Some dates are embedded in our memory, sharp and crisp, while others catch us unawares. This morning, the signs were there ~ an uneasy night’s sleep, the daffodils with their sunny faces catching the early February sun, my morning devotions with the reminder that today is the death date of Martin Luther, who died in 1546. Then it dawned on me. Today is the anniversary of my father’s death. It’s been twelve years.

I wrote something about my father’s last hours many years ago and am reposting it here.

In the still, inky hours between midnight and dawn, my father lay dying.  Unable to speak or move, struggling for breath, his vital organs shutting down, he lay there succumbing to the ravages of a severe stroke and pneumonia.

It is difficult to reconcile this image with the one that is before me now. I am looking at a framed photo of the two of us taken some time before my first trip to Africa in 2006. We are sitting side-by-side, leaning into each other with smiles of contentment, not knowing what the years to come would bring each of us. As it turned out, I would venture out making treks across the continents, while he moved across two state lines. I would witness suffering beyond suffering in Kenya and Sudan. He would begin that slow decline that comes with age and debilitating diseases–a decline that brings suffering of body and soul.

A much younger Pamela and her father, Louis “Spike” Boehle, 2005

It was our shared suffering that brought us closer. We journeyed along suffering’s way absorbing her lessons of brokenness, leading us to the places of vulnerability and compassion. In this shared space, we spoke of essential things: Love, Christ, joys, sorrows, fears, and desires.

On that February night when he lay dying, I lay sleeping, almost a thousand miles away. But he was not alone. Throughout the dark hours of that winter night, a hospice volunteer was sitting by his side. I think of it as sitting vigil, standing guard, being present, offering the gift of presence in the most tangible, concrete way possible.  And it was this same volunteer who held the phone to my father’s ear so I could speak to him as he took his last breaths. In this sacred space, I spoke of essential things: Love, Christ, and my father’s imminent journey home. We prayed The Our Father, The Apostles’ Creed, the Psalms ~ familiar words of faith that had shaped us along the way.

I cannot tell you the name of the hospice, nor the name of the hospice volunteer who so lovingly gave of himself to be present with my father in that betwixt and between time ~ that time from life to death to life again in Christ. But I can tell you this ~ I am forever grateful. This gratitude has gently nudged me over the past few years to the place where I find myself today. It is a place of stories, passions, and dreams.

We all have stories ~ stories of life, of suffering and of death. These stories connect us at an essential level. Our shared stories often move us to a place of compassion and mercy, and the desire to “do something”. Once such conversation took place in 2013 with a dear friend and colleague in Kenya, Pastor David Chuchu. Our desire to be present with those in their suffering, and especially in those last hours of life, has given birth to a dream to build a hospice house in rural Kenya. I have begun to speak of this dream in some of the various presentations given on the mercy work in Kenya and people have shared their stories with me ~ stories of suffering, dying and the beauty of hospice in such a vulnerable and intimate time.

Pastor David Chuchu and Pamela, 2014

Thanks to many of you, our stories are intertwining to create Rehema Open Door, the hospice and palliative care center in Kenya. Rehema Open Door now has a foundation, walls, and a roof!  Within her walls and out in the community, Rehema Open Door will sit vigil with those who are suffering and/or dying.

See our stories and visit our website, alwaysmercy.org