Like most days in life that change our lives forever, Tuesday April 9, 2002 started off like any other day. I entered my office, in San Bernardino, California, with a hot cup of coffee and sat down and wrote in my prayer journal. I don’t start every day like that, but I had just received a brand new journal as a gift. In my journal, I wrote out a prayer asking God for the ability to do things well and not to be overwhelmed by the tasks ahead of me. It seems trite looking back. Little did I know that in less than twelve hours, doing things well would be the least of my worries.
Around 4 pm my Mom called with a panicked tone in her voice. She told me that my Dad had never made it to work and was nowhere to be found. You have to understand this was not the typical behavior for my father. He was dependable. He worked for the same company for more than twenty years. He was my baseball and football coach, president of the youth football league and part of our high school gridiron club. He was not the kind of man who wandered off irresponsibly. Something was wrong and my mind went to a million places, none of which were good.
I reassured my Mom, got off the phone and called my cousin Rick, who still lives in the same town as my parents. Rick is the kind of guy who would do anything for me and I knew if I called him he would drop everything he could to help me out. Rick, true to his character, did just that. I asked him to search the town, starting with motels and working around the city. After about a half hour of agony, he found my dad’s car at the local Motel 6.
I am not sure what I felt at this point. Finding my Dad’s car at a motel was not the least bit reassuring. Married men generally do not spend time at motels when their residence is less than a mile away. Therefore, I knew that this day was going to get worse. Rick went to the front desk and asked to call the room where my dad was staying, but there was no answer. He went and knocked on the door but there was no answer. The motel manager was called in and went down to the room and found the door dead bolted from the inside. The police and paramedics were called and my family was rushed away from the room.
Back at my office in San Bernardino, California, the phone rang again. Knowing the news, whatever it may be, was not going to be good, I answered the phone knowing that this would be whatever the outcome, a life altering phone call. This time it was my Aunt Polly. My Aunt Polly has always been more than an aunt to me, sort of a “sister-mom figure.” She is only sixteen years older than me and I grew up tagging along with her everywhere she went. Knowing the call was from her and not Rick concerned me even more, knowing she was more likely to give devastating news than Rick was.
Polly’s voice sounded shaken as she told me that the paramedics had taken my Dad to the hospital. She told me that, “It did not look good.” Not look good? The world seemed to stop. The day had started so peacefully. My world which up until this point had been so “normal” was starting to fall apart. I went from worry to fear to panic. My heart broke and I began to sob. About a half hour or so later, my aunt called once again, this time to tell me that my dad was gone.
Even as I write this eight years later I am flooded with emotions and memories I can hardly explain. I cried for the next two hours like I had never cried before. For the first time in my life I was fatherless and facing a future without the support, care and encouragement of my Dad.
My dad had taken prescription medication, along with aspirin and hard liquor and took his own life. I had learned in my very early twenties that my dad suffered from bi-polar disorder. This shocked me and although my dad could be a little moody at times he was a rock in my life.
Growing up, my dad was everywhere I was. He coached me, he taught me to read before I went to kindergarten, and was my biggest fan. I can never remember a time when my dad did not show up and be the dad I needed him to be.
The day my dad stopped showing up created a scar that is still being healed by the Holy Spirit. Truthfully, it is an open wound that at times becomes infected once again. Whether it’s getting married, having my first child, or becoming a Lead Pastor at the age of thirty (and being in way over my head), all can be dampened or destroyed by grief.
What I am trying to get across to you is that this is not a book I wanted to write. This is a book which flows from agony and despair. It is not a technical manual, written from a spiritual ivory tower. I am a fellow traveler with you and although it has been eight years since my dad’s death I still have moments of sadness and grief. Yet God has used my heartache for His glory and to expand His Kingdom. My friend, I do not know what you have been through or what you are feeling right now. I do know this, if you know Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior, He is with you right now. And He desires to give you peace and to use your scars for His glory.