All Children, Except One, Grow Up

It was a Thursday night.

Thursday the 7th, to be exact. Thursday, May 7, 2020. I was sitting next to my father on the new reclining sofas he and my mom had purchased only a few months prior, trying my best to focus on a book while the TV played and he scrolled rigorously on his iPad, helping me search for good deals on cheap, used stand-up paddleboards. After having finished my final exam for the Spring semester, I had spent the rest of the day with my dad: We went to Academy (where he bought two fishing poles—one for me, one for him), ate dinner at Cheddar’s (he got to try their croissants for the first time), and then worked out together at Clear Lake Park. He had asked me to make him two grilled cheese sandwiches the way his mom (my grandma) used to make them—a request he had never asked of me before, but one to which I happily obliged—and now we were watching Patrick Swayze and his rag-tag team of guerrilla-fighting 30-year old high schoolers single-handedly defeat the Soviet Union in 1984’s Red Dawn. The movie had started while I was still in the shower after my run (I had run back home from the park), but he had rewound it so that I could see the whole thing. Me being my typical multi-tasking self, I was trying to read J.M Barrie’s classic Peter Pan while watching Red Dawn. The book was about a child who never had to grow up; the movie was about children who were forced to grow up in extreme circumstances.

At one point, I started laughing. My dad looked up from his iPad. “What’s so funny?”

“I like the author’s sense of humor,” I replied. “Listen to this: ‘The opportunity [for Mrs. Darling to tell her husband about Peter’s shadow] came a week later, on that never-to-be-forgotten Friday. Of course it was a Friday.’”

My dad laughed, but he was obviously confused. “What’s so special about Friday? Do bad things happen on Fridays?”

I smiled. “I’m pretty sure that’s the point. He just put that little detail there to make you ask those very questions. Isn’t that great? Genius writing.”

My dad rolled his eyes and went back to scanning his iPad.

Of Course It Was a Friday

The next day—on that never-to-be-forgotten Friday—my life changed forever. My dad woke up early and went fishing in Clear Lake Shores (the neighborhood he grew up in), and he spent about four hours out there, talking with fellow fishermen and reflecting on life. What’s strange is that my dad hadn’t gone fishing since I was four years old; he had had the sudden impulse to go, and so there he was. He had invited me to go with him, but I decided to stay home and read my Bible. I made plans with him to go bike riding that afternoon.

When Dad got home around 1:30pm—I was sitting in the backyard reading Peter Pan, waiting for him to return—we loaded our bikes into his truck and headed out. Neither of us had eaten yet that day, so we went to Chili’s and enjoyed a meal together—our final meal together. We didn’t know it would be our final meal together though. As usual, we talked about our day, we talked about family, we talked about the Coronavirus, and we just had a fun time together. He told me about his time fishing, and I spent a great deal of time trying to explain to him how the movie Hook is an original story inspired by Peter Pan but not based on the book itself. He showed me a funny/scary video of old people falling of a teeter totter, and he voiced his usual frustration at the fact that the waitress offered him an unsweet tea “to-go” when he would much rather drink one more at the table before leaving. I teased him for spilling chili on his shirt. We were having a good time.

On the way to the trails where we would ride our bikes, Dad accidently took the long way. “Sorry I took us the longer direction,” he said to me. “I know you were wanting to get out there and ride.” I simply smiled and said back to him, “I’m just glad I get to spend time with my dadio. That’s what matters.”

Oh, how grateful I am for that interaction.

When we got to the park, we had a tough time finding the trail head. We drove around for a while until finally parking in the correct place, and then after riding our bike down some short walking trails, a nice gentleman helped point us in the direction of the actual biking trails. We followed his instructions—which he told us would lead us to some easy trails—but found ourselves on some difficult, hilly trails laden with thick roots, so that we spent more time walking than we did riding. He and I are both extremely cautious people, so we didn’t mind walking. But still, we were having a good time together; we talked about how humid it was and how sweaty we were, laughed at the likelihood that the gentleman had intentionally pointed us greenhorns to some difficult trails, and puzzled over our inability to properly decipher the trail maps we encountered nailed to trees along the way. I was enjoying the day with my best friend.

A few summers back, we had taken a father-son trip to the Grand Canyon; he had returned from that trip with a conviction that he wanted to get in better shape, and had spent the time since slaving away to get himself in better physical condition. While we were out on the trails, he commented that “If we were to go back to the Grand Canyon right now, I think I would be able to do a lot more stuff.” He had reached his goal.

When David Grew Up

Somewhere around 3:45, he and I finally came across a trail we could navigate fairly easily: It was flat, and the roots weren’t as thick. He and I coasted through the trails until we came across a fast-track trail (aptly called the ‘Autobahn’), and he took off. Man oh man, he was going so fast I had a tough time keeping up. We were going so fast, in fact, that we almost missed another trail for which we’d been looking. He was the one who saw it, not me. We backed our bikes back up and went to the other trail, where we were immediately confronted by this cool ramp-like structure. It didn’t look too difficult, but I’m not a fan of trying things when my feet aren’t firmly planted on the floor, so I decided not to do the ramp. My dad, however, said he wanted to try it. I encouraged him not to, but he wanted to do it. He had always been a cautious guy, so I shrugged it off: “Alright, well if you do it, I’m going to get a video.”

He backed his bike up. I started recording.

Three seconds later, I tossed my phone away from me.

The events of those three seconds are forever seared into my memory. I see them every time I close my eyes.

My dad never saw it coming. If I am being entirely honest with you (which I try to be, given the title of this website), I don’t believe he ever even knew what had happened. It all happened so quickly that I don’t think he ever felt a thing, ever had time to process the events that were occurring.

All I know is that, in those three seconds—and especially in those twenty minutes that followed—the words of J.M. Barrie proved themselves true: “All children, except one, grow up.”

I was not that one.

Of course it was a Friday.

I held my father in my arms and cried and wept—I kissed him and held him and sung over him—but within seconds I knew there was nothing to be done. I tried to calm my mind and was able to sober myself up enough to think to call 9-1-1, but my head was spinning. I cried out for help—oh, how I cried—but we were in the middle of the woods: Nobody could hear me. It took twenty minutes for the paramedics to arrive, and when they did, they were, by my estimate, nineteen minutes too late. My dad, my best friend, was gone.

Faith, Trust, & Pixie Dust

I have never felt more alone than I did during those twenty minutes alone in the woods. My dad had been there with me since Day 1, yet he was gone. Memories cascaded through my mind and I cried out, “O God, if ever there was time for a miracle, now is it!” but no miracle came. The passage of David grieving over his dying child came to my mind: “Who knows whether the Lord will be gracious to me, that the child may live?” (2 Sam 12:22). I begged God to be gracious and I begged God to save him, but within moments I knew that God had made his decision.

I did not understand God’s decision, and if I am being honest, I cannot say that I truly comprehended the totality of what was happening. I knew what I saw before my eyes, but none of it seemed real. My dad was invincible, wasn’t he? This is the guy who used to cup his hands for me to throw up in when I was a child, the guy who had, just the day before, helped me treat my aching back. How could he, my invincible dad, be gone?

Yet I knew that God had made his decision. Even if I had not fully processed that decision, I knew He had made it, and so that story about David came back to me: “But now he is dead. Why should I fast? Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he will not return to me” (v.23). David had arisen, washed himself, anointed himself, and worshiped God. He did not receive what he desired, but he trusted that God knew better, trusted that God was worthy to be worshiped even amidst the grief. And so, in that moment, though I did not understand, I knew what I had to do. In the solitude of the forest, I began to sing:

Father, if it be possible, remove this cup from me

Father, I’m so scared, and I need your comforting

I’m sweating blood and I’m on the ground—my heart, it weighs a ton

Not my will, not my will, not my will but yours be done.

In that moment, though I felt that I was alone, I knew I was not alone. The comforting and peaceful hand of God greeted me in those moments, and though the world around me was falling apart, He alone was the one sure thing that I knew would never change.

I do not understand why God took my father from me. I truly don’t. Yet this I do know, “that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us” (Rom 5:3b-5). It is too early in this grieving process to be able to comprehend what God’s ultimate plan is in the grand scheme and scale of these things, but the one thing I am confident about is that He is good, He is gracious, and He is ever faithful. If God chose to take my dad away from me and away from my mother and away from this earth, I trust that He had good reasons for doing so, for I believe “that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose” (Rom 8:28). I do not believe God is cruel or malicious; I believe He is caring and trustworthy, and so I rest secure in His grace.

To Die Will Be an Awfully Big Adventure

Not only this, but now I see that being Peter Pan isn’t as grand as things might at first seem. My entire life, I’ve always loved the story of Peter Pan, but more than ever I am beginning to recognize the beauty of growing up. A child thinks he knows everything; an adult recognizes he knows nothing. A child thinks he can do anything; an adult recognizes he has his limits. A child thinks little of death, because he is but beginning to know life; an adult thinks often of death, because he has seen the fleetingness of life.

This might all sound depressing, but I assure you that it is not: When a man comes to realize he knows nothing, he must turn to find the One who knows everything. When a man comes to realize his limitations, he must turn to find the One who has no limitations. When a man recognizes the impending threat of sudden death, he must turn to find the One who has power over death. “It is better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house of feasting, for this is the end of all mankind, and the living will lay it to heart” (Ecc 7:2). Suffering is often more beneficial to man than is feasting, for in the suffering we begin to focus on that which really matters.

I do not rejoice in my father’s death; rather, I grieve his death because I love him and I miss him, and I grieve for those around me who likewise love him and miss him. However, that is not to say that I am without cause for joy. While I do not rejoice in the events themselves, I do rejoice in the will of God, and if God has willed me to endure this hardship, then I will rejoice amidst that suffering, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope. If this present suffering will draw me closer to my Lord and will beckon me to maturity in Him who saved me, then I will arise and I will worship. If my present anguish serves the purpose of growing me in Christ and presents me a platform by which to declare the glory of God, then I will not allow my best friend’s death to be in vain: No, but I will sing praise to the God who gives and takes away and my heart will lift up a new song to Him who is King over the fire and the flood.

I grieve, but not as one without hope. Rather, I grieve as one who knows that his grieving will but strengthen his confidence in that hope, as one who with increased vigor awaits that day when my Savior will return on the clouds and place all things under His dominion and make all things new. Christ died on a Friday, but Sunday was coming. My father died on a Friday, but Sunday shall one day come for us too. Death comes to all and death can come quickly, but thanks be to God that death is not the end! To die will, indeed, be an awfully big adventure.

Conclusion

All children, except one, grow up. Thanks be to God that we are not that one, but that we have the blessed privilege to daily grow up and be conformed to the image of Christ, putting our childish ways behind us and cloaking ourselves in a maturing faith, exchanging the milk for meat, enduring the waves and surviving the storms! Peter Pan may fly, but his Fridays never turn to Sundays. Praise be to God that we have a Savior who can redeem even our worst of Fridays by giving us the future hope of that great, coming Sunday. Blessed be the name of the Lord!

Grace and peace be to you all.