Going Home: The Final 44
It was Easter weekend, and Dad was so excited about visiting the farm, reconnecting with family, and spending the night at home.
For the past two years, Dad had been living at the Veteran’s Home (VA), where he could receive round-the-clock support for managing his medical needs and maintaining the fragile balance between his congestive heart failure (CHF) and his failing kidneys. But true to form, most people would never have noticed Dad’s weaknesses. Those who had the privilege of knowing him or spending any time with him would have seen a healthy, independent, and quite cognitively sound 95-year-old gentleman. Dad often said, “Every day that God wakes me up, He has work for me to do. I just gotta figure out what that work is.” He was living a full life, doing all the things he loved with the people he loved. One of the things he loved was going home—the home where he had spent most of his life.
While Dad had adapted well to the VA, where he now spent most of his days, this—Deweese, Nebraska—was truly home.
Population 67. Dad deeply loved this small town. All of the ‘importants’ in his life had happened here.
He was born and raised here.
He fell in love and got married here.
He raised his family here.
He buried his firstborn son here.
He managed and owned a business here while farming his family’s land just outside of town.
Dad always wanted Deweese to be a better place for everyone. It’s easy to see how he became part of the very fabric of Deweese and why the town was so special to him.
This Easter weekend began with my sister, Pauli, accompanying Dad doing the things he loved while going home.
One of Dad’s favorite activities was going for a ride. In a town of under 100 people, he knew just about everyone and was deeply invested in their lives. He loved checking on the crops, gazing at the farms, and noting any changes to family homesteads. Even in his later years, you’d find him slowly driving the country roads, chatting with anyone he might see, watching deer or pheasants from the roadside, or spotting wild mushrooms and asparagus in the ditches.
Sometimes, he would just sit in his pickup for hours, watching my brother harvest the crops.
I believe this was when Dad felt closest to God—driving around and embracing the new life the farm brought each season. He had always cherished both the hard work of sowing and the abundant harvests God shared with him.
The Saturday night before Easter, Dad and Pauli went to dinner in Fairfield. He enjoyed a wonderful meal and conversations with several friends, catching up on all he had missed.
He went to bed excited about worship the next morning at the church he had attended his entire life—the church where he and Mom were married, where all of his children were baptized, and where my husband and I were married.
But on Sunday morning, Dad woke up in severe pain, so a trip to the ER was in order. Neighbors helped him into the car, sparing the need for an ambulance.
At the ER, he was quickly diagnosed with a UTI, and we had to decide whether an overnight hospital stay was necessary. Though the VA had become a special place for him, where the staff knew him well, we felt it best for him to stay in the hospital overnight for pain management and close observation.
Pauli needed to leave Dad to take care of some personal responsibilities, and I knew it was time for me to fly to Nebraska to help. As I boarded the plane, I had no idea I would be spending his final 44 with him.
When I arrived at the hospital on Wednesday afternoon, Dad was doing his best to stay positive, but I could see the pain was overwhelming him. Throughout his life, whenever I asked how he was doing, his answer was always, “Oh, pretty good,” no matter what. This time he added, “But I still have this pain in my stomach,” gesturing at his abdomen. He seemed relieved that I had arrived and gave me a big hug.
After some small talk about my trip, his health, and how the hospital staff was treating him, Dad wanted me to know he had received his last rites, communion, and made a confession. His Catholic faith had always been central to his life, the foundation for how he worked, raised a family, and engaged with the world. He would say, “I’m going to keep going until God puts that last beat in my heart.”
Although we all believed this was just a bump in the road and that he would soon return to his regular routine of playing cards and working on puzzles at the VA, Dad seemed to have a different understanding.
In his final years, we, his children, had fallen into natural roles in managing his care and the life he’d built in Deweese. Pauli became the primary caregiver—the problem-solver who handled the growing number of decisions about his health. My brother Jamie took over farming the family land. Quiet and steady, he could fix anything, and we knew the farm was safe with him in charge. As for me, I had become the respite care and comic relief, stepping in to care for everyone when life felt overwhelming.
During his hospital stay, Dad expressed to each of us how essential it was that we didn’t fight with each other after he was gone. His own parents’ passing had led to tensions between his siblings, and for years, they hadn’t spoken. He was determined that wouldn’t happen to us. We each promised him that we’d stay close and work together.
As Wednesday evening approached, Dad encouraged me to get some sleep. He said I didn’t need to stay with him if I didn’t want to. Dad never placed demands on anyone; his “if I didn’t want to” really meant he would appreciate me staying. And when asked if he was hungry, his “oh, I don’t know” meant it was time to find him something to eat.
I reassured him that I wanted to stay and settled in on the couch in his room.
That night, we caught up on life. We watched his favorite news station, talked about how our sleep and eating patterns were so similar,
…and then we prayed.
He talked to family members over the phone and on FaceTime. We discussed his medical care, his thoughts on his recovery, and we strategized on managing his pain. The nurses came in periodically to check on him, making sure he had what he needed.
When we woke up Thursday morning, the focus remained on getting him to feel better.
It was always a balancing act—managing his heart and kidneys along with the UTI—but Dad was a great patient, and we had a knowledgeable medical team. Just like at the VA, the hospital staff fell in love with caring for him.
As the day wore on, he started looking better physically. Test results showed improvement, but the pain in his abdomen lingered. His appetite was still low, and his energy hadn’t returned. Although his results indicated he was improving, he just wasn’t bouncing back. Still, the doctors began discussing his discharge.
Thursday night, we watched volleyball, talked to family again, and we prayed. Throughout the night, we walked the hospital halls, hoping the movement might help with his discomfort.
We spoke openly about death, and Dad said he had come to terms with it. His only hope was that it wouldn’t be painful. By every measure—physically, spiritually, emotionally—Dad was ready to go whenever God called him home.
As Friday morning arrived, it felt like a new day was dawning. Dad said he felt better and was ready to return to the VA. He had a puzzle to finish and a card game waiting for him on Saturday. He was tired of being in the hospital and sounded more like himself.
The plan was to get cleaned up, have some lunch, and be discharged in the early afternoon. Everything went smoothly, and he even squeezed in a late-morning nap before leaving.
When it was time to go, the hospital staff came by to say goodbye and wish him well. He invited his PA to join him for a card game at the VA, and they made plans for a future Saturday afternoon.
At 1:20 pm, we left the hospital for the short drive to the VA. On the way, Dad remarked that he really didn’t think he’d be returning to the VA. I knew he meant that he thought he would pass in the hospital, and my heart ached. I reminded him that no matter what happened, he was ready. He didn’t reply, just looked out the window and commented on how good the fields looked this spring. He was full of hope for a better year of crops and more rain this summer.
When we arrived at the VA, I asked if he wanted to walk in or use a wheelchair. Even after everything, it didn’t surprise me that he chose to walk.
As we made our way up the sidewalk, he noticed the grass and mentioned they would need to mow soon. He also reminded me that we needed to fill the bird feeder. He was surprised at how tired he felt, and I reassured him it was normal after five days in the hospital.
We stopped for a break outside the front door, perfectly positioned behind a stone support to block the wind. Dad seemed frustrated by his physical weakness, but he wasn’t one to complain.
When he was ready, we headed inside, pausing again in the lobby where staff and residents welcomed him back. He thanked them, acknowledging the moments earlier in the week when he wasn’t sure he would see them again.
We slowly made our way to his room, stopping to check on the puzzle he had been working on. He seemed quietly pleased that they hadn’t finished it without him.
Just a few steps from his door, Dad needed to rest again. He sat on the seat of his walker, chatting with a CNA who stopped to welcome him back. She needed to take his vitals but, as always, there was no rush.
After a few minutes, he decided to make the final steps to his room. He was tired and slightly slouched, but determined. Two steps from the bed, he muttered “Oh,” and I thought he was simply exhausted. I helped guide him to a seated position on his bed.
He was trying to catch his breath.
As I encouraged him to take it easy, I noticed him reaching for the bedcovers, ready to lie down. I started to suggest waiting for help when I caught his gaze.
His eyes were wide, tender, and perfectly round—and I knew.
I sat beside him, put my arm around him, and reassured him that everything was going to be okay, just as he had done for me countless times.
I called for a nurse, fearing he might be having a stroke. His head gently leaned in my direction.
We sat there quietly, together, as I continued telling him that everything was going to be okay.
Medical staff filed into the room, working to check his blood pressure and find a pulse. The room became achingly silent with every attempt.
It was Friday afternoon at 1:52 pm.
The director of nursing asked if he could pray.
Then I prayed.
I prayed over Dad, thanking God for his life, for the people he had touched, for those who loved and cared for him. I thanked God for the privilege of being there in that moment and for the many blessings, both seen and unseen, on Dad’s journey home.
We sat there together in the most peaceful silence.
When I looked up, I saw the VA staff circled around us, their eyes full of tears. It was then that I realized the full extent of Dad’s beautiful life.
A life that had deeply touched so many people.
A life rooted in faith, prayer, and complete surrender to God’s will.
A life that put others first.
A life that was fully reliant on God.
A life that sought to understand God’s will with an intentionality to work every day to respond to God’s calling regardless of the world’s message of what he should or shouldn’t be doing. And a faith in God to provide those specific things we need wrapped in a trust and acceptance for whatever God gave.
A life so very well lived.
To know Dad was to understand the meaning of God’s words: “Well done, good and faithful servant.”