From Death to Life

I could feel the tension building inside of me. You know the feeling. Anxious excitement. The kind you'd get as a kid while standing in line for the roller coaster. The first day of school kind.

The day was fast approaching when my son was to be born. My second son, and third child. This baby, this child that came from grief. This gift, an idea spawned from Dad's passing.

Here we were, arriving at the same hospital that held such haunting memories from just a year prior. All I could see as we pulled up (to a different entrance, thankfully) was Dad in his hospital bed while we circled around his lifeless body singing his favorite hymns while holding his and each other's hands, and then finally, him passing away. How was I going to manage this?

The next ten hours passed by slowly. While Carolyn dosed, I read the paper, watched some TV, and prayed that I'd be able to handle all that was to come. I prayed for courage, and began to feel His strength. And in a strange sense I could feel Dad's presence in that room, his bright smile telling me it would be OK.

And then there he was, all pink and loud and beautiful. My son, Colton Lee Clausen, named after his grandfather. It was then that the floodgates burst. While the myriad of nurses attended to him (and Carolyn) I sobbed at the irony of it all. From death to life, in an instant. From winter to spring. From black and white to color. It was so bright in that room.

Someday I'll be able to tell Colton all about his grandfather. About his tender heart and loving way. And I'll be able to share with him that his birth carried with it a deep and relevant meaning unlike any other. When I look in Colton's eyes I'm sure I see Dad, and it's been the soothing balm to my grief filled soul. What a miracle to see the circle of life.

In the days that followed, I became curious about the time of day that Colton was born, 5:05 p.m. It seemed familiar. And so I did a little digging.

Dad passed away at 5:03 p.m.

In a couple of days, Dad will have been gone from here for a year. As the date approaches, I am compelled to tell you about one of the blessings that flowed from his departure. I was witness to a miracle.

It was a scene straight from Hollywood. Mom and Dad were married for 30 years, and it was devastating when they decided to divorce just as I'd turned 15. Families were not designed to break apart, and the years since had been spotted with heartbreak for all of us.

When Dad was struck ill, my siblings and I of course shared the news with Mom. I was unsure how she would respond....unsure for but a moment.

"I want to come see him," she said, with an authority that took me by surprise. "Please ask Cyndi if this would be OK." Cyndi, Dad's wife, graciously agreed, and before I knew it, I was walking Mom into Dad's hospital room. I hadn't been alone in a room with my mom and dad in 22 years. It was a surreal moment I will never forget.

By this time, he was unconscious, alive only by the miracle of machines. Seemingly asleep, he nonetheless looked strong in his bed, and his color was exceptional. This did not look like a dying man!

Without any hesitation or fear, she moved alongside him, grabbed his big hand, held it tightly, brushed his forehead with her other hand, and began to speak to her once true love and father of her children.

"Oh my, Clutch." she said. (This had been her nickname for him while they dated in college.)
"You look so handsome. What are you doing in this bed? This isn't you. I remember how you always hated hospitals. And here you are."

She moved closely to his face, the face that she'd loved and stood by for all those years. With a quiet and graceful tone, she proceeded to tell him how much he'd meant to her. She thanked him for being such an incredible Dad to the kids. And most profoundly, she thanked him for trying so hard to love and understand her.

"I'll see you again someday, when our family will be reunited without any pain or hurting. Be well."

And with that, she kissed his forehead, began to weep, and left the room.

I will always cherish this last glimpse of my parents relationship. Closure -- at last.

The Weight of it All

I am now convinced that along with all the expected ailments that accompany the aging process, there is another burden to bare, perhaps more profound than the bunions and fragile bones: a grieving heart. Dad was incredibly fun to be around, with a sharp wit and constant upbeat spirit. But as I mentioned in a previous post, I sometimes noted in him a heart of sadness. In his latter years, tears came quickly when he'd discuss the past, his Dad, or thoughts of heaven. I'd often think it peculiar that this strong and powerful man could become weepy within moments of a conversation shift towards a subject that tugged at him.

But since his passing, the raw display of emotion is something I've begun to understand. Seems to me that growing older forces you to play the memory game quite often. As the winter season of life approaches, I'd imagine that thoughts routinely return to those wondrous years of first loves, young kids, effortless health, and summers in Wisconsin. It's like a perfect fall afternoon coming to an end, or realizing all the gifts have been opened. This must create an innate and chronic grief, a pain that the years are now long since past, and life's end is pending. I suspect this was the pain I saw in his brilliant blue eyes every so often: the loss of the past.

He felt sad that things were changing; that his favorite years -- those as a father of young kids -- were far gone now. What it must feel like to have your "life view" always looking back rather than forward! It was a weight on his back, and every once in a while, I could see the strain of it.

It was my birthday this past week, and it was a day that revealed his absence all over again. Dad was not there to wish me a happy birthday, and it weighed upon me; it filled my heart with (at times) crippling, lose-your-breath sadness. And profoundly, it made me even more in touch with how his aging carried with it a chronic grief all its own.

I moved from that day with a heart just a little heavier, a spirit just a touch more broken, and a longing for days and relationships gone by just a little more distracting. And in a sense, it made me more like him. Now it's my turn: my heart that hurts (like his did), my dreams of the past that play in my mind (like his did); my tears of grief of days gone by (like his were). How profound that with his absence my understanding of him only deepens.

I think about him in Heaven quite often, and I try and picture his face, his calm spirit, and how he's spending all those lazy days. I see his face free of the pain and sadness; his heart is filled up and renewed, his body strong and able. The troubled soul that grieved the past is no more. The picture accompanying this entry was taken of Dad just a few months before he died. It shows him in one of his most favorite places, and in it, I can see a glimpse of him now. Look at his face. He has a twinkle in his eye, and it makes me wonder if at that moment he had a sudden awareness that coming soon he'd experience freedom from the weight of all those 76 years. I smile knowing all is finally well with his soul.

One of my favorites

We did alot of traveling when I was growing up, and often we'd end up at a state park, where we'd have a picnic and go for a hike, maybe find some tennis courts and hit the ball a bit. This picture was taken when I was nine years old, in 1978, at Rock Cut State Park in Rockford, IL. Dad would have been 47 at the time. I had just fell into the lake while trying to grab a rock to skip. Dad, of course at my side, grabbed me before I got too wet, and so I rolled my pants up, I think in some effort for them to dry and not get wetter in case of another slip. I can recall the beautiful day, the feeling of adventure as we explored the park, and Mom's constant picture taking. I thought Dad to be the coolest cat ever, which I think shows in this picture. We were buds.

Dad and me, both at 38

Is it supposed to get easier?

Strange feelings of late....very heavy hearted days. Perhaps it's the change of season that's approaching. The flash of cold air brings a mood along with it. The dying has begun.

The other day I passed by the gas station Dad was at the morning he had the stroke. He'd gone out to breakfast that morning, a grey and cold December day. Dad always loved going out to breakfast. My whole life growing up, except on Sunday, he'd be at a local restaurant for breakfast. It served as his community, his mission field of sorts. So like he had for the previous 50 or so years of mornings, he had his breakfast out, and while driving home noticed that he needed gas. So he stopped and filled the tank. This simple task done a thousand times before. For me, I've found the simple has become profound since he left us. I often wonder what he thought about during those few minutes standing alongside his truck while the tank ("tick tick tick") slowly filled to the top and the wind whipped coldly alongside him. Did he know? Did he have any suspician that things were on the verge of change?

If he only had known! Within an hour or so of that very normal morning, that very normal breakfast, and that very normal fill up at the local gas station, his life would essentially come to an end. That's the most disturbing part of it all. The rapid decent from normality to insane; from bright light to darkness; from life to death, all within moments of eachother. Boom. Done. Over. Just like that.

Think I miss him more now than ever. As the birth of my third child approaches, I'm struck by the irony of life starting anew within feet of where he died. Same hospital, same month, just 12 months apart. From death comes life I've heard it said, and it's true. What better way to celebrate all that this life offers than with a new little person. He'd have been the one I'd be most excited to tell. He would have cried a little bit, and told me in his calm way something to the effect that I'd never regret it, and that his years as a father were the most meaningful of his entire life. Mine too, Dad. Mine too.

A Provider with Passion

It was as surreal as surreal gets. I've never fully understood the meaning of the word. Heard it before, even used it a few times. But never really felt it. Until now.

The scene: a perfect spring Saturday morning. Crisp. Clear. The kind of morning when hope arrives with a renewed greeting. I found myself at the wheel of his truck, in his sweatshirt, carrying a load of his trees to deliver to his customer. Beside me was his grandson - my 4 year old son. As we drove along the country roads, it hit me like a swat upside the head. This was a scene for the generations.

I spent my childhood around a father who loved nature. He was passionate about all things green, and thrived when he could be outside, in the warmth of a sunny afternoon, surrounded by the world His Creator provided. This was no hobby. Dad found a way to support his family for his entire life - yes, his entire life - doing what he loved.

This didn't seem particularly profound to me at the time. As a boy, I'd ride along with him in his pick up truck for all kinds of adventures: trecks to Wisconsin to pick up a load of boulders, where we'd always coast down the hill in neutral (exctiting!); trips to various nurseries to pick up beautiful varieties of shrubs, bushes, and trees for future installations; even just to ride beside him to drop off a bill or a proposal to a new customer's home. And of course I worked for him - for years - never truly aware of the modeling that was taking place before my eyes. This was a man doing what he loved.

It wasn't until I graduated from college and realized how overwhelming it is to figure out what you want to do to make a living. It was then I was able to see Dad and his work in a transformed light. My admiration was intense, and I recall discussing it with him one afternoon during this "in-between" phase of my life. His words to me were simple, yet impacting. Dad said, "Scott, find something that gives you hope, something of which you're passionate, something that when you lay your head on the pillow at night, you're hopeful for the day's possibilities. If you can do this, you'll be just fine."

I remember thinking at the time, hmmm, OK, and then what? But slowly and methodically, I sought a career of white collar pursuits, worlds away from where Dad spent his days. And despite the differences in our career paths, I always knew he was proud of me. As I moved from job to job and city to city, I began to so appreciate his phone calls, "How's the job?" he'd tenderly ask, and we'd discuss it for a bit, always with his focused and interested ear. Then we'd catch up on his newest lawn mower or how the weeds were just "...getting out of control..."

The last conversation we had, just a couple of days before he died unexpectedly, was in regard to my job. I'd been seeking a large promotion for sometime, and had just arrived back home from the business trip during which I was to find out if I'd gotten it. That night, I called Dad. He answered, not with "Hello?" or "How are you?" but with "Well?" As if to say, "Well tell me, I've been waiting to hear all week, did you get the job?"

"Yes Dad, I did. Can you believe it? I'm now the VP of Sales!"

"I'm so proud of you, Scott," he said, with tears breaking up his tone. "That is such wonderful news for a dad to hear. I love you."

That was the last time I ever spoke to him.