By Marjorie Ritchie

In the spring of 1994, my older brother, Shep, returned to our childhood home to live out his last days. My father and mother insisted that they be his primary caregivers who would provide the comfort and physical support my brother would need as he prepared to die.

Over the course of a difficult year, my father, without any hesitation or complaint, tended to the physical needs of Shep. My father bathed him, fed him and comforted him during many long and agonizing nights.

I witnessed the physical toll that my brother’s illness took upon my parents who were in their early 70s at that time. They chose to be full-time caregivers during a stage of their lives when adult children would often be caring for their aging parents.

There was no spare time in my parent’s schedule for social outings, church attendance and grandchildren’s ball games. Instead, they were totally devoted and committed to taking care of Shep.

As time passed, fewer and fewer neighbors and church friends called and visited my parents to offer encouragement, support or even a home-cooked meal that they could have greatly used. Unfortunately, there was plenty of gossip, words of judgment and unkind comments spoken about my brother and his illness. Yet my parents held their heads high and took solace in their faith and in their love for Shep and each other. It was my dad’s greatest desire that Shep knew how much he loved and cherished him despite years of a difficult and estranged relationship.

In August of 1995, on my 35th birthday, my brother passed away after a long and arduous battle with HIV/AIDS. None of Shep’s friends attended his memorial service because they had already passed away. But despite the immense pain and loss of their son, my parents had a beautiful and meaningful memorial service to celebrate Shep’s life.

During the next decade after Shep’s death, my father underwent intense treatment for lymphoma and later was diagnosed with an aortic aneurysm. Even with all his health challenges, my dad lived his life with an abundant joy and determination to love and cherish his family and others.

In October of 2006, on the night before my father died, he took my hand while lying in his hospital bed and asked me to look up at the ceiling. He said in a weak, but joyous whisper, that the sky was opening up and that he saw an amazingly bright light. He asked me if I saw that same radiant light. No, unfortunately, I was not able to experience that unimaginable vision of Heaven presenting itself to my father. But I knew that soon he would be crossing the bar and entering his eternal home. Jesus and Shep would be there to welcome him.

Twelve years earlier, my father had welcomed home his prodigal son. He lavished the love of Christ upon my dying brother. Through tender acts of compassion, my father demonstrated God’s unconditional love and mercy to his 41-year-old son who had been rejected by some in his final years of life.

On this Father’s Day, I am thankful for my dad who modeled God’s love and grace to us, his children. I am thankful for a father who was committed to his wife in a loving marriage. And one day I look forward to the Heavenly homecoming when I will see my parents and brother once again. Until then, I hope that I will live a life that honors my earthly father, but especially live a life that gives glory to my Heavenly One.

Marjorie Ritchie lives in Gold Hill.