I was reading a new post on a friend's blog this morning that left me brimming with tears, grateful that even in the worst of times, God is there, and desires such a relationship that we call Him Father.
But not just Father. Abba.
Here's her post, so you know what I mean. Baby Talk
I guess part of why it struck such a chord with me is because I've witnessed the kind of pain that would cause someone to revert to talking "baby talk" - a special kind of delirium that is known to those in chronic and/or severe pain. Many of these are in palliative care.
My dad was. In the final couple weeks of his life in November 1993, he was confined to a hospital bed, and the regular doses of morphine brought him his only lucid moments as he struggled with the deep pain of widespread brain cancer. Terminal. Inoperable.
Those of us who kept vigil with him often remarked how at times - in his less lucid moments - he would groan out, "Mama!" calling out for his mother, who passed away in 1973. It was a time of deep vulnerability, when this proud man - about whom we had joked that he wouldn't go to see the doctor unless he was dying - now lay dying, afraid, and helpless in a hospital bed, hooked up to monitors and IV tubes to make it easier to administer the narcotic which would take the edge off the pain enough for him to ask us to pray for him.
At one such time, the night before he passed, there were a few people in the room when he roused from his delirious calling out for "Mama" and started begging various people in the room to pray for him. A sister spoke up. "Dad. You know how to pray. You can pray for yourself, you know." He grew silent. He had never in his life prayed in public. His relationship with God was incredibly private to him, always had been. Yet - for the only time in his life, he spoke to his maker in front of other people - as if none of us was in the room with him.
"God." His voice seemed to come from a place deep within; the words spilled out of his mouth in a normal tone - as if in conversation with someone who was right beside him, someone who was a real friend. Aside from his voice, there was not one sound in the room. You could have heard a pin drop.
The simple request brimmed over from his spirit, right from where he was living. "Please. Please ... make the pain go away." His voice trailed off. Then the air grew electric as he spoke again, quietly but again from his heart. "Thank You Jesus. Praise You God. Thank You Father, thank You...." There was a presence - a powerful Presence - in the room with us. Nobody could deny that.
Within 12 hours Dad was being welcomed Home by that Presence. Only my mother was beside his earthly frame as the real him slipped into the arms of the One who loves him more than we ever could.
I miss Dad. When things are going wrong for me, when I'm feeling oppressed or depressed, I miss him more, if that's possible. I want to hear his voice again, to hear him tell me everything is going to be all right. I knew whenever he said that, well, that everything was going to be all right.
And then I remember him calling out for his Mama - and then praying to his heavenly Dada. And I know where my answer lies.
The same place his did.
But not just Father. Abba.
Here's her post, so you know what I mean. Baby Talk
I guess part of why it struck such a chord with me is because I've witnessed the kind of pain that would cause someone to revert to talking "baby talk" - a special kind of delirium that is known to those in chronic and/or severe pain. Many of these are in palliative care.
Those of us who kept vigil with him often remarked how at times - in his less lucid moments - he would groan out, "Mama!" calling out for his mother, who passed away in 1973. It was a time of deep vulnerability, when this proud man - about whom we had joked that he wouldn't go to see the doctor unless he was dying - now lay dying, afraid, and helpless in a hospital bed, hooked up to monitors and IV tubes to make it easier to administer the narcotic which would take the edge off the pain enough for him to ask us to pray for him.
At one such time, the night before he passed, there were a few people in the room when he roused from his delirious calling out for "Mama" and started begging various people in the room to pray for him. A sister spoke up. "Dad. You know how to pray. You can pray for yourself, you know." He grew silent. He had never in his life prayed in public. His relationship with God was incredibly private to him, always had been. Yet - for the only time in his life, he spoke to his maker in front of other people - as if none of us was in the room with him.
"God." His voice seemed to come from a place deep within; the words spilled out of his mouth in a normal tone - as if in conversation with someone who was right beside him, someone who was a real friend. Aside from his voice, there was not one sound in the room. You could have heard a pin drop.
The simple request brimmed over from his spirit, right from where he was living. "Please. Please ... make the pain go away." His voice trailed off. Then the air grew electric as he spoke again, quietly but again from his heart. "Thank You Jesus. Praise You God. Thank You Father, thank You...." There was a presence - a powerful Presence - in the room with us. Nobody could deny that.
I miss Dad. When things are going wrong for me, when I'm feeling oppressed or depressed, I miss him more, if that's possible. I want to hear his voice again, to hear him tell me everything is going to be all right. I knew whenever he said that, well, that everything was going to be all right.
And then I remember him calling out for his Mama - and then praying to his heavenly Dada. And I know where my answer lies.
The same place his did.
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