My father was my protector. That’s what daddies should be. I could not accept that a man so strong, so big, so loud and full of life would not be around for me to lean on. He kept up the charade pretty well for my sake, but he already knew that He was going home.

He ate. He tried to do his exercises. He took all of the brown pills, the blue ones and the orange. He even fought his way through the series of chemo pills, which he referred to as the “Ten Little Indians.” “They might be small,” he would say, “but when they get inside they tear you up.”

He said he wanted to live. That was true, except he wasn’t specific about where he wanted to live. He wanted to live on the other side, where God is. He was done with earth. “This is all finished,” he told my brothers when I wasn’t around. When I showed up he’d say, “I’m going to get through this.”

He said that for me.

I held onto my daddy being healed by God. I believed that God would remove the multiple myeloma from his body, but it was not to be so. My father died on May 27, 2005.

Just thirty days prior, I remember stopping by the house after work. It had been a good day for me. It was my birthday and I was shown many acts of kindness at work. I also joined Weight Watchers that day, determined to do something about all of the extra weight I’d gained in the past year.

Balloons, gifts, cake and cookies in hand, I struggled through the doorway of my parent’s house. I was excited! I had talked to my mother earlier that day and she told me what a great day my father had. I couldn’t wait to see him.

Ah, but when I walked into the bedroom where he laid, my countenance fell. For the first time in my life, my father looked weak and scared.

"I have to tell you something,” he said, as he apologized with his eyes before continuing.

He was scared to hurt me with what he needed to say, but he knew it was time to say it.

"I want to go home, Robyn. I came home to die. I asked the Lord not to let me die in the hospital. I just wanted to be with you all when I die.”

My father could no longer be my protector. God had always been, but I always looked to my earthly father first. All of that was about to change.

In thirty days, my father went from being able to talk rationally and get out of bed with help, to being confined to a rented hospital bed. When he did speak, most times, he was out of his head and all of the time he was pretty much incoherent.

I thank God He allowed me to be with him when he died. I didn’t want to get a phone call, or come home from work to find out.

It’s been six months since my daddy died and I know that God is real. There’s no way I could be writing this right now if he wasn’t. My father was the beat of my heart and there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t ache to see him, hear him and touch him! But God is faithful. He not only saw me through those thirty days, but he continues to see me through each day of my life.

My brother Rodney had a vision of dad. He shared it with us and now, when I get sad, I just close my eyes and remember what Rodney said he saw. I picture him dressed in white and shining. He’s smiling and running through a field of flowers. Every now and then, he turns to wave at me as he laughs and lets his hands skim the tops of the flowers as he runs. Up a hill he runs laughing and waving until I can’t see him anymore.

When I open my eyes, I smile. I smile because I know that Heaven is only a day’s journey. I will see my daddy again and he will be better than ever.

Romans 8:28 – For we know that all things work together for good for them that love Him and are the called according to His purpose.

Yes, even death has its good points. My father is at peace and all of us are getting closer to the day when we shall meet Jesus. It could be just thirty days away…