It does not arrive all at once. It builds—moment by moment, breath by breath.
Sitting beside my father, I am realizing that letting go is not just something the dying do—it is something the living must learn as well.
The room is quiet. Every breath matters. And I don’t know what the next moment will bring.
I feel unsure of my ability to help him when he struggles to breathe. I feel the urge to take control—to fix, to manage, to steady what is slipping.
But I cannot.
And that is where the struggle begins.
Yet I stay.
And in staying, something begins to change.
I am learning that this is not a moment for control.
This is a moment for surrender.
Waiting is not easy. It feels uncertain. It feels vulnerable.
But I am learning that waiting is not weakness.
Waiting is trust.
There is a kind of faith that expects results.
And then there is a deeper kind of faith…
the kind that continues even when nothing seems to change.
I remember after I had forgiven my father, I expected something—though I didn’t always admit it to myself.
I thought there would be a response.
A conversation.
Some kind of acknowledgment.
Something that would tell me: “This mattered.”
But it didn’t come.
I even wrote him a letter.
Not to accuse him.
Not to judge him.
But simply to set the record straight—to express what I had come to understand, and to communicate that I was choosing forgiveness.
I wanted him to know my heart.
And still… nothing.
No response.
No follow-up.
No indication that anything had changed on his end.
Months went by.
And I found myself wrestling with a quiet disappointment.
Not anger—at least not in the way I once felt it.
But something more subtle.
A sense that the door might be closed.
I didn’t want to revisit the subject.
I didn’t want to force something that wasn’t being received.
So I let it rest.
And that’s where faith began to take on a different meaning for me.
Because I realized something:
I had done what I believed God had asked me to do.
I had forgiven.
But forgiveness does not guarantee a response.
It does not ensure reconciliation.
It does not promise immediate change.
It does not always produce visible results.
And yet… it still matters.
Years passed.
Not days.
Not weeks.
Years.
And slowly—almost imperceptibly at first—I began to see something different.
Not in a dramatic way.
Not in a moment I could point to and say, “There it is.”
But in small shifts.
Subtle changes.
Moments that, over time, began to tell a different story.
But what I came to realize was this:
The greatest change may not have been in him.
It was in me.
I began to understand him differently.
Not just as my father…
but as a man.
A man with pressures.
A man with burdens.
A man with struggles I had never fully seen as a child.
And something began to grow in me that hadn’t been there before:
Empathy.
It didn’t come all at once.
But it came as I lived life myself.
As I became a father.
As I felt the weight of responsibility.
As I made mistakes I wished I could take back.
And I found myself thinking something I had never fully grasped before:
I hope my children will forgive me.
That realization changed everything.
Because suddenly, I wasn’t standing in judgment.
I was standing in need.
And the grace I had extended to my father…
became the grace I now hoped to receive.
As a father, I have tried to do my best.
To lead with integrity.
To love with consistency.
To provide, protect, and guide.
And yet, I know I have not done it perfectly.
And as a pastor, I stand before people every week, teaching about grace.
Encouraging it.
Preaching it.
Calling others to live it.
But I am reminded, in these moments, that grace is not something I just teach.
It is something I must live.
And often… it is something I must live before I fully understand it.
Looking back, I realize that forgiveness was not the end of the journey.
It was the beginning.
A beginning that required faith.
Faith to act without seeing results.
Faith to trust without confirmation.
Faith to believe that God was working… even when I couldn’t see it.
Because sometimes, the results we are looking for don’t come in the way we expect.
And sometimes… they don’t come at all.
But that doesn’t mean God isn’t at work.
It simply means that He may be working in a place we didn’t think to look.
And for me…
That place was my own heart.
I am learning to wait on God—to trust Him for strength, for peace, for presence.
Because in this room, in this quiet space, I am not alone.
And even in letting go… there is grace holding me together.
In my waiting, sitting at his bedside as he slowly slips away from us and this life.
Waiting is seeing subtle changes.
His breathing has slowed.
He sleeps more.
His body is limp.
He is dependent on specialist and caregivers to do everything.
Adjust his body position to prevent bed soars.
Give meds.
Cleanse him.
Change his clothing.
Keep him comfortable.
Subtle changes that seem to be happening without notifications.
Hoping for rest.
Working to comfort.
Adjustments in breathing.
Watching for moments when he adjust and even opens his eyes so that I can catch is quick awareness.
Hey dad! I’m here. This is your son, Rick!
