My Dad's Home Going
Dad Home Going...June 14th, 2026
Just a few months ago, on January 25th, we celebrated my father's 91st birthday. None of us knew then that we were entering the final season of his earthly life.
As spring arrived, I began helping Dad with some of his daily care. During those weeks, I noticed a troubling change. He was losing weight rapidly, becoming weaker, and finding ordinary tasks increasingly difficult. By the time he and my mother celebrated their 66th wedding anniversary, he could no longer shower on his own and needed more assistance than ever before.
Most days were spent sleeping, with brief moments of renewed energy when he could sit on the back patio, soak up the sunshine, and watch the birds at his feeder. Hospice was brought in to help our family prepare for his home going and to provide nursing care, hygiene support, and guidance through those final weeks.
It soon became clear that Dad could no longer be left alone, especially at night.
I went into my attic, found my old camping cot and sleeping bags, packed my things, and moved in with Mom and Dad. I prayed a simple prayer: "Lord, wake me every time Dad needs something. Don't let me miss a single thing."
God answered that prayer.
The best way I can describe it is the way a young mother sleeps when caring for a newborn baby. I slept but somehow heard everything. Every movement. Every call. Every need.
One morning stands out above all the others.
Dad and I had always been early risers. That morning we both woke around 6:30. I sat with my coffee while I prepared his favorite tea. Mom joined us with her coffee, and I read a daily devotional aloud.
As we sat together, a beautiful hot air balloon drifted silently across the morning sky, perfectly framed by Dad's bedroom window. It floated directly through his line of sight as he rested in bed.
Mom prepared a small breakfast for him. To our surprise, he ate every bite.
Then we began sharing memories.
Somehow the conversation turned to horses. My youngest sister, Suzy, had loved horses growing up, and Dad had bought her a horse named Jackie. I remembered Jackie as brown. Mom remembered Jackie as white. We finally asked Dad.
Without hesitation he answered, "Brown."
Later I texted Suzy to settle the debate once and for all. Sure enough, Jackie had been brown.
It seems like such a small thing now, but it was one of those ordinary moments that becomes precious when you realize there won't be many more.
Throughout these final weeks, my sister Lori and her husband Dave continued the incredible care they have provided for our parents over many years. Living nearby, they managed countless details of daily life—finances, meals, appointments, household needs, and anything else Mom and Dad required. Lori even monitored the temperature of their home remotely through an app on her phone to make sure they were always comfortable.
When overnight care became necessary, Lori and I worked closely together. We discussed every detail, coordinated every need, and followed hospice recommendations step by step.
It became a special season for us as sisters.
Lori and I are only two years apart. We were best friends growing up, but as life unfolded with careers, marriages, children, and responsibilities, it became harder to spend the kind of time together we once had. Caring for Dad brought us side by side again.
Together we read to him, talked with him, prayed with him, and simply sat beside him.
As we watched his strength decline, I called my sister Suzy in Oregon and encouraged her to move her flight up by a day. She arrived on Saturday evening, giving her precious extra time with Dad.
One by one, the grandchildren came.
Some sat at his bedside. Some called to speak with him. All wanted the opportunity to tell Grandpa they loved him.
One of my favorite moments came when Miles, his oldest grandson, visited. They shared fishing stories together. Dad became animated and smiled as he used his hands to demonstrate the size of a fish. For a few moments, he seemed completely himself again.
On Friday evening, all four of my children gathered around his bed to say goodbye.
My oldest son, Cameron, shared a particularly close bond with Grandpa. Dad had driven him to harmonica festivals, attended rodeos, and faithfully showed up for countless events throughout his life.
That was who Dad was.
He showed up.
Usually carrying a camera or video recorder, he captured the lives of those he loved. He took genuine interest in his children and grandchildren and celebrated every accomplishment as if it were his own.
Late Friday night, near midnight, Lori and I experienced a moment neither of us will ever forget.
Dad suddenly awakened.
His eyes were clear and bright, looking somehow beyond us. His beautiful blue eyes seemed to shine.
Lori and I told him how much we loved him. We assured him that we would be okay. We told him he could go home to Heaven whenever he was ready.
Dad brought his hands together.
Lori gently placed them in a prayer position, and the three of us recited the Lord's Prayer together.
As we spoke the familiar words, I could see his lips moving.
When we finished, Dad took my hand in his and repeatedly kissed it.
No words were needed.
It was one of the most tender expressions of love I have ever experienced.
I will carry that moment with me for the rest of my life.
Growing up, Dad and I were inseparable. If he was going somewhere, I usually went too.
We picked up supplies for projects together. We drove to Saxton Fruit Orchard for apples. We picked out Christmas trees. We went skiing at Bogus Basin, fishing, biking, and water skiing.
Dad attended every sporting event he could. Afterwards he would recount every play, every moment, and every accomplishment with pride in his voice.
At twelve years old, I began working in his dental practice. Years later, when I married Dion, Dad proudly walked me down the aisle and placed my hand into another man's.
Dion had some very big shoes to fill.
Over the years I watched Dad become the same kind of grandfather he had been as a father—fully present, deeply interested, and completely devoted.
To say I will miss him feels like a tremendous understatement.
Saturday evening, Mom and I sat with Dad while Lawrence Welk played on television, one of his lifelong favorites.
Sunday morning, I woke early, made coffee, and prepared for the day.
Mom and the three of us sister’s watched a church service together from his room. We shared communion as a family. I gently touched his lips with the bread and juice.
A dear relative who serves as a chaplain came and ministered to all of us. She prayed a beautiful prayer and lovingly spoke to Dad about going home to Heaven.
Later that day, after the nurse had visited, Lori and I carefully bathed Dad and changed his shirt.
As we finished and gently repositioned him, a single tear rolled down his cheek.
I knew in that moment he was saying goodbye.
That afternoon Mom sat quietly holding his hand.
A short time later she stepped out of the room.
When Lori entered, I followed behind her.
One look told us everything.
Dad was gone.
He left this world the same way he lived much of his life—quietly, gently, without fanfare.
I like to imagine that before he left, he looked one final time upon his beloved Elisabeth. After sixty-six years together, he knew she would be cared for. He knew his work here was finished.
Then he went home.
Home to Jesus.
Home to family who had gone before him.
Home to the place his faith had pointed toward his entire life.
What a beautiful life he lived.
What a gift it was to walk beside him during his final days on earth.
I love you, Dad.
Until we meet again.
— Debbie
