We moved to The Hill when I was five years old, and I grew to embrace and enjoy my family’s picturesque farm life. From the barn lights at dusk where the mooing of contented cattle musically serenaded my brothers during milking time to the warmth of the protective rustic whitewashed boards; I loved barn chores and experiencing farm life. My love for the farm and the daily chores was real. Have you ever seen a calf being born? Fed baby chicks? Or watched a mother cat’s love of her newborn kittens? Farm life is full of relationships, seasonal changes, adaptation, and hard work.
My Pop was my hero and a farmer. He had an athletic and stocky build. Although he was only 5’7” in height; his biceps were easily 18 inches. I was 14 years old the first time Pop asked me to sit on his lap. Not once in 14 years had I been held by my father. He was an authoritative amazing parent who provided for his children, protected, instructed, and disciplined us both verbally and physically. But now he was requesting one on one time with me.
As I approached Pop I was contemplating if I had made any recent mistakes. In my mind, I went over a checklist: I had finished my chores, completed my homework, no fights with my siblings, and I had practiced my flute. And since we lived on a rural farm I was not prone to leaving with friends for creating wild social disturbances so there should be no issues emerging from there.
I was not afraid to approach him, just wary. Awkwardly I sat down on his lap. He sighed and said, “ I love you, Nay. I need you to help me, OK? The doctor has told me I have been given about three months to live, and we are going to sell the farm.” He spat out the next phrase as though the words were rehearsed. “Your mother wants to move away from here and live in a small town somewhere. I need you to help take care of your mother and older sister. I want you to handle some legal things like the taxes and the insurance. Can you do that for me? Can I count on you?” He gave me a slight peck on the cheek and looked deeply into my eyes for my response. “For you, Pop, I would do anything,” was all I would manage to say.
Mom moved us from the farm to a small town. A recently remodeled house was purchased, and my mother appeared content with the progression of events despite my Pop’s diagnosis. She was a town girl, Mom would always say, not meant to be a farmer’s wife stuck out in the middle of nowhere. The move aided Pop to concentrate on his health with a physically less demanding lifestyle. Although he was still alive for years to come, he regretted the move away from the farm. I never saw him display true happiness or purpose again.
Fourteen years later, I was newly married and had moved across the country to begin life again in Southern California. While attempting to make this momentous decision, I had put out a fleece before God. I promised I would give up everything even remove my fiance from my life if our relationship was not meant to be. Proverbs 3: 5-6, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways submit to Him and He will make your paths straight.” I believed the marriage was God’s will, though, so I trusted Father God and remarried. Still, I had left my nuclear family in Pennsylvania and gambled everything I knew to get married in Las Vegas and move across the country.
Based on what I believed God had shown me regarding my new marriage, I permitted myself to experience joy for the first time in an extremely long time. I focused on performing my marriage vows and was intense on our promising future. My marriage had arrived after a series of traumatic personal storms. Perpetual bliss appeared like the promise of the rainbow and combined with the excitement of the move and new marriage; I was happy. Still, my commitment to leave all my family and security behind me nagged this blissful conviction.
We were married and living in Southern California when my Pop died. And once again I experienced despondency and examined my choices. Had I placed my trust in a fantasy by marrying this man who had no real idea who I was, nor was he aware of the emotional pain from my past, nor the reoccurring sense of emptiness left behind by my previous life tragedies. With Pop’s death, doubt about my future settled heavily upon my heart.
I could not deny our Southern California honeymoon marriage was magical; a 15 minute walk to the beach, my new career in finance, amazing opportunities for entertainment and shopping all within a short distance of our trendy apartment. Outwardly the lifestyle shifts added to an illusion created from the California lifestyle. California offered and painted a perfect life. But the wounds left by conflicts with my mother, the sale of the farm, a bitter divorce, and unresolved family issues lingered in my spirit. I was wounded. I presented myself as a business executive; reliant, resilient, and resourceful. Yes, I embodied these attributes on the surface yet lacked the deep rooted conviction stemming from a joyful heart. Scripture states, “A cheerful heart is good medicine.” It goes on to read, “but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.” I was beginning to realize the dryness.
Often after a busy work day my husband and I would meet up at a local steak house for happy hour and a light buffet. We had decided to unwind once again on this particular day. We ordered our usual artichoke hearts, mozzarella cheese sticks, various fresh vegetables, and a glass of chardonnay. We chatted and reviewed our day. It provided a relaxing time. We decided on an early evening and were both sleeping by 10:00 pm. I began to dream.
I opened my eyes and realized I was walking into a room carrying my dead father Pop in my arms. I held him like a draped blanket between my two arms. Pop did not seem to have any weight and I could carry him easily. The room was misty and all white, similar to the movie images portraying heaven. The only visible items in the room were the steps I was descending and at the opposite end of the room another set of steps which led up to a platform. On the platform was a coffin. I knew I was compelled to walk down the stairs and cross the room to place Pop in the coffin. I could not force myself to prevent my movements nor cease the uncontrollable crying as I walked.
As I held him, Pop was sitting up enough to continue our conversation. “Nay, do you see the flowers?” I looked around and saw only the milky mist. I responded, “Pop, there are no flowers in the room.” He lifted himself higher in my arms and looked straight at me, “Nay, forgive your mother.” I could feel my jaw tightening with his request and the full weight of years of anger and resentment welled up as I spewed the words, “No! Pop, I will never forgive her. She put you here.” I had descended the first set of stairs. I kept walking but I was desperately trying to prevent placing my father in the coffin. I had no control over my walking forward, my deep sobs, nor my impetus to place Pop in the open coffin. With each step I took, Pop would repeat his questioning and his instruction.
I arrived at the second stairs as Pop once again asked me, “Nay, do you see the flowers? They are so beautiful.” I gasped and blurted out sobbing, “There are no flowers here, Pop. There is nothing but this coffin.” He raised himself higher in my arms and stated, “Nay, forgive your mother.” Once again, my jaw tightened and the angry vehemence burst forth, ”No! Pop, I will not forgive her!” Gradually, I began to climb the stairs. With each step up the stairs, Pop queried me over and over again; and over and over again I spat out my refusal to forgive my mother.
Finally, it was time to place my father in the casket. My body convulsed with sobs and the anguish of laying him there. Just as I was about to place him on the white satin lining, Pop changed his statement, “ For me, Nay, forgive your mother.” I laid him in the casket and said, “For you, Pop, I would do anything. I forgive her.” And at that moment, the mist was gone, and an amazing array of flowers appeared in colors I had not seen before. I woke up.
My husband had awakened to my sobbing and crying out in my ‘sleep’. He had been attempting to waken me and ask me what was wrong, but I was not responding. It was not until the moment I spoke the words, “For you Pop, I would do anything. I forgive her,” that I awoke. Matthew 6:15 (NIV) “But if you do not forgive others their sins, your father will not forgive your sins.”
For those of you who need an epilogue: I did forgive my mother that evening. Before that vision I had always treated Mom well and with loving gestures, but the reality was my gestures were empty and insincere. Whether the vision was sent by my earthly father or Father God, I believe my Father could not rest knowing I was harboring years of anger and resentment toward Mom. During the years leading up to my mother’s passing, I worked diligently to embody 1 Peter 4:8, “Above all keep loving one another earnestly, since love covers a multitude of sins.” I never told my mother about the 'dream', but our relationship grew in love. The year my Pop died I flew her out to California for Christmas. It was her first time in an airplane. And, we had a wondrous party for her 80th birthday. We had many other celebrations and trips together. I do not believe Mom ever knew why our relationship improved; but I do know that when she died, I had no regrets.
My Pop was my hero and a farmer. He had an athletic and stocky build. Although he was only 5’7” in height; his biceps were easily 18 inches. I was 14 years old the first time Pop asked me to sit on his lap. Not once in 14 years had I been held by my father. He was an authoritative amazing parent who provided for his children, protected, instructed, and disciplined us both verbally and physically. But now he was requesting one on one time with me.
As I approached Pop I was contemplating if I had made any recent mistakes. In my mind, I went over a checklist: I had finished my chores, completed my homework, no fights with my siblings, and I had practiced my flute. And since we lived on a rural farm I was not prone to leaving with friends for creating wild social disturbances so there should be no issues emerging from there.
I was not afraid to approach him, just wary. Awkwardly I sat down on his lap. He sighed and said, “ I love you, Nay. I need you to help me, OK? The doctor has told me I have been given about three months to live, and we are going to sell the farm.” He spat out the next phrase as though the words were rehearsed. “Your mother wants to move away from here and live in a small town somewhere. I need you to help take care of your mother and older sister. I want you to handle some legal things like the taxes and the insurance. Can you do that for me? Can I count on you?” He gave me a slight peck on the cheek and looked deeply into my eyes for my response. “For you, Pop, I would do anything,” was all I would manage to say.
Mom moved us from the farm to a small town. A recently remodeled house was purchased, and my mother appeared content with the progression of events despite my Pop’s diagnosis. She was a town girl, Mom would always say, not meant to be a farmer’s wife stuck out in the middle of nowhere. The move aided Pop to concentrate on his health with a physically less demanding lifestyle. Although he was still alive for years to come, he regretted the move away from the farm. I never saw him display true happiness or purpose again.
Fourteen years later, I was newly married and had moved across the country to begin life again in Southern California. While attempting to make this momentous decision, I had put out a fleece before God. I promised I would give up everything even remove my fiance from my life if our relationship was not meant to be. Proverbs 3: 5-6, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways submit to Him and He will make your paths straight.” I believed the marriage was God’s will, though, so I trusted Father God and remarried. Still, I had left my nuclear family in Pennsylvania and gambled everything I knew to get married in Las Vegas and move across the country.
Based on what I believed God had shown me regarding my new marriage, I permitted myself to experience joy for the first time in an extremely long time. I focused on performing my marriage vows and was intense on our promising future. My marriage had arrived after a series of traumatic personal storms. Perpetual bliss appeared like the promise of the rainbow and combined with the excitement of the move and new marriage; I was happy. Still, my commitment to leave all my family and security behind me nagged this blissful conviction.
We were married and living in Southern California when my Pop died. And once again I experienced despondency and examined my choices. Had I placed my trust in a fantasy by marrying this man who had no real idea who I was, nor was he aware of the emotional pain from my past, nor the reoccurring sense of emptiness left behind by my previous life tragedies. With Pop’s death, doubt about my future settled heavily upon my heart.
I could not deny our Southern California honeymoon marriage was magical; a 15 minute walk to the beach, my new career in finance, amazing opportunities for entertainment and shopping all within a short distance of our trendy apartment. Outwardly the lifestyle shifts added to an illusion created from the California lifestyle. California offered and painted a perfect life. But the wounds left by conflicts with my mother, the sale of the farm, a bitter divorce, and unresolved family issues lingered in my spirit. I was wounded. I presented myself as a business executive; reliant, resilient, and resourceful. Yes, I embodied these attributes on the surface yet lacked the deep rooted conviction stemming from a joyful heart. Scripture states, “A cheerful heart is good medicine.” It goes on to read, “but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.” I was beginning to realize the dryness.
Often after a busy work day my husband and I would meet up at a local steak house for happy hour and a light buffet. We had decided to unwind once again on this particular day. We ordered our usual artichoke hearts, mozzarella cheese sticks, various fresh vegetables, and a glass of chardonnay. We chatted and reviewed our day. It provided a relaxing time. We decided on an early evening and were both sleeping by 10:00 pm. I began to dream.
I opened my eyes and realized I was walking into a room carrying my dead father Pop in my arms. I held him like a draped blanket between my two arms. Pop did not seem to have any weight and I could carry him easily. The room was misty and all white, similar to the movie images portraying heaven. The only visible items in the room were the steps I was descending and at the opposite end of the room another set of steps which led up to a platform. On the platform was a coffin. I knew I was compelled to walk down the stairs and cross the room to place Pop in the coffin. I could not force myself to prevent my movements nor cease the uncontrollable crying as I walked.
As I held him, Pop was sitting up enough to continue our conversation. “Nay, do you see the flowers?” I looked around and saw only the milky mist. I responded, “Pop, there are no flowers in the room.” He lifted himself higher in my arms and looked straight at me, “Nay, forgive your mother.” I could feel my jaw tightening with his request and the full weight of years of anger and resentment welled up as I spewed the words, “No! Pop, I will never forgive her. She put you here.” I had descended the first set of stairs. I kept walking but I was desperately trying to prevent placing my father in the coffin. I had no control over my walking forward, my deep sobs, nor my impetus to place Pop in the open coffin. With each step I took, Pop would repeat his questioning and his instruction.
I arrived at the second stairs as Pop once again asked me, “Nay, do you see the flowers? They are so beautiful.” I gasped and blurted out sobbing, “There are no flowers here, Pop. There is nothing but this coffin.” He raised himself higher in my arms and stated, “Nay, forgive your mother.” Once again, my jaw tightened and the angry vehemence burst forth, ”No! Pop, I will not forgive her!” Gradually, I began to climb the stairs. With each step up the stairs, Pop queried me over and over again; and over and over again I spat out my refusal to forgive my mother.
Finally, it was time to place my father in the casket. My body convulsed with sobs and the anguish of laying him there. Just as I was about to place him on the white satin lining, Pop changed his statement, “ For me, Nay, forgive your mother.” I laid him in the casket and said, “For you, Pop, I would do anything. I forgive her.” And at that moment, the mist was gone, and an amazing array of flowers appeared in colors I had not seen before. I woke up.
My husband had awakened to my sobbing and crying out in my ‘sleep’. He had been attempting to waken me and ask me what was wrong, but I was not responding. It was not until the moment I spoke the words, “For you Pop, I would do anything. I forgive her,” that I awoke. Matthew 6:15 (NIV) “But if you do not forgive others their sins, your father will not forgive your sins.”
For those of you who need an epilogue: I did forgive my mother that evening. Before that vision I had always treated Mom well and with loving gestures, but the reality was my gestures were empty and insincere. Whether the vision was sent by my earthly father or Father God, I believe my Father could not rest knowing I was harboring years of anger and resentment toward Mom. During the years leading up to my mother’s passing, I worked diligently to embody 1 Peter 4:8, “Above all keep loving one another earnestly, since love covers a multitude of sins.” I never told my mother about the 'dream', but our relationship grew in love. The year my Pop died I flew her out to California for Christmas. It was her first time in an airplane. And, we had a wondrous party for her 80th birthday. We had many other celebrations and trips together. I do not believe Mom ever knew why our relationship improved; but I do know that when she died, I had no regrets.