When I returned from America with a newly minted degree and a brand new faith, my father gave me a serious talking to. In his opinion I would be better off sticking to my Chinese folk beliefs. As he put it, for thousands of years my ancestors believed in a blend of Taoism and facets of Buddhism, what made me think that I know any better than my forebears? Well, that is not exactly accurate! My maternal grandmother's biological family members were practicing Christians. Actually my grand uncle was a pastor in Hong Kong after the Communist takeover of China. At least one of my grand aunts was a Bible Woman: a full time staff of the local church. Anyway, thousands of years ago, emperors in China actually sacrificed once a year in an altar out of the imperial capital to Jehovah.
My father lived another twenty years after that discussion. As he felt strongly about my wrong choice, I grew to be certain that I chose the correct faith for myself. A conversation about religion did not take place without anger and raised voice. We learned to steer well away from religion, faith, and conviction. Meanwhile, I knew he would not live forever. Hence I often prayed that God would be merciful to him and grant him a death bed confession.
God is really faithful. He gave me what I asked. After a fall or two, my father was in the hospital. He complained that the nurses did not take him to the bathroom for a proper bath. I could certainly see why, my father is a tall and big man who gained much weight after he stopped walking around town. Since the diagnosis was first stage cancer in the pancreas, my brothers and I decided that we should grant his wish to have proper baths in a nursing home. He spent one night there. The next morning he collapsed in the bathroom and his face turned blue. The nursing home manager was a former paramedic, she resuscitated him with oxygen. My brother and family turned up and brought him his favourite food. He wanted to return home, I supposed he must have known he was about to die. After the visitors left, I turned up with my eldest son. My father complained about stomach ache. I rubbed his tummy with medicated oil and arranged a bolster he asked for under his feet as they were swollen. He began to be agitated and to peek at the window nervously. When I realised that he must have seen spirits that I could not see, my son and I started to sing every song about the cross and the precious blood of Jesus. He held on to my hand and I have never seen him so scared before. My pastor and a church brother managed to find us after going to four other nursing homes in the vicinity. You see, not every nursing home has sign boards.
By then, my father could not talk. Pastor urged him to nod his head, blink his eye. But he could only stare at us beseechingly. Anyway, Pastor prayed and asked God to be merciful to my father and hear his heart cry. Within five minutes, my father breathed his last. There was a well formed tear that fell from one of his eyes. I was surprised, for my father was a macho man who never cried. For a pre-believer, my father had a very fast and easy death, according to Pastor who knew about such things. But I wanted to know for sure where my father had gone to, so I prayed that God would be merciful and give me a sign.
A few nights later, I dreamed. In the dream, I was driving in Silver City. I went to a supermarket to buy the daily vegetables, and I saw my father in the car park. Then I drove my youngest daughter to school and I saw him standing behind my car. I asked him why did he follow me around, after all I am living and he had died. He smiled and I told him to look for the light and Jesus would be waiting for him there. He waved his hand and indeed turned to a bright corner and walked away.
I thanked God for the dream. Now I am confident that when I enter heaven I will find him in the heavenly library or information centre, adding to his store of knowledge.
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