Let Me Say Goodbye

For God does speak-now one way, now another-though man may not perceive it. In a dream, in a vision of the night, when deep sleep falls on men as they slumber in their beds, he may speak in their ears…
-Job 33:14-16

I woke up to my grandma shaking me urgently. Disoriented by the blackness that filled my bedroom, thinking it much too early to rise, I rolled over to go back to sleep. At 14, I hated getting up in the morning. And at this early hour, I didn't see the need.

"I know it's early, Emily," said Grandma. "But there is someone downstairs who needs to talk to you."

At those words I jolted awake, remembering that Dad was out of town and that I expected news about him. Mom had flown to Chicago earlier in the week to be near him.

Dad had been sick on and off for the last year. I could see the worry behind my mother's eyes when she'd speak of it, but I didn't know the seriousness of the problem. When Dad and I would play checkers, he'd rub his legs, saying they were numb. He didn't have his usual energy, but I never thought much of it, because I was busy with my own life: school, church, and friends.

I zipped up my robe-it was still cold in Omaha in March-and padded downstairs in my fuzzy slippers, unsuspecting of the news to come, thinking I might be told when Dad would walk through the door and into my life again.

As I turned the corner to the kitchen, I saw Buzz Krause, a close friend of my father's, leaning against the counter. Looking haggard, with whisker stubble and dark circles under his eyes, he worked up a sad smile for me. My two older brothers were standing there looking uncomfortable.

The smell of early morning coffee hung in the air. I wondered why we'd been assembled.

After a long pause, Buzz spoke. "I hate to be the one to break the news, but your dad died this morning." Then, after hugging each of us, he said, "I'm sorry."

Looking for some indication that this news was false, I searched for Grandma. Huddled in the corner of the kitchen, she cried quiet tears. My oldest brother, Joel, put his arm around me and squeezed me toward him.

So it is true, I thought, as the news sped through my veins like poison. Dad is gone, and I didn't say goodbye. This can't be happening. What have I done to deserve this kind of loss?

The last time I'd seen Dad, he'd been packing. After taking a new job, he had to travel to New York for a meeting. He'd become sick on the plane, which had landed in Chicago in order to get him to a hospital.

I was used to his packing. Dad, a chemist, was often out of town. Sometimes he'd take me with him on summer days when his trips weren't too long. Those times of riding on interstates and highways alone with my dad were what I thought heaven would be like: hours alone with my father, when he had nothing to do but listen to me talk. We'd stop at roadside cafes and eat lunch. I'd feel grown-up and important-Dad always made me feel that way.

As the days after his death blurred by, the thought that I had not had a chance to say goodbye to my dad gnawed at me. Like a plague, it grew, infecting every waking moment, touching everything around me. It hurt, as I slowly realized there would be no more days of flying kites together. No more bedtime chats. I could do nothing to change his death. I knew that. All I wanted was a final goodbye. But a goodbye would never happen; he had already left.

I'd been raised to believe in God. We went to church, and I was taught to pray, to believe. But my prayers had consisted of simple things, things I could imagine God answering, such as passing a math test. I'd never prayed for God to do the impossible. The God that I'd learned about in Sunday school had parted the water and healed the sick. He'd given sight to the blind and fed thousands on a few fish and loaves of bread. But those miracles occurred centuries ago. They'd happened to famous people with great faith. They couldn't come to pass today, I decided. Not to a little someone like me.

Or could they?

Who could I ask? Who would know if God still answered difficult prayers? I felt so alone without my dad. He used to answer the hard questions. With him gone, I decided to ask God directly.

It can't hurt, I reasoned. I needed to talk to someone, and the God I'd been taught about seemed kind. So I prayed, pouring out my sorrow, trusting that God would hear me in the same way that my father used to listen, with patience and understanding.

I wept, storming at God with my 14-year-old passion, looking for understanding into my dad's death. When the fury in my soul quieted, I pleaded, "If you could, please, God, just let me say goodbye."

A week after Dad went to heaven, I had a dream so vivid I smelled the fresh grass and felt the wind tossing my hair. There I stood, on a green mountain, high up-so high, I believed I could touch the clouds. I could see no sun, yet light gleamed all around. Next to me stood my father. With his arms held out, he took my hands.

"I didn't want you to go," I said with urgency in my voice. I was crying. "How can I live without you?"

He smiled his warm smile at me. "I know you'll be fine. I've just come to say goodbye." He looked peaceful and younger than he had during the year before his death.

I nodded, knowing this was the goodbye I'd prayed for. "I love you, Daddy. Goodbye."

"I love you, Emily. Goodbye," he said, letting go of my hands.

I woke with tears on my cheeks, knowing that God had given me what I'd asked for. Now I know, with conviction, that God can still do the impossible.

Emily Allen Hoffman

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