During Thanksgiving week of 1967, my wife Lois and I were holding a revival with the Florence church in Omaha, Nebraska. Jim Cunningham was the senior minister.

Members of the congregation had worked hard preparing for the event and their efforts were bearing fruit. Each night the crowds grew and, as I recall, we had additions every evening.

It was an exciting time for everyone. Lois carefully rehearsed the “crusade choirs” each night, 30 minutes before services. Then they presented one special number and sometimes two during the evening evangelistic hour.

The momentum kept building throughout the week. On Friday night we were planning a victory celebration after the evening service. It included coffee, cake, pie, and ice cream with all the trimmings. Our guests of honor would be those who had just given their lives to Christ.

A Time of Sorrow

On Thursday night we received word that my father, who was ministering in Bangor, Michigan, had suffered a heart attack. My dad didn’t want anyone to tell us because he was afraid that the news would interfere with the progress of the meeting.

My mother informed us anyway, but she also encouraged us to finish the revival since that was the wish of my father. Consequently Lois and I decided to stay for the last service. We planned to get up early on Saturday morning and drive to Michigan to be by his side.

At four o’clock the next morning, as we were preparing to leave, the phone rang. I knew instinctively what had happened. It was my mother. She said tearfully, “Paul, your father is gone.”

Her words struck me like a fist to the stomach. As my tears began to flow, I cried out in agony. Why didn’t I leave when I first heard the news? I had gambled with my father’s life—and lost.

On the road to Michigan, I was haunted by the thought that in those final moments of my father’s life on earth, I was not there.

I don’t know what we would have talked about—perhaps our overnight camping trips to Crooked Lake or Grass Lake near Angola, Indiana; perhaps the delicious aroma of freshly caught bluegills sizzling in an iron skillet over an open fire.

Perhaps we would have talked about the Bible stories he told me every night at bedtime. Those ancient heroes of faith—Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Samson, David—were all my friends when I was young.

As we went to the funeral home in Bangor and walked down the aisle where my father’s body was lying in state, my deep sorrow rolled over me again. “If only,” I kept saying.

Later on, I went about halfway back in the funeral chapel and sat down beside the funeral director. As I unfolded my story to him, he said to me sympathetically, “Paul, you need to remember that funeral homes are Houses of Regret.”

As I looked around at the rows of chairs in the funeral parlor, I wondered how many others had come there with their pangs of guilt.

A New Resolution

I resolved that never again would I try to outguess death. We may think that a person has several days and even weeks to live when it could be just hours.

Once again I was reminded how fragile and precious life is, and that no one can say with certainty how much time we each have left.

So what did I learn from my sad experience? I learned that death waits for no one. Therefore, when a loved one is gravely ill, rush to his or her side. Share the precious memories of those last few hours (or minutes) as part of your comfort and solace for the years to follow. |L

Dr. Paul Benjamin is the president of the National Church Growth Research Center, Washington, D.C.

OUTLOOK is a forum for responsible Christian writers. The views expressed do not necessarily reflect those of Standard Publishing or The Lookout.

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