Jeff Belden

At the funeral, the only time the urge to cry expressed itself was singing a particular verse of one of the hymns, How Great Thou Art. This was one of the songs my father had sung as a solo for others in my position, being comforted and supported by a community of friends and faithful on a day of final loss. Accompanied by the same organ, reading from the same hymnal, in the same choir loft that he and I stood in 50 years ago singing side by side. 

I think the sadness flowed when I pictured my father singing this now, about himself, for us all to hear in our imaginations. "I'm going home!" How easy to see him bow in humble surrender. And rise with a great beaming, familiar smile.

When Christ shall come, with shout of acclamation

And take me home, what joy shall fill my heart

Then I shall bow, in humble adoration

And then proclaim: "My God, how great Thou art!"

I'm sure it was the overflowing joy from my father's heart that washed over mine. That brought the tears. That invited surrender. 

The love of Jesus was washing over Bill Belden, and all those around him there. The faith of our fathers.

[I wrote this on July 13, 2015, but never posted it then. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. But instead, Dad miraculously left death’s embrace. For two and a half more years. The last paragraph still applies.]

My father is almost 88 years old, he's had Alzheimer's disease for several years, and now he has pneumonia, the old man's friend.

He had barely moved into the memory care unit, where he would have a closer knit community to watch over him. When I came to find him on Sunday to take him out to lunch, he was sunk deeply into a low-slung soft couch in a very deep sleep. Not unexpectedly, he was hard to arouse, and even harder to bring to his feet. He seemed barely able to command his body to walk. He even seemed short of breath walking his tiny little steps. After some investigation, it became apparent that he has pneumonia and his oxygen level drops low when he walks.

His facial expression was saying "I can't breathe" but his meager complaint was "oh", [step], "oh", [step], "oh", [step] with each breath, with each step. He just wanted to pause a moment, as if to say, "if you let me rest a moment, I'll be fine".

Our life together the past four years has been going out to lunch, having a ride in my car, and going to the park to see little children to smile and chat with. We both got a lot of pleasure out of those weekend visits.

Yesterday though, I spent a lot more time witnessing his daily activity of walking and eating and finding the chair and finding the bed. All of those are pretty difficult now. Despite the difficulty, it was pretty easy to admire him. His complaints of discomfort were almost imperceptible. If we managed to get him to look up at us, a smile always came to his face.

His suffering is plain to see though, in this final illness. We always knew a day like this would come. We didn't know it would be now. My brother and sister, my wife, and other close relatives are rallying to support dad. In a few days I'm sure my work community will pick up the slack when I'm gone for a few days. Our neighbors will offer to help. People will offer their condolences. People will smile and recollect their stories of my father, appreciating who he was and what he did for them. We will all come together to smile softly and whisper one last goodbye.

[originally posted June 13 2011, 5:37 AM]

The rain is falling here in Columbia, Missouri. I have adjusted my plans. Life calls on us to adjust our plans often, and we labor under the illusion of control.

In St. Elmo, my father will wake up and adjust his plans. For the past 61 years, he'd check with Iris and make plans. In the last week, after her death, it was my brother and sister and I who were making plans with dad. Today, we've all gone home, and he's at the house with his new adopted daughter-sister, Stephanie. 

The rain is sometimes a disappointment, if your plans include picnics. It's a blessing when you've been needing it to water your growing things. And it happens on its own schedule. Flexibility is called for.

I heard my forgetful father talking about his flexibility, while acknowledging his sorrow. It's what we have to do. Adapt, adjust. But we don't have to forget.

[originally posted May 22 2011, 8:01 AM]

My parents, both in their early 80's, are showing their frailty ever faster. A few phone calls with my father talking about his long-dead brother alerted me, and my brother and sister and I are now finding more chinks in their mental armor. Email and conference calling are a blessing that allows for quick communication, but they upset the digestion of what's unfolding. I feel heavy with sadness after each revelation of my parents' deficits. But I feel grateful for such solid, caring siblings, for my wise, loving, and generous wife, and for a community that offers such rich support.