Letting go...

by Brian Rogers  10/2010
West Bountiful, Utah

In 1961, my paternal grandfather was dying. I was barely eight years old and I have only two memories of him but I do vividly recall what my father said of his passing. He was sixty five years old and had lung cancer. He worked as much as he could during the last year of his life at the local high school, where he was the principal. After the school year ended, he knew his time was measured in days, not weeks.

The pain was becoming unbearable, I suppose, because he asked my father to give him a priesthood blessing, releasing him from mortality. To the best of my knowledge, the Church does not have a position on this type of request. I imagine some may consider it an inappropriate use of the priesthood.  Nevertheless, my father, along with Keith Miller, a member of the Stake High Council, gave my grandfather the blessing and he died a few days later.

Now, spring forward with me to March of 2008. My father was dying of lung cancer. I was blessed enough to be home with him during his final months. He was staying with my sister a few miles away and I was seeing him almost daily. We talked a lot, as you can imagine, of our relationship, of God, the Church, the family, what he was happy about, what disappointed him. We talked, again, of the time his father died and how he had given his father the blessing, to help him let go. I asked him if he wanted the same. I know he was considering it but all he said was that he would think about it.
The days passed as I watched him grow weaker and weaker. We talked about the blessing  again and he said that when he was ready, he would let me know. I remember one of my sons coming to visit him, with his wife. We sit at my father’s bedside and talked about it. I told him I was ready, that I was comfortable pronouncing it, asking for the blessing. My faith was strong and as his only son holding priesthood, it was my honor to do so.

Then one day as I walked into his room, he looked at me and said he was ready. So my brother-in-law, Tom anointed his head and I blessed him, setting him free.

He fell asleep for about two hours then suddenly he woke. He was struggling to breathe. I bent over, looking straight into his eyes. Then I knew. I simply knew.

I do not know when our spirit enters our bodies, if it is at conception or during our mother’s gestation period or at the moment of birth. I do not know. But since my father died, I have wondered when our spirit leaves our body. It is at our last breath or before? The reason is this: My father’s eyes were milky, cloudy and fading; there was no light in them. But when I looked at him, his eyes suddenly came to life. He looked at me but was unable to speak or even smile but I know he saw me, knew me. Those eyes! They were alive, clear and focused where just a moment before they were not. Then, after about ten to fifteen seconds, his eyes clouded over again. There was no life there, yet he continued to breathe. I wonder if he was gone then, but his body lingered on. He remained in this state for another day or two, but he never woke up again. I looked at his eyes a few times, but they were never changed.

I had promised him (and myself) that I would be there when he died. I remember the next day, around early evening, my sister, who was a very experienced nurse, said she expected him to pass soon, that night or the next day. Alone, I sat next to him and listened. I thought of Peter, struggling to stay awake while his Master suffered in the garden. I thought of my promise to my father and to myself, and wondered if I could stay awake all night or would I doze off, just for a moment, and not be there as I promised.

I placed my hand on my father’s chest, feeling it heave up and down, slowly, about four or five short, shallow breaths a minute. I opened a book and read, distracting myself. An hour or two later, for some reason, I looked up, my hand still on his chest, and I noticed he was no longer breathing. I quickly called to my sister who came into the room. She placed her hand on his neck, feeling for a pulse. “Not yet,” she said. I placed my fingers on his neck and indeed felt his pulse. Once, twice…then it stopped. I heard his ‘death rattle’ and he was finally gone. It was one of the most wonderful experiences of my life, and it confirmed, yet again, the power of the priesthood. And I know that any of my sons, one day, if I ask, will lay their hands on my head, maybe all three of them together, to release me from this life, so I may go to my fathers.

I don’t really miss my father, not in the normal sense of the word, I suppose. I remember him almost daily, when I do, I smile. I kept my promise to him and to myself. His passing was wonderful to behold and extremely faith promoting. I thank God he was my earthly father and I look forward to serving at his side as we, together, serve our Father in Heaven throughout the eternities.