Relational Wisdom: A Personal Journey of Sharing Sacred Stories
By R. Kurt Ennis

December 4, 1985 was a difficult and fear-filled day. The day started in the usual way - up early, drive to the General Motors factory in Wentzville, Missouri, and work on the instrument panel line with its usual monotony. The day and my life changed when my supervisor approached me with a very somber look on his face - the look of a man bringing bad news, a blank dread that demanded one to prepare for the worst. The bad news was my Dad had suffered a severe stroke and wasn’t expected to live more than a few hours. It was strange that the message-bearer had previously not shown much interest in me. To him, I was just another cog in the wheel. Now here he was invading my personal world, laying on me the heaviest pronouncement one human can give to another: “Your Dad is dying and all hope is gone. So you’d better hurry home.”

My Dad served in the United States Air Force and CIA for many years. He had lived all over the world, but after retirement moved back to our small hometown in Indiana. Maybe Dad wanted to be near his family or friends. Or maybe he just wanted to find home again. He never did say. There he was back in Indiana after so many years. And there I was, a five hour drive from home, living in Missouri. I always wanted to be near Dad but it seems we were separated by careers or miles or both, and the best days were gone before they were missed.

My mind was racing as I drove to my house to pick up some clothes. What should I pack? My best suit of course, because I would need it for a funeral. I threw a few things in the back seat and took off. As the miles flew by I prayed for Dad and for myself. I wanted Dad to be well again and have the ability to go on with life. However, my greatest concern was that he would die without knowing the forgiveness and peace that Christ brings into our lives. The Cuban missile crisis and the Cold War had contributed to separation from my father when I was five years old. The thought of never seeing him alive again in this life or the next was beyond comprehension. That just could not be.

I don’t remember how long it took me to drive the three hundred miles to Methodist Hospital in Indianapolis, but I do know it was much less than the normal five hour ride. Each passing mile seemed so long and difficult. There was a raging storm and no windshield wiper could keep up with the downpour!

I arrived at the hospital red-eyed, emotionally drained, and full of fear. Waiting at the hospital to support me and my sister were all of my mother’s family. Dad’s side of the family was very small and most had died off by this time. And wouldn’t you know it, strokes had done it.

Mom and Dad had been divorced many years. I look back at those horrible days and wonder how I could have missed my mother’s silent pain, for I now know she did hurt. But Dad had remarried and there could be no room for two to worry over one man.

I wanted to do something, anything to help. But all I could do was be there for my sister and my dad. The relationship with my father’s second wife was strained. My sister and I had been told by her that we no longer had a place in Dad’s life or family, that he had a new family and didn’t need or want us. My sister and I knew this wasn’t true, but to hear the words “standing on their own” just served to open old wounds.

After being greeted by my mother’s family, I sought out the doctor caring for my dad. He stated in no uncertain terms that I needed to spend as much time with my father as I could because he would not last “two more days.” No stroke is good, but as strokes go, this one usually leaves no survivors. I tried to prepare myself for that first look, that first glance of what had become what once was. My dad had always stood strong, straight, and tall, his uniform in perfect condition, his outward appearance, cool, calm, and in control. There in that hospital bed was a man who was anything but in control. What I saw terrified me. I saw a familiar figure of one I once knew now fighting for his life and totally out of control, his arms and legs thrashing about, his whole body convulsing with one terrible contraction after another. The left brain was being destroyed cell by cell. The worst part came moments later. As my dad lay there he forced his head to look towards his son and for a frozen moment those eyes that had lost their clarity pleaded for help with a look of fear I hope I will never see again.

Two days passed, a week, ten days, and the doctor still repeated the words that this patient was not going to make it out of this hospital alive. And so day after day I would be at the hospital from when visiting hours began to when they ended late at night. Every two hours for ten minutes at a time I was allowed to be at my dad’s side. I would go to him and say, “Dad, this is Kurt. I love you. You are not alone. And God loves you too.” Then I would explain the plan of salvation. Every day, every two hours, for ten minutes it was the same thing, “Dad, this is Kurt. I love you. You are not alone. And God loves you.” This went on day in and day out. Then something strange happened. The patient began to stabilize. He was transferred to the Veterans Hospital in Indianapolis. I was afraid he would die in the ambulance because his body was still thrashing about and the medical staff at Methodist still expected this stroke victim to die at any time. Apparently the VA was the place for a broken and worn-out Airman.

We survived the transfer. The next hurdle was a new bunch of doctors to deal with! Their story was the same, only with more of a cold, clinical military kind of explanation: “Lt. Colonel Ennis will not survive much longer.” The message was clear. Prepare yourself. But how do you do that?

Christmas came and went. New Year’s Day was spent seated next to a hospital bed. At least now I could remain in the room all day with Dad. One of the lowest points came on that day. I felt like a light fixture whose glow was weakening and about to go out. It seemed the whole world was celebrating. Families were together as they were meant to be. But here was a father-son duo waiting for one to say good-bye and the other to leave.

One of the strangest moments in all of this controlled and confined misery came early in January. As I watched my Father’s body move sporadically in this restless state, a documentary on strokes aired on the television in our room. I sat next to Dad in awe of what I was seeing; not of what was playing on TV, but what was now taking place. I can’t explain the how or why, but for a few moments a body that had constantly been flailing with no rhyme or reason ceased to shake and fight itself. Calm fell on him as the two of us watched the very thing on TV that was killing him. It wasn’t long before his terrible distress returned. It was business as usual again with the hospital staff trying to keep this poor man alive.

Fear has a way of draining a person not only of courage, but of hope as well. What could I expect but what I had been told for over a month now? My dad would not survive what he had fought for so long. It was just a matter of time. The doctor again tried to explain what had taken place in my father’s brain and what was now happening. At least this time we were told the patient has a five percent chance to survive. The doctor did his best to prepare us, but after a while I just seemed to go numb every time I heard the speech.

By this time I was at the end - the end of my rope, my strength, myself. January in Indiana is very cold and famous for its gray winter skies. I’ll never forget that night. I left the hospital around midnight which had become the usual. But there was nothing usual about that night. As I made my way out of Indianapolis, I drove to my mother’s house, forty-five minutes away. In Indiana we measure distance not in miles, but in time. And according to the latest report, Dad’s time was running out. That cold night, driving home under a starless sky, I began to pray in a way I had never prayed before. “Father, this is Kurt. I’ve had it. I have no more strength left. I can’t do anything to help my dad and I’m afraid he will die without Christ. Father, would you please give my dad one more chance?”

There in the cold darkness came a voice that was clear, precise and filled with compassion. It wasn’t an audible voice, but a voice nonetheless. That night my prayers had been answered with the words, “Kurt, this is your Father. I have heard you and I am going to give your dad one more chance.”

I drove, I wept, I thanked God and it seemed in no time I was pulling into my mother’s driveway. I went to bed and slept soundly for the first time in weeks. The next morning I got up early, made my way to the VA and was the first visitor on the floor. With confidence I strode toward my dad’s bed, which had been moved next to the nurse’s station because of his worsening situation. As I walked down that long hallway, my heart skipped a beat. With eyes wide open I stood there staring at a freshly made bed with crisp sheets and hospital corners, perfectly done in fine military fashion, and no patient. Dad’s bed was empty! It was so early that most of the lights on the ward were off. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me. But there I stood, stunned and with a look of total shock. Was he gone? Why hadn’t the nurse called me last night?

From my right the charge nurse approached, and with a discernment that takes years to develop she unceremoniously said, “Oh, no, he’s down the hall in a new room.” I think she said something else, but by this time I was returning the way I had come. In my haste to see what I thought would be, I walked right by something greater than I could have ever imagined. Stopping short of entering my dad’s new room I paused and saw him lying in bed, quiet and still. I stepped into the room and felt a peace so powerfully calm that words could never fully explain. I slowly approached the bedside of a man who only the night before displayed anything but peace and calm. I took hold of my father’s right hand and whispering in his right ear said, “Dad, this is Kurt. I love you. You are not alone. And Dad, God loves you.” I once again explained the plan of salvation and said, “Dad, do you understand what I have told you? If so, squeeze my hand.” His hand squeezed mine with purpose. I then said, “Dad, if you want your sins to be forgiven and Christ to be your Lord and Savior then squeeze my hand.” As he firmly gripped my hand he held on for a moment. And in that moment I thanked my Heavenly Father for giving someone precious to me one more chance, just as He said He would. And I know Dad was even more precious to Him who delights in our peace.

My dad’s life changed after that day in many ways. He physically stabilized and was moved to Las Vegas by his wife. She had not been around the hospital as much as I thought she should have been. But now that the impossible had happened and the patient would live, he would soon be taken away from home, family and friends. Another good-bye and Dad was gone…again.

After fifteen years of fighting his battle from a wheelchair, dad left this world. I wish I could have been there with him. On January 29, 2000, I received that final call from a doctor saying, “Your dad is gone.” And it’s true, he may be gone from my sight, but I look forward to a day of reunions and no more good-byes.

The years passed with work, college, raising a family, and the pastorate taking my attention. At one point I found myself down in the dumps and questioning God’s help that I so desperately needed. It was the kind of desperation that causes blindness, deafness, and self-pity. Would God still be there for me in my hour of need? God answered in a way that is rare, but all too real. My prayers were answered with a reminder of something I missed so many years ago. God asked, “Do you remember in that hospital room with your dad, which ear you spoke into and the hand that responded to you? Which side of your dad’s body had been paralyzed? Which hand was unable to move? Which ear could not hear?” At that moment I realized something. The stroke had affected the side of the brain that controlled the right side of my dad’s body. Before that miraculous night of experiencing God’s peace and after that night until his death, the right side of my father’s body was paralyzed, his right ear deaf, his right eye blind, never using his right hand again. But one cold dark night my heavenly Father heard me and loved me and answered me with one more chance. And because of times like this I learned no matter what we face in life, God is able and willing to help, to save, to bring peace. And I praise Him for His goodness and mercies.