THE EPIPHANY 20FEB2020

Why am I surprised to see my father in the mirror when I shave each morning? As an overly confident teenage male, I was absolutely certain that I was not ever going to be like my father. At that time my interests were good grades, debate, girls and driving anything with a motor. Home was an incubator of polarizing interests with very limited time for gaining understanding. Growing up in the home of a dedicated small-town doctor, I always had his excellent example worthy of emulation. I knew that I was loved and that my parents had great expectations for my success. My father and I were not close until after I also became a doctor and moved back to Idaho. Even then, we were both too busy and distracted to immediately establish a close relationship. When he retired at age 72, we had time to actually talk to each other. These talks morphed into real respect and a true friendship that had become hidden behind the foibles of my youth. That he lived for another 20 years is one of the greatest blessing of my life. It was during that time he became my friend and I was able to see the world though the eyes of his experience and hear the previously unspoken words of his history. Fortunately for me, I had ears to hear — I think that there is something scriptural about that. It was on one of those occasions, when I was listening, that I had an epiphany, an “Ah ha!” moment, when I was suddenly struck with a realization that changed the rest of my life. Everything that followed was somehow different after that moment. If you have ever had an epiphany, you will have no problem understanding what I am describing.

One of those listening times came as I was driving my father back to Rigby from the Idaho Falls Airport. Mother had passed away just a few months earlier, and this was his first Christmas without her. He had accepted an invitation to be with my brother and his family for Christmas. When we left for the airport, he appeared to be slightly annoyed at having to leave and he sputtered something about being away from his home at Christmas. I reassured him that we would still be here when he returned and told him to relax and enjoy some warm weather and have a good time in California.

His return flight was late Sunday evening just after New Year’s Day. There were no other cars on the streets. The quiet, cold January night was one of those ethereal evenings in Idaho. At around zero degrees, the crystalline snowflakes became light and delicate, swirling silently around the car as we passed. Under each street light stood a cone of light, filled with sparkling snowflakes. The only sounds were the steady hum of the motor and the snow squeaking from being compressed under the tires. As we drove into Rigby, my father said, with a tone of authority, “Well, it hasn’t changed much.” I smiled and replied, “Dad, you have only been gone for two weeks.” Somewhat defensively he explained, “Yes, but I have a lot of friends here ...” He looked around at the empty streets passing by and I had a moment to contemplate what he had said. Then he completed his thought, “... of course, most of them are dead.”

Pondering that tangential conversation, I realized that while I had gone out on a cold, late January evening to be of service, I was the one who had been given the blessing. I realized that my recently widowed father was comforted to be back home in Rigby, with his friends. Most of them were his patients and many were indeed dead, but they were still his friends. Friends beyond death. Friends beyond the veil. Friends that he will see again. For a brief moment I had a glimpse of eternity -- on a beautiful, snowy January night in Idaho. Everything that followed has been somehow different after that moment.

As a 72 year old retired doctor, I am now absolutely certain that I want to be like my father. One of the greatest compliments I receive is when friends and relatives say that I am just like him.