He’s Here, But He’s Not

If you have met him, you won’t have forgotten him. That’s the type of man my father-in-law is. I say, “is”, because this isn’t a eulogy. He’s still here, but he’s not. He’s not the man he used to be, the man I met more than 20 years ago. He was one of those ‘larger-than-life' guys who seemed to have a working knowledge of pretty much anything he touched. I’ve seen him steer a conversation toward Christ with his broad smile without it ever once producing a cringe, had innumerable handshakes with a ‘friend’ of his that he’s been doing 'Christianity Explained’ with, or simply sat at his kitchen table while he explained to me why this might be the year Jesus would come back again. He is my father-in-law; everybody else calls him, Ray, but I call him, dad.

I don’t remember the exact date, but I do remember seeing my wife weeping on the phone as her mum called to tell us that dad had been diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease. The last 15 years has been a journey of celebrating the life that remains, yet simultaneously grieving the life that he’s losing. Dad’s here, but he’s not. His motorbike has long been sold, his drivers license surrendered, his tools in the shed have a layer of surface rust and dust that would have never once been tolerated. His endless flow of ideas, inventions yet to see the light of day, are still there, but the path they wander is winding and often lose their way, sidetracked by synapses in the mind that no longer fire like they used to. A cheeky smile and twinkle in the eye remind me that dad is still here, but then I hear him fight for an escaped thought, or struggle to swallow his dessert (something that would have once been inhaled), and I remember, he’s here, but he’s not.

Not long ago I disassembled his bed, put it into the back of a trailer, and reassembled it again in an unfamiliar room, one that he must now call home. After a lifetime of devoted care, mum had to walk beside his wheelchair as others took over the primary care of dad’s needs. I saw her tears, even as I see the tears of my wife as she comes home from visiting dad. He’s here, but he’s not. I saw the tears again today, after she sat looking at a glass screen that millions of pixels projected light onto, accurately, but inadequately, forming an image of her dad trying to speak to her. That’s all we’re allowed now. Necessary restrictions implemented by health officials in the wake of the COVID-19 crisis mean that aged care centres are now in complete lockdown—no more visits, no more stories by the bedside, no more tears and the holding of trembling hands. Just a cold screen at our kitchen table. He’s here, but he’s not. The lockdown, like the Parkinson’s, changed something significant; like an empty shell, they have altered the form and substance of life. On the surface, things seem to have a familiar appearance, but when you look a little deeper, the essence and being of it all has inextricably altered. Things are here, but they are not. Just like Ray, my dad.

I like to recall conversations with dad, in what seem like another lifetime now, but I know I had them. I remember walking down through the back paddock as we looked for newborn kids delivered during the cold night, or as we built a new set of yards for the herd of goats we’d trapped and transported together. Dad loved to talk, and there was nothing he loved to talk of more than the Lord; especially His glorious appearing. Dad would say, “Some days I think I hear the trumpet blast, and I look up”, he’d turn his eyes to meet mine and hold my gaze as he continued, “What do you think it’ll be like, Chris, the day we see Jesus?” I weep as I write this memory, because I realise, that dad has always been here, but he hasn’t. Dad was here, but his heart was already glorying in his unmerited salvation. Ray was a husband, a father, a farmer, a musician, a church-man, an evangelist, an inventor, and a friend to many — but before he was any of these things, his identity was found in Christ. In that sense, he is here, but he’s not.

When Habakkuk looked at the desolation of Israel, saw the wealth that had been stripped away, the blessings that had been lost, he grieved and wept; lament was his song, and ashes his companion. Yet even there in the midst of ashes and lamentation, he saw past the bleak landscape of loss, and beheld the more glorious reality of the substance beyond the shadow.

Though the fig tree should not blossom, nor fruit be on the vines, the produce of the olive fail and the fields yield no food, the flock be cut off from the fold and there be no herd in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the LORD; I will take joy in the God of my salvation. GOD, the Lord, is my strength; he makes my feet like the deer's; he makes me tread on my high places. - Habakkuk 3:17-19

There is still a song to be sung. My dad—Ray—is already singing it. His distant eyes are looking to a city not yet seen, and the songs of lament we sing now will one day be songs sung at a great table set in honour for the groom who comes to gather his bride.

Dad’s here, but he’s not, he’s already there, enveloped in the arms of the Saviour he’s been looking to for decades. He’s found ‘in Christ’—as you are if you have trusted in the good news of the gospel.

So dad, perhaps today, but if not, we will live here, but not here—we will join you in looking to the light that must just be about to dawn.