Longfellow, Herr, & Hope

On January 1, 2012 at 6 PM, hope took in a quick breath, released everything it had left for this world, and lay ashen and still on a small bed in a nondescript room. I was sitting solitary by my father’s bedside, willing him to be released. Never did I think this task would be mine, as the youngest child and only daughter in the family. It was a beautiful and terrible assignment. At that time, I knew only that our 14-month family battle with brain cancer was over. I needed to wake my mother to tell her that her best friend and loving partner was gone. I had to call my brothers who had just returned to their homes from visits to say a painful goodbye to our father.

In the days that followed there were two services, one Mennonite and one Catholic (my father was both Mennonite and Catholic). Many people shared stories of how my dad had given them encouragement, believed in them, shared books and more books. There were many stories of touched lives. One pastor, whom my father had mentored, lingered long after the first service (the Mennonite vigil). I remember recognizing that he didn’t seem to want to leave, which would mean letting go, acknowledging the finality of this loss. We shared a brief conversation, both of us confirming what a source of light and hope my father had been. There was some comfort knowing that I wasn’t the only one feeling as if I’d lost access to a deep well of life-giving hope.

He who believes, hopes, and loves, must not, on that account, be assured of salvation. For what he believes, what he hopes, and what he loves make a difference. No one lives in any type of life without those three movements of the soul, that is, of believing, hoping, loving. If you do not believe what the pagans believe, if you do not hope for what they hope for, if you do not love what they love, then you are gathered from among the pagans; you are removed from them; that is, you are separated from the nations. Let not mere physical association alarm you when you are separated in mind.