How I came to believe in God

         I was almost eighteen when my parents were in a horrible car accident. Early one morning, they had a head-on collision with an oncoming car, operated by a driver who had been drinking. This sounds like a cliché, but it’s all too real for many people. The combined impact was reasonably at over one-hundred miles an hour and easily, the vehicles were thrown clear off the road. They were tossed so far that the flipped cars were difficult to see in tall grass, which is why I did not observe them as I drove past the scene mere minutes after the crash occurred, on my way to high-school. It was dark at that time on this dim morning so I have understandable reason to have missed it, but to this day I feel bad that I didn’t catch sight of it. I will never forget that I didn’t stop to come to the aide of my suffering mom and dad, lying helpless in a shallow ditch.  Thankfully, they lived but each was injured.

     My father was in the hospital the longest, over a couple of months if remember correctly and most of that time was spent in critical intensive care. For starters, his lungs had to be drained of fifty years’ worth of tar and nicotine; this muck was preventing him from getting the adequate amount of vitally required oxygen. The extraction procedure to rid it from his body seemed to have no end as he struggled to breath. The black sludge accumulating in those bags is an unforgettable image as well. He was hurt far worse than my mother; in fact he actually died twice during the early stages of his care. We were notified of his death by phone, but miraculously before we were too deep into sorrow the nurse called back. He returned to life. These were very scary times for our family.

     In short, once he had fully recovered and the medical tubes were taken out of his mouth and nose, he wanted to tell me and my older brother and sister something. We were pleased to listen because he was alive and growing healthier, but he couldn’t speak well at first. His throat and larynx was sore from the lengthy period of obstructions in his esophagus, but eventually he spoke his thoughts. He said that he was actually aware he had croaked for a short spell and moreover, within those moments someone spoke to him. He couldn’t say with certainty that it was either Jesus or God, but he recalled it was a pleasant man who had important words to express. ‘Don’t worry; I will take care of you. You will be alright and you won’t have any pain.’ “This is what he told me”, my father said. Honestly, we didn’t know what to think about the suggestion of his reflections, but we didn’t judge him or the possibility of them. After all, he wasn’t in pain and never did he experience any, although his injuries were severe. His head suffered major trauma and he had to have a rod put in his leg to repair shattered and lost bone. He limped and persevered with limited mobility for the rest of his life, but he was happy and without agony, just like the man told him he would be. My mother on the other hand, though her impairments were considerably mild in comparison, was on pain killers for the rest of her life while remaining regularly melancholy.   

     Okay, fast forward a few years. I am now three months from my twenty-second birthday and only three weeks from my wedding. I was about to marry the girl of my dreams, the same woman I am bonded too and still love today.  This was a happy time, but stressful because many things had to be done for the big date. One of those tasks was getting tuxedos for the men. So, there we were at the rental store discussing choices with our parents. Bo, my fiancée favored pink back then so it came as no surprise when she chose groomsmen shirts having ruffles with that color. My father of course, said he wouldn’t wear it.  He grew up in a time when pink was only for girls, and he adamantly reminded us of that. We argued back and forth a bit but he ultimately walked away asserting he would die before he ever put it on and he sounded serious. Naturally, our families left that retailor somewhat crabby thanks to that squabble but we sought to move on, nonetheless those shirts were ordered with pink trim. Instinctively, I proceeded with plans, which included moving in with my wife to be, living under her parent’s roof. I realize we weren’t quite wedded yet, but we wanted to be together. That’s when circumstances turned horribly dreadful, but not between us. A few days later my father unexpectedly expired of a heart attack. He was only sixty-one, how could that be I wondered? However, the doctors did tell him to stop smoking, but he didn’t, so that’s that. There he was, found motionless on his bathroom floor. That’s right. He said he wouldn’t wear that shirt, and I guess he meant it. But that’s not the whole story and at the time, I had no idea.    

     Shortly after his passing my mother wanted to sit me down for a talk, my siblings and grandmother were included. I was distraught over my father’s sudden end and since I was on the verge of matrimony I presumed they thought I needed to hear something like a heart-to-heart exchange over life and mortality…to help me accept it. I assumed they were in fear I might not go through with the marriage. My wife later told me she had menacing worries that I wouldn’t be able to. I think it was my brother who took the lead. He said, “Do you remember when dad died and that man spoke to him. Well, dad told the rest of us a little more than that, but we had to promise to never tell you.” Immediately he had my attention. I was astute but perplexed and a void began swelling inside me. “Dad,” he continued, “said in his second brief departure, the same man appeared to him again and repeated the identical avowal, but attached one additional ultimatum, which was that he had to leave this world and go with him as soon as his last child was out of the house.” Oh my God, I didn’t want to trust my ears. My heart sank to the pit of my stomach comprehending that I had just left his home.  My family persisted to tell me that dad truly feared if I knew about this final portion of his meeting with that spirit, I may never leave. He felt I may possibly stay with him too long, perhaps avoid marriage and moving on with my life altogether to avert the risk of his untimely exodus from this earthly world. Feasibly, I might try to block his demise.  So they obeyed, and kept it from me. You can imagine my dismay. I broke down…and I was mad with anger because I didn’t get to make the choice of leaving him with full knowledge of the consequences.  I felt so responsible for his death. Even as I write these words I am having great difficulty with my old sentiments. In fact, I have begun sobbing all over again.

     As I sit at this computer tears are flowing, weeping like a baby. I’m trembling from memories I deemed amended long ago, but it seems they are not. I am trying to keep my composure so I can type these letters but they have become blurry, my hands are shaking and it hurts to hold myself upright. I cannot avoid remembering my father’s face when I left. As he lovingly said goodbye to me he knew he was going to die, and I walked out the door clueless. He knew his time had come. He had waited for it to end and now, the delay was over. I am reciting the pain all over again, I’m breaking down… self-control is almost gone.

     And worse, others in the family sat idle as they watched for his premonitions to either come true or be disproven. I completely comprehend that I was never made aware, dad’s dilemma and the family’s predicament was a difficult situation.  Sure, I get that…and I did then. But I could not forgive myself in spite of realizing that. As I write this I’m crying uncontrollably, I still have tremendous grief. I am consumed with utter anguish, remorse…regret. I am vexing to fight it off but it batters me. I’m pitiful, so glad no one can see me.

     I had to take a break. Alright, but I have managed to pull myself together. I can’t lie, it took a short eon to come to terms with my father’s passing, and sometimes I am reminded I may not have actually gotten over it after all. However, in all the turmoil I experienced within that era of awful learning, I also acquired some essential wisdom and most needed belief. For the first real time I absorbed that God is not just an anecdote.     

     This is how I came to the truth, and I have felt Gods presence ever since.  If anyone pays attention, they can feel his warmth too. He demonstrates his works, gives blessings, offers forgiveness and allows delight in many ways. He has not permitted my family to have great luxury or to live lavishly, but we have always had our needs met, sometimes at the last minute but we have been taken care of. I couldn’t have marched my family beyond some of the straining experiences we faced, not by alone. This I trust. Small miracles are all around us, we need only to open our eyes to see them. Anyone can transcend doubt or disbelief and fears or phobia. Take notice of the optimistic events and encouraging affairs which occur thru your life and conditions will be ripe for it. Yet, I appreciate this sentiment takes time. I continue to struggle with various aspects of my faith and with humanity even though I truly accept Christ as my savior, I really do.  For example, this is my first tangible attempt to witness about God. 

     My father wasn’t exuberant about religion either; I guess that’s where I get it. He had a frustrating incident at the age of twelve when he and his brothers were kicked out of church for not being dressed appropriately enough to attend, and that memory carried with him throughout life. But he was a believer in his own way, I could tell. He may not have promoted it, but never did I hear a single word against God, the idea of religion, or what it stood for and represented. Primarily he was a respectable man with honest integrity and reliable traits. For all the agony I endured losing my father, he was also the guiding light I needed to see the way. Perhaps he knew this would help me in the end. I believe he did, I believe in God.