There are times in life that are simply more poignant than others; times in which the heart strings are pulled a little tighter and the fine tune of a skilled violinist is played on your soul.

This last week was a doozy, to say the least. We knew last Fall that my dad's time was short. Congestive heart failure, failing kidneys and a damaged liver contributed to the downward spiral of internal fluid build-up, trips to the hospital to drain it off, difficulty breathing, infections, dangerously high potassium when the kidneys stopped processing it effectively, and increasingly diminished mobility that drained my mother's emotions and strength.

I had already made an quick jaunt to see my father in December. The trip is 10 1/2 hours by car and 1 hour in the air. I flew on a last-minute esaver and spent a quiet weekend, celebrating my birthday, with my mom and dad. He was relatively strong then. We shared meals at the table where he made his way slowly to join us. Almost dozing off in his chair, we would send him back to bed where his strength gave out and sleep came quickly. The end was coming and he was tired of fighting; his strong, stubborn heart refused to listen to all the signals the rest of the organs gave.

Two weeks ago, my brother and his daughter, my 8-yr-old niece went to visit. After a couple of days back in her home, the tearful child called my mom. Seeing my mom's 10-yr-old bunny dragging itself around the cage in a half-paralyzed, half-dead state and seeing my dad in his worsened condition was more than she could bear alone. She needed to connect with my mom, to have someone in the thick of it tell her that it would be okay. A promise my mom couldn't make.

That next Friday, I was told my dad's kidneys were no longer functioning and that the end was near. It could be hours, it could be days. I made a split decision to pack up my girls and start driving on Saturday. Brian had a business meeting the next week and flights were already booked. He couldn't come yet but promised me he would be there if something happened. I had no idea if we would make it before my dad passed away or if he'd linger for weeks, there in his make-shift hospital room at home.

Friday, Mom also told me that the bunny rabbit was gone. My girls loved that big furry animal who had outlived two others, living its confined quiet life in a hutch along the back side of the house. When I checked in from the road on Saturday, Mom said that she needed to get out there to bury it before my girls got there and I said, "Please don't do that for us. I'll come and bury it. You stay with Dad." Every moment was precious at that point.

We pulled in as the sun set over the long front fields of my parent's farm. My dad liked to call it a "gentlemen's farm" since he did little more on it than farm a small plot, board a few horses earlier in life and fish in the pond. I didn't even look at that hutch that night, an open coffin holding a stiff, cold rabbit, an eery reminder of what I might face entering the house.

By some miracle, my dad was sitting on the side of his bed, held between my mother and the hospice nurse. I had time for a quick hug before they settled him back in bed with his oxygen tank pumping precious life into a man who soon wouldn't need it anymore.

I'll be honest. The sound of the air whooshing and cycling drove me nuts. Somewhere in my irrational brain, I wondered why you would give air to a dying man when everything in his body was failing but I was told that it comforted him and my number one prayer was peace and comfort for my father in his last days. I couldn't complain if it meant he was in less agony.

I sat on the bed and held his hand as he grew more and more unresponsive. At first, his blue unseeing eyes would perk up in the direction of my mom when she leaned over him and said, "We love you." He seemed to want to respond and then he let go of trying. I stayed with him, talking to a young nursing assistant we hired, until I left him at 3 am when I finally went to bed. An incredibly gracious hospice nurse left sometime before mid-night and told us to call her if anything happened. She confirmed that his time was short. She was so precious and gave us all hugs.

My oldest daughter, a 13-yr-old proud-to-be-taller-than-her-mama young lady, stayed by my mother's side in the living room as waves emotion and exhaustion brought tears to her eyes. Finally, they went up to bed. My sister, who had been in town on business for the week, also went up to bed. What a blessing she had been to my mom through an ice storm during which my dad went in and out of the hospital. He wanted to be home when he died and my mom and the hospital honored his wishes.

After a marginal amount of solid sleep, I woke again and went to check on my dad who no longer responded when we called his name. He simply slept and breathed deep ragged breaths. It was his most peaceful sleep in months.

My youngest daughter, my 12-yr-old early riser, and I found a white cardboard box and walked outside. Opening the rabbit cage, I tugged on a softer-than-down ear until I had the whole stiff brownish-gray rabbit in the box. Bailey was definitely gone. I folded the box shut the way you fold something you may want to get into again so I could avoid going back in the house to disturb my mom for packing tape.

As we walked through the woods behind my mother's house, my youngest spied a large stone pulled up from the ground by a fallen tree. The roots had ripped this piece of rock upright as the old tree made its way to the earth. It was the perfect tombstone for Bailey and the ground was soft enough below the uprooted treebase to dig a small square. I realized my mistake in folding the box instead of taping it shut when the heavy rocks we dumped on top of it sank into the box rather than resting on top. At that point, I really didn't care. We kept dumping leaves and dirt and more rocks until we were sure our other living pets, the dogs, wouldn't dig it up again.

In a macabre moment, my daughter stated the unfortunate obvious, "We're real grave diggers, mom." Yikes. We were also the only attendees at this little memorial and the only ones to carve "Here lies Bailey" into the stone resting above the dead rabbit's head. I believe God was preparing our hearts for the much more serious death that would come only hours later. In the time of death, people deal with grief in different ways. Some cry, some dig the hole.

The hospice nurse came back to check on Dad before leaving to see other patients who needed her. My mom, sister and I settled into chairs in my dad's room where we talked about who knows what. A clicking and gurgling sound changed the sounds of his breathing. We all stared as breaths became more and more shallow and at 11 am, Sunday, he was gone. My dear father, a risk-taker, an adventurer, a patriot, a solid and committed family man and loving father was no more. It was surreal. It wasn't right and yet, in so many ways it was right and very real. His struggles against his own body were over. He was soaring high in heaven, back in the small plane he loved to fly, back on the water where he loved to boat, back on the golf course he shared with his family and friends, back to being whole again, whole in Jesus, whole in a hope for eternal life that knows no bounds.

The week that followed was day-by-day – doing what needed to be done, trying not to think too hard. It was the moments when people called and shared in your grief that the tears would flow again and again and the bolstered strength of family would crack to let through a built up dam of tears. But, there's something about having kids around that forces you to keep living, meeting needs here and now. And so, I am back home. My husband canceled his business plans and flew down to be with us and drove us back yesterday. My brother is back in his home with his famil
y. My sister is home with hers. My mom is strong and I have every confidence that she will make it through this and keep going for many years to come, taking it one day at a time.

My dad wanted this one poem below read at his funeral.We couldn't believe it when my 8-year-old niece, my brother's daughter, volunteered to stand up in front of everyone and read it but she did, with flying colors! He also asked that the funeral be about scripture and our hope in Jesus for eternal life and the pastor did an excellent job covering that very topic. Praise the Lord!

"If" by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings – nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run –
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And – which is more – you'll be a Man my son!