???The Night.
I wore slippers that night, and my feet were cold, because the trip was supposed to be a nearby trip, a short one to a hospital in the neighborhood. The in-and-out kind of trip. We would be back home in 30 minutes max, or so I thought. It was a cool night by Nigerian standards. You know the kind of nights where there is a gentle breeze but the air isn’t particularly cold enough to require layers of clothing? The kind that gives us respite from the heat of the day. Or maybe not, maybe it was within myself that the cold was being generated, Maybe it was the numbness and the being self-detached, watching everything in reality as though it were a trance.
???The Feeling.
I stood outside the car and just watched, as the feeling of utter helplessness engulfed me – a feeling I’ve now come to realise, would be an unforgettable imprint in my mind. To watch someone die on my thighs and not be able to do anything about it (more on this is written here). To actually not know what to do. To have small head knowledge but be utterly unhelpful to the outside world. To have all medical knowledge rendered irrelevant. That’s what helplessness felt like to my sixteen year old brain.
Helplessness for me was not in lacking external aid, it was rooted in not knowing what to do to help my own self out of my suddenly dire situation. The helplessness came from having one strong burden of desire and knowing nothing within myself could change the situation, thus having to rely on others to fulfil my burden, like my burden isn’t really mine to carry. My feet were cold but my heart wasn’t, it was literally on fire, beating with just one desperate wish. Inside me, I was yearning for someone to come and do something!
???The Fire.
And people did come. There were Pastors from his church who came around immediately we called out to them, (very well-meaning people) and they prayed. Gosh, even hell knows they prayed. They were pastors from a church that nearly every Nigerian knows is exceptional for their mountain-moving-prayers. My friends, they really prayed and in my helplessness, I watched them. I watched because I knew there was nothing I would be able to do, so I was desperately hoping to God that a miracle would happen. I knew in my heart of hearts, that my own prayers were not strong enough to raise a dead man to life- rather a dying man- because I dared not think of him as dead, if I truly hoped for a miracle to come. My father had always been my prayer warrior and I considered myself too small to pray the prayer that would touch God’s “distant” heart to bring back a man so full of life, in fact the epitome of it, to this earth. So I kept putting my faith in those pastors even though I prayed my own bit.
I walked into the car, sat beside him and held his hands. They were very warm, even though it had been nearly one hour since he collapsed on my thighs, so I kept telling myself the impossible could still happen. His hands were warm and that to me meant his blood was still fluid and able to flow. And if his blood could still flow, his heart could beat again, and if his heart did beat again, he could open his eyes and give me the cheeky smile I inherited from him and tell me it was all a joke, as was his effortless nature. Coulda! Woulda! Shoulda! As Celine Deon once sang. His hands were still warm, so the prayers could, should and would most definitely work.
???The Calm.
My sister came around and she too started praying. And in my own head, her prayer was even better than those of the 4 pastors combined, because she was speaking in tongues. ? I was young enough at the time to know that those who pray in tongues speak mysteries and are praying God’s will. My father had taught me that much, so I got reassurance. The pastors were praying in English and praying a lot of fire, but she was praying calmly, peaceful and speaking God’s will. Surely God will not turn a deaf ear to his own will, right?
She was praying calmly even though I could tell that she wasn’t happy with the situation. And I interpreted that calmness as some kind of supernatural faith. Like her calmness meant she was bloody confident that heaven was on alert. While the pastors were very energetic and sweating and raining fire, my sister was calm, concentrated and praying in the Spirit. The tray was set before heaven that night, garnished with whatever it required to move, all it had to do was take a pick and deliver on miracles.
See, my mental-gamble was a pretty fair one. In between 4 pastors and a tongues speaking sister, God surely couldn’t, shouldn’t and wouldn’t turn deaf ears. This case would be the one exception he would make: so I thought.
???The Cold.
I kept believing. And I kept holding his hands until they started to turn cold. And when I noticed they were getting cold, I desperately started to rub on them vigorously so as to transfer some of my own body heat to him. Guys, I had just one job – to keep him warm – and I wasn’t going to let this miracle pass me by. I could go on but you already know how this one goes.
He! Stayed! Dead! Read more on how I felt about it here.
???The Dark.
Anyway, for the next 7 months, I remained in denial, although I found a way to hide it from both friends and family. Denial, betrayal and actually very well hidden anger, that God would refuse to listen to his fire commanding pastors, or to even the tongues that his Holy Spirit enabled my sister pray. I’ve heard testimonies from my dad’s church, about many of the pastors being able to raise the dead and I wanted it to happen in my own very eyes. How could He be so cold and hard of hearing? How could He let daddy get cold and empty of life?
I was done with this faith thing. And I watched my previously warm heart grow cold and numb, because, if it was a function of believing, then I surely should have qualified for a miracle. I very strongly believed in “God”, it would take me a while to realize the only problem was the GPS of my faith. It was wrongly located.
My faith was in the prayers of other people. My faith was in the fact that my father had Good works and had just preached a sermon about the very heaven he went to, in church that very day. My faith, was in hearing someone else speak in tongues and believing that would be enough to turn God’s heart in my favour. My faith was in someone laying hands on me and commanding blessings over my life because that was what my father did for me every morning when I greeted him. I really didn’t believe in God, I didn’t believe my voice was one He would listen to. I just believed in his prophets and in the people who confidently and eloquently claimed they knew him. Again, I could go on and on, you get the gist.
??? The Tribute.
So, to my daddy, who modelled God’s fatherly love to me for the sixteen years that I knew him, who on this day would have turned 70, all I’d say is, thank you. Thank you for exemplifying faith to me when you were here, in your smile, your prayers and everything you did.
And most importantly, thank you because it took your death to finally jolt me to realize that if I was going to dare to have faith, I needed to have it rooted in the right One. The same One who is now jealously guarding your soul and mine, until the day we get to see again.
??? The First End.
I’ve written about a small window of closure that I have regarding this event, You can find the post here