BY RUTH REDDING BRAND

WAS OLD ENOUGH THAT MY LONG, SKINNY legs dangled more than halfway down the side of the chair before I stopped sitting in Daddy's lap. But it was a special chair, and a special lap. "Daddy's worship chair," I called the straight-backed, leather-seated chair with its wooden arms. It matched nothing else in the room, or in the house, for that matter. Our big old farmhouse was comfortable but not fashionable.

Every morning after a steaming breakfast the family sat around the overgrown dining room table and had worship. Daddy would push back his chair, and that was my signal to crawl into his lap. With one sun-bronzed hand he would pick up his Bible and Sabbath school lesson quarterly.

Just Like Clockwork
Morning worship occurred as regularly as sunrise. And its content was just as predictable. "Mother, you look up Genesis 6:3," Daddy intoned. "Joyce, Psalm 26:5; Ruthie, Ecclesiastes 9:17." Then to the assortment of boarders-kids living with us so they could attend church school, or men hired as temporary help with haying-their assigned texts also. Texts would be duly read; then Daddy would read the notes from the quarterly. On Sabbaths we were treated to his readings from long chapters from Ellen White's books, The Desire of Ages or The Great Controversy.

Then came prayers. I don't remember anyone's prayers but Daddy's. In his sonorous voice swathed in a Maine accent, he approached God about practical matters: concerns about the milk market, the weather, the need for a new tractor, and the lack of finances. But his greater concerns were far-reaching, inclusive, spiritual. He prayed for our family, neighbors, and unbelieving relatives. He prayed for our church and the "worldwide work." One of his frequent phrases was "Let us so live here that we may someday live in Your kingdom." It was some time before my childish ears figured out that "solivere" was more than one word. The Lord's Prayer, in unison, concluded worship.

Spiritual, vibrant prayers and Bible reading, however, were not without their moments of humor, especially from Daddy's perspective. He found great amusement in the mispronunciation of one of the linguistically challenged teenagers who boarded with us. When Ezekiel became "Ezebo" and Boaz became "Bozo," his valiant efforts to restrain laughter usually ended in a smothered guffaw and tears streaming from his twinkling eyes. And when my 4-year-old cousin who was visiting us innocently ended the Lord's Prayer with "and the doggie forever," everyone smiled, with the possible exception of the long-eared hound who stayed reverent during worship.

Advancing Years
But the years brought changes, as time is wont to do. Daddy stopped farming, bought a boarding home, built an addition, established a nursing home, obtained his administrator's license, and became the nursing home administrator. I went to college, got married, lived my independent life, and saw Daddy less than I wish I had.

Well into his 80s, Daddy kept working. "I like to work," he would say. And he did, rising early every day, walking to the nearby nursing home, and climbing the stairs to his office, there to handle challenges and problems that would have buried many a younger person. Except for an occasional fishing trip, he never took time for traditional relaxation. No golf. No leisurely vacations soaking up the rays or taking a dip in the pool. No ocean cruises or rocking chairs on the front porch.

But his pleasure in living never waned. He enjoyed his work, his expanded family, his church, and his friends. He enjoyed-truly enjoyed-the residents in the nursing home and boarding home and would delight them with homey stories as, in turn, he listened to theirs. Every Friday night he provided worship for those residents who wished to attend. Many did, and each worship ended with prayer-Daddy's prayer.

An Unwelcome Visitor
Pain, an unwelcome and unfamiliar foe, came to live in Daddy's body. Gnawing at his back, it drove him to specialists who informed him that cancer left him but a few months to live. The verdict was nearly unbelievable-to me (not my father!)-and to him who all his robust life had dreaded nothing more than the word "cancer." He wouldn't even say the word-referred to it, instead, as "C-A."

Questions for Reflection or for Use in Your Small Group 1. What friend or relative had the greatest influence on your spiritual development? What made it so significant? 2. How has your life been altered by the knowledge that someone has been praying for you? 3. What methods do you find useful in transmitting your faith to your friends and family?

All too soon Daddy became a patient in the nursing home where people called him "Boss." Attended by nurses whose checks he signed, losing dignity and autonomy, he suffered.

My sister and I came to live in Daddy's empty house, adjacent to the nursing home. Throughout the summer months we sat by his bed, wiped his mouth, offered him Ensure through a straw, held his head while he vomited, turned his pillows, fed him food he didn't want, read to him, sang, and talked.

Daddy couldn't talk much-and he couldn't quite say why. It just seemed that the effort was too great. But Joyce and I reminisced with him about days on the farm, about funny things that had happened, animals we had loved, people we had known. And we talked about substantive things-relationships, our deepest thoughts, feelings, and eternity.

It was on that subject that he uttered a sentence that will be with me as long as I live. "My dearest wish is to see my children in the kingdom," he said. And through our tears, Joyce and I promised we would be there.

A Precious Token
Not long after that, Daddy began to fail rapidly. He became disoriented; his speech, when he could summon it, was garbled. He lay staring at something we could not see, his arm reaching toward something unknown to us. We knew he would soon leave us.

One Sabbath afternoon his extended family gathered in his room. We sang the hymns he had always loved, and we talked, read, and prayed. An occasional garbled word would escape his lips, but mostly he lay silent.

Then, like Gabriel's trumpet, his voice rang out. Words, clear as an
elocutionist's, filled the room. But he wasn't speaking to us. He was praying.

In that same sonorous voice I had heard lifted in prayer since I could remember, he talked to God. And a more eloquent prayer was never heard. Familiar phrases mingled with elevated expressions as he asked God's blessing on those who were gathered in that room. Individually and collectively he prayed for us. "We may never again be assembled together in this way," he prayed, "but may we all meet together on that day when Orion opens, the heavens part, and You descend in glory."

On and on he prayed, beautifully, clearly, eloquently, and with the pathos of a believer, the confidence of one who knew to whom he was speaking. We held our breaths, amazed at the miracle, moved by his words, sorrowful at the import, but buoyed by the blessing.

That was Daddy's last prayer. He never spoke intelligibly again. He died the following Tuesday. But we will see him in the kingdom.

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Ruth Redding Brand is a writer, speaker, and teacher living in Lancaster, Massachusetts. She is author of the Bible stories in the Professor Appleby series (Review and Herald Publishing Association).