At around 10:20pm on July 3rd of last year, I held my Dad’s hand as I watched his vitals on the monitor in his ICU room. I have been at the bedside of many dying people over the years. In fact, I spent the first few years of my ordained life as a volunteer hospital chaplain. Before that, I had worked in the Medical Department of the U.S. Army. So I knew how to read the monitor. I knew how to read between the lines in nurse’s and doctor’s statements. I have enough experience with death to know the familiar signs.

My mom sat to my left with her hand on his arm. The medications that had been keeping him alive these last few days had been suspended. The ventilator tube had been removed. So we waited. His breathing was labored. The heart rate was steadily decreasing. His oxygen saturation was low. His respiratory rate was dropping lower and lower. The alarms on the monitor had thankfully been silenced. After weeks of their obnoxious and regular soundings, it was eerily quiet. There was only the sound of his erratic breathing and my mom’s occasional sniffle. I watched the monitor. “It won’t be long now,” I thought to myself, Dad’s color was fading. He had been unresponsive most of the day. I alternated between looking at him, praying for him, and watching the monitor.

Then the respiratory rate went to zero. His big chest no long rose. After a minute or two, his heart rate followed suit. I squeezed his hand. My mom saw my face and choked out the question, “Is he….?” I nodded and said, “Yeah mom. He’s gone.”

I stood up and walked to the head of his bed and repeated the prayer at the time of death once more. Placing my hand on his head I said, “Depart, O Christian soul, out of this world; In the Name of God the Father Almighty who created you; In the Name of Jesus Christ who redeemed you; In the Name of the Holy Spirit who sanctifies you. May your rest be this day in peace, and your dwelling place in the Paradise of God.” (2019 Book of Common Prayer, 240)

CHANGING HATS

In many ways, this was like death of many Christians whose bedsides I have been beside throughout my years of ministry. But in one very important way, this one was very different. He was not someone else’s husband; he was my mom’s husband. He was not someone else’s Dad; he was my Dad. This made the whole experience different for me. Throughout his time in the hospital and even through his death, I was very conscious of constantly switching “hats” –of moving from the role of son to the role of priest and back again. And again. And again.

Since Mom had seen the rally, I don’t think she saw the need. But I knew this was urgent. There are some pastoral requests that a priest shouldn’t put off -ever. Last Rites is one of them. The dying often have a sense when this is needed. I asked the nurses for about 10 mins of privacy and asked Mom if she wanted to stay. She stepped into the hallway to talk to the nurses. I pulled the privacy curtain, retrieved my prayer book and oil from my backpack and took a deep breath. You’re never quite ready for this moment. But I could see, even in that moment, my Dad’s confidence in me and his trust in His Savior.

I often say that in difficult moments, I’m grateful for the liturgy of our Prayer Book because it does the “heavy lifting”. Coming up with your own words in these times can be exceedingly difficult. So, standing on his left side, away from the ventilator, the IV pumps, and monitors I began the liturgy which is called, “Ministry to the Dying.” I cleared my throat and said, “Almighty God, look on this your servant, lying in great weakness, and comfort him with the promise of life everlasting, given in the resurrection of your Son Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.” (2019 Book of Common Prayer, 237)

We went through the litany, a series of call and response prayers. I did both the call and response since he couldn’t. He did his best to say the Kyrie Eleison and the Lord’s Prayer with me. I prayed, “O Sovereign Lord Christ, deliver your servant Bob, from all evil, and set him free from every bond; that he may rest with all you saints in the eternal habitations where with the Father and the Holy Spirit live and reign one God for ever and ever. AMEN.” (2019 Book of Common Prayer, 240)

Then I unscrewed the cap of my holy oil, dipped my right thumb into it and made the sign of the cross on his forehead. I made it a big, sloppy, make-no-mistake-about-it cross on his forehead. I wanted him to feel that cross. In addition to the Commendatory Prayer I mentioned above, I prayed what is perhaps my favorite prayer on the subject of death and dying in the whole Book of Common Prayer. “Into your hands, O merciful Savior, we commend your servant Bob. Acknowledge we humbly beseech you, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming. Receive him into the arms of your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light. AMEN.” (2019 Book of Common Prayer, 240)

The service finished with a recitation of Simeon’s Song, the Nunc Dimittis, and the short final prayer that says “May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed, through he mercy of God, rest in peace. AMEN” (2019 Book of Common Prayer 241)

I closed my prayer book and held his hand for a moment before the doctors and nurses began to reappear and the flurry of activity resumed. I put back on my son’s hat and turned my attention to my mother and tried to explain what I had done and what this type of rally often means. I don’t think she was ready to hear it, and I don’t blame her for that. But I knew. Dad knew. And I was glad to share that one final special moment with him.

HOLY DEATH, HOLY PROMISE

The next day, July 3rd, there seemed to be little change at first. He was again non-responsive. Mom went to stay with him. I had come home to get some sleep. In the late afternoon though, Mom got the call. THE call. “Mrs. Findley, we suggest you return to the hospital, things are not going well.” She called me and I jumped in my truck and headed that way also. She beat me by a few minutes but we gathered around his bed. The Doctors came in and said they had done everything they could do. I believed them. They had worked hard on Dad for weeks, but a body can take only so much. One saintly and kind nurse was able to talk to mom in a way that I the priest and I the son could not. Woman to woman, she was able to relay the hard truth to mom. After talking with me, we decided to discontinue the extraordinary care. He would be allowed to die in peace. And shortly after 10:20pm on July 3, 2023, Robert Dennis Findley departed his earthly dwelling for a heavenly one (2 Corinthians 5:1). He exhaled his last breath here. And his heart beat for its final time as I watched.

And it was quiet. Very quiet. I held my mom and we just sat in silence for a while. Then, after making some basic arrangements with a local funeral home and signing some paperork, we silently walked out into the warm Nashville summer evening. Neither of us knew quite what to say. In those moments, words often get in the way. So we were just together, with one another. My mom. Her Son. And Her Son the Priest.

The Puritans have this concept of a “Holy Death”. That is, a death for which one is prepared, ready, and even a death that one embraces because of the surpassing joy of union with the Lord. While my Dad and I had our differences in theology, over time those mellowed. Over time I began to see a depth in his faith I had never noticed before. Driving back to my mom and dad’s condo that night I thought about my Dad’s faith and how incredibly grateful I was to have been his son and how thankful for God to have been of service as a son and a priest in order to facilitate His holy death.

Months later, we still mourn. But I am convinced that the final breath I saw him exhale here was only clearing his lungs to take his first breath there. And that final heartbeat I saw, found a new rhythm and strength as he woke in his new home. I have always clung to the words of 1 Thessalonians 4:12-13 and I do so today, “But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers, about those who are asleep, that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have fallen asleep.” (1 Thessalonians 4:12-13)

So I am a son. And I am a priest. In both instances, my hope has the same root and confidence– the death and resurrection of Jesus. Because of Jesus I can say to my mom that it’s ok to mourn, but there’s a reunion coming that will one day fill you with a joy you cannot now imagine –where loved ones anticipate our arrival and where Jesus has prepared for us a home. My guess is he will have a hook in my room for both my son’s hat and my priest’s hat. And there those hats will stay because the only sonship that will matter in that place will be His. And the only priestly ministry needed will be His. Thanks be to God.

See you on the other side, pops.