Six incredible days before my dad died in October we gathered family members, a wheelchair and oxygen, and transported him to a nearby school so he could coach his high school cross country team, one last time.

He was an impassioned educator and school district administrator during his career, but it was his love of high school cross country and track athletes that captured his attention during his retirement years.

He stood out, walking the track facilities and cross country courses with his blaze of white hair and cane to steady legs weakened by polio as a child. It was his devotion, gentle manner with kids, storytelling and willingness to write individualized workout plans for each athlete that endeared him to kids, parents, and other members of the coaching staff.

On that day in October, Dad managed to harness the strength of heaven to attend and we watched in utter fascination as kids and parents encircled the car upon his arrival as if he were a rock star.

The team had been primed about his condition and they understood this would be the last outing they’d have with their coach. They smiled, hugged and cried and presented him with a team blanket to cover his lap. I watched as Dad gracefully offered last minute strategies, smiles, and encouragement as his own body slowed.

It was sunny and warm that day and I prayed for strength as it was a scene that filled me with tears of utter devastation and joy, spontaneously intermixed. As I watched him spend moments with each runner and parents in attendance, it occurred to me that I was a witness to Dad’s last and best lesson: he was teaching us all how to live and die with beauty and dignity.

When it was announced that the races were beginning Dad asked that we position his wheelchair and oxygen tank close to the finish line. Embedded in my memory is the picture of my dad, his lap warmed by a new blanket, his lungs filling with pure oxygen, and his weakening voice repeatedly encouraging each runner wearing the Cascade High School uniform to “Finish Strong!” as they ran by.

As only God could have arranged it, his treasured grandson (my blessed child) would also run that day, representing Oak Harbor High School as a freshman athlete. Daniel would hear his granddad’s voice, use it to muster his remaining strength, and pass runners before hurling himself across the finish line.

“Dude, you kicked our butts!” one of the runners remarked as he bent over to place his hands on his knees and catch his breath.

“I wanted to make my granddad happy,” Daniel replied as he pointed across the field, “He’s the man over there in the wheelchair.”

Six short days later I sat beside this precious man in a hospital room. My step-mom, step-sister, and brother had positioned themselves closely beside him as well. It was a place I did not want to be because 47 years did not seem long enough to have him in my life.

He had loved me fiercely all those years and I could not imagine how I could access that love once he died. Yet images of that glorious Saturday on the track floated through my mind as I sat beside Dad — his noisy, unproductive breathing signaling to us that the end was near. When we spoke to him he would turn his head slightly or raise a shoulder. The dad I passionately loved was there in full force, but he was trapped in a body nearing the finish line.

“Now’s the time to help Dad finish strong!” I repeated to myself as his breathing suddenly became more quiet and sporadic. In the days leading up to this moment I had hoped I would not fall apart. I challenged myself to pick up and use all the tools Dad and my loving God had been giving me my entire life to face this reality. I was strengthened by friends and family members and their prayers. I could feel it. What I could not have imagined was the sudden joy that would fill my very being. I jumped out of my hospital chair to stand over him and gently rub his chest. The promise that Dad would soon see God’s face, to stand forever in his amazing grace and be rid of life’s disappointments and now the disabling cancer enabled me to cheer him on. I grabbed my Bible and read the 23rd Psalm:

…surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever!

My voice wavered slightly and Dad’s face blurred slightly through my tears, but words I could not have planned erupted from a thankful and hopeful heart: “Dad, we’re okay! God’s waiting for you. Do you see Him?”