saviour.

As I kept vigil beside his hospital bed, my father napped. Holding his frail, heavily veined hand, I prayed aloud softly. I thanked God for loving my earthly father. I thanked Him that Jesus had died that my dad might know heaven. I trusted Him that by the working of the Holy Spirit my dad would come to know Jesus.

Though I yearned to talk openly with Dad about Jesus, the Spirit did not lead me to do that.

On the third day of our visit, Dad was much improved. Our obligations meant that I must return to my family and my classroom, and my brothers to their medical offices. Holding back my tears, I kissed Dad goodbye as though we would be together soon.

Christmas neared. Once Dad was able to talk briefly on the phone. When I told him that I was praying for him, he responded weakly, “You keep doing that.” My spirit leaped with joy. It was the first time my father had ever made a positive response to a faith overture.

Now my Christmas shopping was nearly completed. But what could I send my dying father – a father who needed Jesus? Not a shirt, candy or pictures. I stared at pots of lush, red poinsettias crowded into the florist’s window, then turned away with burning eyes. Dad didn’t need flowers. There would be plenty of them later. The only thing he needed – the only thing that could make an eternal difference – was Jesus.

Sitting at the kitchen table where I write letters, pay bills and grade student essays, I tried to force myself to begin addressing Christmas cards. The list of names blurred before me. I could think of nothing except my helpless, hopeless father.

Suddenly, a quiet, deep assurance came to me, as clearly as though an audible voice had spoken: There is time. This is the time to write a letter. This time the words will be right, and he will hear.

I began to write, the words flowing into my mind more rapidly than I could ink them on paper. From the moment I began the letter, peace surrounded me. I wrote:

Dear Dad, I love you. I miss you. I wish I could be there with you while you need me. Particularly, I’d like to sit beside you and read some beautiful thoughts from my Bible. God loves you so very much. It is His desire for you to understand that. Jesus has gone to heaven to prepare a place for each of us (John 14:2). Heaven is very real to me, and I look forward eagerly to being with the Lord Jesus. There we will have all eternity to enjoy each other and to praise God for His blessings. God has provided abundantly for us here, but these good things of earth can’t compare with the unending joy He plans for us in Heaven, where there will be no tears, no pain, no sorrow. Jesus hasn’t changed. He is “the same yesterday, today, and forever.” He is now exactly what He proclaimed 2000 years ago – “the way and the truth and the life”. When we know the loving Jesus, we know the loving God. Isn’t that good news? Jesus loves us and plans for each of us who know Him to share His glory. My prayer this moment is that you will take from God the gift of eternal life by receiving Jesus Himself into your heart. May the joy of Jesus be yours this Christmas and forever.

 
Shortly after mailing the letter, I talked with Dad – only a few faded words – for the last time. Two weeks later, the final telegram arrived. We buried Dad three days before Christmas.

As the family was leaving the cemetery, an elderly woman who had helped care for Dad at the end called me aside. Taking my hand, she smiled confidently. “I want you to know for sure. Your father was all right with God before he died. I had the joy of praying with him.”

I cried then, but the tears were blessed. The Lord Himself had become my father’s Perfect Gift.

Joanne Long lives in Glendale, Arizona.

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Last modified December 7, 2001.

© 2001 Mennonite Brethren Herald.
Published by the Canadian Conference of MB Churches.
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