My Dad Showed Up

My father, Melvin Eitel, passed away in April of 2009. He was 74 years old. I’ve spoken about my dad on here and on other platforms before. I’ve talked about how he wasn’t a mean man, but he wasn’t exactly what you’d call a warm, good-hugging softy, either. He could get fired up at times and could be quite curmudgeonly. He could be stingy and tight with his money, and he could be so generous at times that it would bring tears to your eyes. My dad was somewhat of a conundrum. Some of the hardness came from his background: He was a Paratrooper in the 82nd Airborne Division of the Army, and after a stint in one of the local textile mills in this area, he went to State Patrol School, then went on to become a trooper with the North Carolina Highway Patrol.

Bad things happened in my dad’s life, too, things that affected him a great deal. First of all, when he was only seven years old, his little brother was accidentally backed over in the family driveway by a woman who had stopped at the house. Five-year-old Harry Eitel was killed, and the lady who hit him, according to the obituary in the Forest City Courier, “had a complete breakdown following the tragedy and was placed under a doctor's care.” That’s completely understandable if you ask me.

Ten years later, my dad was in the Army at Fort Meade, Maryland when he received word that his oldest brother, Earl, had died in a motorcycle wreck with a friend who was riding with him and was also killed. Earl had been home on leave from the Army himself. This absolutely devastated my father, who always said that Earl was his favorite brother and the one who would stand up for him in arguments between his siblings.

Seven years after that, his mother, a nurse, died of breast cancer at age 56.

In 1974, my father was a state trooper and was off duty, sitting at a red light on Merrimon Avenue in Asheville, North Carolina. A lady came up to the light behind my dad, wasn’t paying attention and wasn’t able to stop her car in time, and rear ended his white Oldsmobile Cutlass quite hard. Whiplash gave Dad a fractured neck and ended his Highway Patrol career in an instant. Dr. David Lincoln, an Asheville orthopedist at the time, said my dad missed complete paralysis by just a little bit. As it was, he had limited mobility in his neck after surgery to fuse some vertebrae, and had to be on disability the rest of his life.

Too much of that kind of thing will do a lot to a man. I know he’s my dad, but when I consider all that, any hardness doesn’t quite come as a surprise to me. What is a miracle are the times he smiled, the things we enjoyed together, and the love we shared.

When my father died, to be honest, I wasn’t sure about his spiritual condition. He used to lightly gripe at me for “going to church too much.” (Once a week on Sunday morning was enough for him, and that was with him trying to be the first one out the door at exactly noon.) He’d complain about visiting his other brother, Jimmy, saying he couldn’t even visit Jimmy without him “just launching into praying.”

One thing I hung onto, though, was the memory of the day when, completely out of the blue, he confessed Jesus Christ to me.

“You know,” he said that day, “I believe Jesus died for my sins.” And that was that.

Also, when he was very sick and near death, Amy told me she got 1 Corinthians 15:55 on her mind: “O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?”

So, over the years, I’ve at least held out hope, a precious little hope, that my dad did indeed know the Lord. When it comes down to it, now that I look back and think about it, I’ve been at least a little more confident that he is with Jesus than I am that he isn’t. At least there’s that.

I’ve mentioned my dreams in earlier posts here and elsewhere. I’ve dreamed of friends who’ve gone to be with the Lord, several of them. It’s been a joy to “reconnect” with them. But for some reason, though I’ve fervently wanted confirmation from God and wanted to “encounter” my father in a dream, I’ve never dreamed of my dad. Not one time.

Until last night.

It wasn’t the last dream before waking, as so many of my vivid, detailed dreams are. It was sometime in the middle of the night, and it was quick. In fact, I had all but forgotten it, but in the shower early this morning, I suddenly thought “Did I really dream about my dad?” And it was then that it came back to me.

In the dream, I was in a room with a group of people. I have no idea who the others were, just that I was in the room with them. The general sense was that my dad was in the other room and was quite upset. It seemed that we should let him sit in there, stew, and eventually calm down.

I thought something like “No, he’s my dad, and I’m going in there to try to cheer him up.” So I walked through the doorway, and my dad was leaning back on something and kind of relaxing. He was frowning, though, and still appeared to be a bit perturbed over something or other. The doorway I had just walked through was to his left.

“Hey, Dad,” I said, “I just wanted to tell you I really enjoy thinking about the good times we had together. I love you.”

At this, my dad turned his head and looked at me. His face softened and he smiled a little. “I love you too,” he said.

And that was it.

This makes me wonder. Is my dad okay? I tend to think he is, but there is the odd fact that in the dream he was upset about something. Let me tell you, reader, there will be no more upset when we’re with our God. Not one jot, not one tittle, not one speck, man. So I’m a little puzzled about that.

But the smile. It was a slight smile, but it was a change from a frown. And let me add, dear reader, there will be no smiles in the other place, either.

I have to add something here. In life, my dad wasn’t one to express love very well physically, and he didn’t express it very well verbally, either. He was a little awkward and clunky with spoken endearment. He didn’t say “I love you.” I don’t know why. He just didn’t.

But when he was on his deathbed, wracked with dementia and with choking phlegm all in his airways, I stood over him in his hospital room. I was sniffling and heaving, crying, an emotional mess. This was my dad, and he was leaving us.

I looked down at him, not even sure if he’d know who I was in this state. But I simply said, slobbering and sniveling, “I love you, Dad.”

My dad looked directly at me. Directly. In my eyes. And he said, clear as a bell, “I love you too, Mark.”

Don’t you tell me that my God isn’t near to the brokenhearted. Don’t you even try to say that He doesn’t save those who are crushed in spirit.

You can forget that stuff, because I know He is, and I know He does. That’s what my God does, and that’s who He is.

In the dream, then, for the second time ever in my memory, my dad told me he loved me. And he smiled a little.

I’m not completely sure of all of the interpretations and implications of that dream, but I remain thankful that my dad finally showed up, that he smiled at me, and that he said what he said.

Oh, and one other thing: Dad’s birthday is tomorrow. I wonder if I’ll dream of him again tonight?

God bless you, reader. My gracious, isn’t He good?