Moments before, I'd been doing the dishes, quietly mulling over the day's events as the children slept. As I flipped over one of the blue-and-white striped Correlle dinner plates my Father in law had picked out and began to rinse it, thoughts melted over me like the steaming hot water pouring over the cold, hard china. He had picked these out, hopeful. He had picked these out.... thinking they'd be useful. And they were. He had used these plates, every day, for years.
And now he may never eat from these plates again. My thoughts turned to his condition: restless in a VA home, quiet..... his children taking turns to stand around him bedside, speaking to him tentatively and with mournful voices.
Just then I felt a heaviness I cannot quite describe. I wondered if the lights had flickered or the room had darkened, and a shudder came over me. I felt his presence in the room, weighing on me. My heart raced and a sinking feeling came over me as I glanced at the telephone that had just begun to ring, sitting on the counter across from me. I knew.
"Hello?" I said into the phone, not even checking who had called.
My husband's sister's tearful voice broke the loud silence in my head. "He just passed, a minute ago." She began. I don't remember what I said. I don't remember the rest of the conversation. Just that I sat down, right there in the kitchen, shocked. I knew.
What happened next was a blur. Although it had been years since his diagnosis, and although we all knew he was very ill and was, in fact, dying, still no one had expected his end to come so soon.
We were left with questions. Many questions. We wondered about the cancer itself. About the types of treatments he'd received and the kind of care he got in the hospital. We wondered about the hospice team, which seemed hell-bent on seeing him go. We wondered about him... and how much he understood about what was happening. And then he passed. We had more questions, and more unsettling, longing should-have, could-have thoughts.
But my own father said: don't dwell on those. Just love.
I met my Father in law for the first time on the phone, calling him from a payphone in the company area of my basic training unit in Ft. Jackson, SC at the request of his son. His son had told me to do so on a love note written quickly in chicken scratch and passed clandestinely into my hands while drill sergeants looked the other way--- a note in which he had professed his love and given me his father's phone number to call if I needed anything at all while we were separated during training. I dialed the number confident that I was about to meet an honorable man- a man who had formed the handsome and impressive young man who had stolen my willing heart and inspired me to great feats that defied reason and common sense.
When he picked up the phone after the first ring, I introduced myself as the object of the affection of his beloved son's heart, and he interviewed me. Was I a Christian? Yes. Was I going to be good to him? Yes. Well, then I could call him "Dad. Or First Sergeant." The very idea cracked me up. He seemed... too funny to be real. And from that very first day, he welcomed me as his own.
Over the years I came to know him very intimately... maybe better than most, perhaps even his own children in some ways.At the end of his life I was a constant companion to him.
At first, he was a distant, slightly annoying relative. I hadn't really thought about how when you get married, you become family with your in-laws. My husband's family is VERY different from my own, and has endured a huge amount of difficulty and challenge. My husband's family is also divorced-- and for good reason-- something which I had never experienced before from the child's perspective.
Once we were released from the Army and made a home of our own, my husband's father was a constant presence in our little apartment, and then cottage, three times a week in the evenings and on every holiday, frequently calling to make sure we had enough paper towels, knew how to remove frost from our car windshields, and to inquire about the state of our refrigerator and air conditioning unit.
Each time we announced a pregnancy to him, his worrying mind would respond with fret and concern, which would later melt away into pride as he examined his next grandchild--the fruit of my womb-- and began to develop the bonds that later would become the glue that helped our family through our grief.
My husband's father NEVER left us alone. Every opportunity he had to give us an opinion, well.... he took it. And more. For many years I struggled with his presence... he was always kind of awkward and formal, and since we had so little in common our conversations were never easy or relaxed. He mistrusted women, and I was married to his precious son. He loved war and the army and ceremony and his country, and I was raised by hippies, nourished on the arts, and brought up in a multi-cultural, multi-lingual bubble far, far from the American South. He was from the midwest, a place I had never set foot in and had no desire to even visit, and had settled in a city which I found to be a black hole. I was from France and California, two places he saw as the epitome of all that is wrong in the world. He loved gadgets and electricity, having worked for years as an electrician, and I love nature and fresh air. He got excited about badges. I got excited about innovation and people who thought outside the box. He ate microwaved food and plopped donuts on the counter on a daily basis. I was raised to believe they were poison and to fear them. We were different.
Eventually, we were able to find some common ground mostly revolving around nature, food and the Bible. But I kept him at arms length, and found him irritating at best. Dutiful, I tolerated the frequent visits and the constant impact of his presence, but I secretly resented it very much and hoped he would just go away.
Then came the day my husband, who had been working out of state and gone for days, called me to let me know he was thinking about leaving his job. Although he had very good reasons for doing so, including his safety and our family's well being, I was .... furious. Constantly worried about money and provision, I felt let down and angry. I told him what I thought, but he wasn't listening. I called his father, and for the first time in my life I shouted and screamed at him. "DO SOMETHING," I said to him. "He will listen to you! Why didn't you raise him to tough it out when things get hard???!" At the time, I didn't really understand the work conditions my husband was facing. I knew he was very brave, doing an incredibly dangerous job with no health insurance and no help and in adverse conditions. I know it's absolutely ridiculous to compare, but I always felt like we had it harder than my friends who were in the Army--- Army families face separation and danger, but they are so well supported. We were separated six days a week but for pennies, and with no health insurance, no life insurance, and no support. I was always alone with the kids. We didn't get benefits for our job. Just a small paycheck at the end of the month. If you were sick, or injured..... too bad. And yet the dangers were very real: my husband's co-workers were frequently injured, even electrocuted! And the job entailed unbelievable feats of strength and bravery in horrible weather conditions and with a team he couldn't even trust to keep him alive. In my selfish mindset though, thinking only about my comfort, I was enraged at his decision to come home after a year of living this way. What else could he do? So I screamed and hollered into the phone at his dad, who was helping him find a way home, and his dad, for the first time in my life, lectured me on my faith. I found it terribly ironic, since I felt his faith was one-sided and nonsensical, but there he was, telling me the kinds of things I tell other people all the time: "There's nothing you can really DO in this situation, so just speak to God about your fears and concerns. Trust in Jesus. "I couldn't deny that he was right.And I hung up the phone amazed that at one of the most challenging times in my life, my FATHER IN LAW, who I considered one of the world's most annoying people at the time, had been the one to help me get through it and talk me down.
That moment was a turning point in my marriage, and I can thank him for setting me straight. My husband went on to be a very capable provider and father. And I realized he had been doing that all along.
Shortly afterwards, we went to live with my Father in law. This was a decision we made so that my husband could go to college and earn a degree so that we wouldn't struggle as much. Determined to live according to the Church's teachings (therefore running the risk of pregnancy at any given moment), and yet living in a city where the only real money to be made was in the Army, we felt.... stuck. And his going back to school gave us hope. Little did we know that this was also a Godsend for my FIL. Shortly afterwards, he would be diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer, and our presence would be a blessing to him in the end of his days. We never know what God has planned.... but He is always there!
Living with his father had two dimensions for me: Theory and Reality.
In Theory, I LOVED the idea of a multi-generational home. I loved the idea of my kids growing up with a grandpa around. I loved the idea of what we could build into this family with all these relationships around.
Reality was a bit different. Relationships are hard because people are difficult, and my Father in law was one of the most aggravating, difficult people I had ever encountered. Every single habit of my father in law's annoyed me to the point of me losing my peace. And the man was a two-war veteran... you can believe he had some noticeable, intentional habits.
He was everywhere, his nose in everything, and he ran a tight ship. While my husband was gone at least 12 hours a day (and later 24 as he started work at the fire dept.), I was stuck alone in this old, shut in, dusty, ugly house with a man who had a method for everything, from walking down the hall to opening a tin can, and who wanted everyone on earth to use that same method. He had a penchant for sharpie-ing instructions on everything in the house. He loved to use loud electrical devices like fans and leaf blowers. I homeschooled and discipled my children around the kitchen table and he never left me to it, not even for a moment, without interjecting or having a say in what I was teaching. We were Catholics, he was protestant, and even as we prayed together he would come piddling around in the kitchen right in front of us and make comments about what we prayed or sang. He persistently attempted to pour his knowledge and worldview into my children, something which we resisted with all our might most of the time since we didn't share his ideas about religion or politics. Few things annoyed my French sensibilities more than him indoctrinating my kids with endless flag ceremonies and speeches about the glory of Our Nation, or his distaste for opening windows and letting light into the house. He constantly poured out his furious, raging opinions about politics and "bad stuff" in the news, making us antsy and irritable. And for the past four years, I have NEVER-- not once-- been able to make a meal or a cup of coffee in peace.
But there were good things, too. He was a master BBQ chef and an amazing Fixer of Things. He genuinely loved his son and his grandchildren and was very thoughtful towards them. He was so generous towards those he loved and was always game for a good time, even if it was very organized good time. He always shared stories and laughs he had discovered with us, and persistently prayed for us, tried to lead us and guide us, and took his patriarchal responsibilities to heart. He loved to make conversation with virtually anyone we brought over. Most importantly, he always asked questions when things weren't to his liking, and he told us he loved us and that he was proud of us and grateful for us. Often.
Just a short month before his hospitalization and final demise, my Father in law converted and became a Catholic. He was received into the Church in our little Maronite parish, with us by his side and our excited children sitting near him in the pews. No one was more surprised than myself, but then again.... I know better than to be surprised by what God can do. With tears in our eyes, we stood before our wonderful priest and Our Lord, a completed family, and that vision for multi-generational faithfulness had never seemed so close. Reverent and somber, his old and mottled hands tightly clasped, he prayed with thankgsiving.
The details surrounding his reasons for converting still somewhat elude me. I know he had many long conversations with my husband about it, often late into the night. I know he was troubled by the constant calvinist bent in the churches around him, which he found unbiblical. I'm not sure what exactly sent him across the Tiber but I do know this: he pulled me aside one day and thanked me for teaching my children the Bible, and holding devotions with them each day. "All my life, I wanted to do that with my kids," he said, with not a little regret. "I don't know why it never worked out the way I wanted it to." He told me he found Catholic prayer invigorating and disciplined, and that watching the children and I pray and study each day was exciting for him. From that day on, he would regularly join us during morning prayer. Instead of interrupting, he would wait quietly until it was time to sing the hymn, and then he would join in. Little by little he began to put up icons in his room, and to ask me what the Church taught about the different topics he faced each day. He began to form a Catholic identity, and it was quite strong by the time he passed... at least in his mind. He was thrilled to be "becoming Catholic," and often spoke to us and the children about it as if it was a special secret, like an upcoming birthday party we were keeping under wraps.
Though he was in great pain and mentally taxed most of the end of it, his life finally ended at peace with us, and with himself, and with God and that matters to me greatly. The last thing I saw him do was lay his trembling, weathered hands on my husband's head and bless him. My heart burst.
The last things I heard him say where words of delight over my children and family.The very last thing we did with him was to sing "This is My Father's World," a hymn he had once told me he loved and that we had spent many enjoyable minutes singing together during morning prayer with the children.
This is my Father’s world, and to my listening ears
All nature sings, and round me rings the music of the spheres.
This is my Father’s world: I rest me in the thought
Of rocks and trees, of skies and seas;
His hand the wonders wrought.
This is my Father’s world, the birds their carols raise,
The morning light, the lily white, declare their Maker’s praise.
This is my Father’s world: He shines in all that’s fair;
In the rustling grass I hear Him pass;
He speaks to me everywhere.
This is my Father’s world. O let me ne’er forget
That though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet.
This is my Father’s world: the battle is not done:
Jesus Who died shall be satisfied,
And earth and Heav’n be one.
This is my Father’s world, dreaming, I see His face.
I ope my eyes, and in glad surprise cry, “The Lord is in this place.”
This is my Father’s world, from the shining courts above,
The Beloved One, His Only Son,
Came—a pledge of deathless love.
This is my Father’s world, why should my heart be sad?
The lord is King—let the heavens ring. God reigns—let the earth be glad.
This is my Father’s world. Now closer to Heaven bound,
For dear to God is the earth Christ trod.
No place but is holy ground.
This is my Father’s world. I walk a desert lone.
In a bush ablaze to my wondering gaze God makes His glory known.
This is my Father’s world, a wanderer I may roam
Whate’er my lot, it matters not,
My heart is still at home.
I cannot but be healed by having watched his battle with cancer, as painful and horrible and PTSD inducing as it was to be at his side, especially at the end.
I think sometimes when I see people with cancer suffer, as we all, including dad, did with little Daisy Merrick just a few short months ago as well, that the cancer is to teach the rest of us a lesson--- that life is short, and unpredictable, and that people matter.... families matter, our bodies and our souls.... we matter. On the last day I saw him, a little old lady in a wheelchair stopped my family as we tearfully walked out of the nursing home. Gatekeeper of sorts, she cooed over each of my children, demanding hugs which they willingly gave. Then she turned her attention to us.
"Y'all are so blessed," she said. "And you know it."
We nodded, moved. We are.
God called him home that weekend, while my husband was away from his bedside. I hear that people often wait until their loved ones are out of the room to die, as if they need permission to let go.
We live in his house now and it's empty without him. The feel of him lingers in the old, worn wallpaper and the creaky, dark floor. It's in the faucets and fans, the stove and the dishes, the mantle and mudroom.This house is him, and he is this house. Things are changing.
During the week of the funeral, many people waxed poetic about his life. We remained resolute to remember him as he was: impossible and headstrong, chaotic in clutter, but organized in chaos, a fan of attention and affection, a generous giver of gifts, steady in affliction, and a keeper of traditions. This helps me, especially, to remember the greatest lesson I ever learned from him.
The Scotch-Irish Nesbitts, you see, have a Crest, like all other clans. Ours has a wild boar in the center, and the mysterious words "I BYD IT."
I byd it means "I will endure."
Nesbitt life is no joke. It's not easy. It takes a special kind of woman to be a Nesbitt, and as evidenced by the looooooooooooong line of women who just couldn't make the cut (or those who tried and failed miserably.) Dad was no stranger to heartache, and the women in his life, beginning with his mother, had all failed him. And many, with good reason.
Resolute, I have always faced this fact with my typical headstrong determination.... courageously blathering on about how strong I will be.... until the hardships began to come.
And come they do. We've often wondered what curse we've inherited and what misery waits around the corner. And yet in every instance, time and again, I can hear dad's old, familiar lecture.... the one he reserved for when my voice gets all shrieky and my eyes, wide like saucers. "It's the Nesbitt way," he would say. "We endure. We think it through. We pray. We persevere."
And when I remember it, my chest swelling with Charlotte Mason-induced pride-- (I can endure! I am enduring! I will endure! I ought to endure!) I realize that this is the greatest legacy he could have left my children.... I byd it. It's the name. Its' our clan. It's the vision of the glory in the reward at the end-- the reward he is enjoying now.
Thanks for the past four years, dad. For every painful, blessed moment.
I will remember it always. I will endure. We all will.
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