That morning, I made my decision. I would trim Dad’s fingernails. It was a simple task, wasn’t it? I could offer this service without much effort. It would be a gift of quiet grace.
Dad had needed his nails trimmed for some time, and I’d asked his nurses to do it when I had them on the phone. But they’d made many excuses. ‘He refuses our care’ or ‘he’s combative’. Not this day. This morning Dad was unresponsive. The end was near and all the fight in him was gone.
Two days before, the RN from hospice had called me. “He’s transitioning,” she said. “You need to come.” Snow spit from the darkened sky as I made my way north from East Tennessee to Indiana. The drive was longer than expected due to slick roads, but by midnight, I arrived safely at my daughter’s home.
The first day, Dad recognized me and mumbled a few unintelligible words. Yet I knew the hospice nurse was right. The changes in him were obvious. His time was short. So, the next morning, I purchased a manicure set at Kroger and some Gold Bond hand cream with a purpose.
When I arrived, Dad lay still, breathing in and out in an unlabored rhythm. No recognition or words. I messaged my daughter, Anna, at work and she joined me in the vigil.
I set a playlist of soft music on my phone and searched for the fleece blanket I’d gifted Dad at Christmas. With the laundry guy’s help, we found it. It had been washed but not returned since I’d failed to write Dad’s name on it when I visited last. No problem. I tucked the green fluffy throw printed with pictures of dogs he loved around his motionless body. Soon, very soon, he would leave us. I’d best get busy.
I moved one arm from beneath the covers and placed his hand on a paper towel. “Hold still now so I can trim your nails, Dad.” He barely flinched as I carefully clipped each fingernail and filed off the rough edges. After completing my work, I soaped down his hands with one wash cloth and rinsed them with another. When they were dry, I gently applied the hand cream then replaced his arms back under the blanket.
About that time, one of the RN’s from hospice arrived to examine Dad. His brow furrowed a bit, but he barely resisted as she moved him. His breaths were farther apart now. “He’s having some apnea,” she noted. When Anna asked how much longer, she pointed toward the ceiling. “Only He knows, but my best guess is no more than 24 to 48 hours.”
After the hospice nurse left, Anna rose and stood beside the bed. Dad’s eyes stared upward, not focusing on anything we could see. “Grandpa, it’s Anna. You’ve lived a good life, but your body is worn out. It’s time to go to Heaven so you can see Aunt Beth, both the Gaynelles, and your mom and dad. It’s okay to leave now. They’re waiting on you.”
While I sat nearby listening to Anna, Dad suddenly raised his head off the bed and inhaled deeply. He looked as if he wanted to say something then exhaled a final breath as his body relaxed back down upon the bed.
“He’s gone, Mom. I think he’s gone,” Anna said.
I stood and checked his neck for a pulse. “His heart’s still beating but weak.” I hurried from the room to find a nurse. The RN from hospice sat at the nurse’s station still charting.
“Is something wrong?” She asked.
“We think he’s gone.”
When we walked back into Dad’s room, the minister from his church stood beside Anna. “Oh, Pastor Jeremiah. You’re here just in time.”
The hospice nurse listened to Dad’s heart. Still beating. “Not yet but soon.”
Pastor Jeremiah, Anna, and I held hands and prayed over Dad. His heartbeat slowed then stopped—as he stepped through the gates of Heaven.
After saying our goodbyes, the nurses asked us to step out so they could prepare Dad’s body before the funeral home came for him. “He’s never listened to me before,” Anna shrugged and gave a half-hearted sigh as we left the room. “You know it started when you washed his hands.”
She was right. The symbolism was undeniable. The words from the Apostle John in the Upper Room came to my mind. On the night before Jesus’ crucifixion, He washed the disciples’ feet in water, cleansed them with a gift of quiet grace, and foreshadowed the greater work He was to accomplish on the cross. And Jesus calls us to do the same for each other.
After he had washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had reclined again, he said to them, “Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord, and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you.”
John 13: 12-15 NRSVUE
Our actions matter even when we don’t fully understand the spiritual implications. My intention was to clip Dad’s nails and wash his hands. Nothing more. Yet God knew my father and I didn’t see eye to eye on many things. We butt heads constantly over the years. Two stubborn people, too much alike to get along.
But Jesus knows when we wash each other’s feet or hands, our defenses weaken, and the walls between us come down. This is why He asks us to emulate Him. Following Jesus’ example blesses both the giver and the receiver. In this humble act, we are washed in the water but cleansed by a gift of quiet grace—God’s unmerited gift of forgiveness and eternal life.
In Dad’s final moments on earth, Anna gave him permission to leave us and I offered him a gift of quiet grace. Maybe this was exactly what Dad needed to finally let go.
