“…And He’s Gone”

(Originally published August 21, 2010)

Those are the words that shook- and continue to shake me. I have to continually remind myself that I actually heard those words. The words “the sky is orange” or “up is down” would have seemed more plausible. And it still seems impossible.

Last Friday morning I was awakened by the sound of the phone ringing at 6am. Having just gone to bed at 2, I was in a very deep sleep, so if I was even aware of it, mind chose to ignore it, but then my subconscious was alerted to the fact that the phone was ringing continuously — someone was calling over and over. Becky and I seemed to realize this simultaneously, and both darted toward the phone. I could see that it was Mom’s phone, and immediately asked “What’s wrong?” Mom told me to sit down, that she had bad news. I quickly imagined the possibilities of what the bad news could be, but couldn’t have even imagined what she was about to tell me. “It’s your dad. He had a heart attack…” My mind immediately rushed toward the thought of rushing to the hospital to see him, and sit by his bedside as he recovered. But what she said next shook me to the core (and still does). “And he’s gone”.

“No.” was the only word I could speak for a minute or two. I think I told mom something about getting there within a couple of hours, and I spoke to both of my brothers just afterwards. After that, I don’t remember much of what happened next, except that my immediate focus became getting to Mom as fast as possible, while preparing to stay for up to a week. Running a business that depends entirely upon myself and Becky, this was not an easy task, but thankfully taking the laptop and a backup drive was sufficient for what was needed from the office (and having very understanding clients helped tremendously as well). Strangely, as I was collecting a few additional files, the power went out — at 7am on a clear day — and it remained out until we left — as if to say, “Leave it — it’s time to go”. So, I quickly shut everything down before the backup battery ran out, and we gathered the rest of our things and left — but not before I allowed myself a moment to talk to Mom again on the phone, and to understand the details of what exactly had happened in the moments before his passing — and for the moment I hadn’t yet allowed myself — to weep uncontrollably, and to cry out an angry “why?!”.

We arrived a few hours later to a house full of people. Entering seemed to happen in slow motion. I didn’t care who the other people were, as single-focused as I was at that moment, but I recall seeing my aunt and uncle (Dad’s brother) in my peripheral vision as I ran into Mom’s arms. She quickly took me into their bedroom where we could be alone for a few minutes. The hours and days that followed were a bit of a blur (yet they seemed to last forever)… my brothers arrived the next day (they each had much further to travel), as did Dad’s other brother, and it was something of a relief to have us all finally together, knowing that those who were closest to him were united.

On Sunday, we had the visitation and service at the church. Before the visitation, we were allowed some private family time to view the casket. The approach to the front of the church was almost as difficult for me as hearing the news the first time, as if somehow seeing his earthly body would somehow make it more real… and I had tremendous difficulty breathing as I again wept uncontrollably for a few minutes.

Immediately afterwards, the doors were opened for the visitation, with a line of people already waiting outside in advance of a 3-hour visitation, and so despite just recovering from this, we stood at attention and greeted the people as they came to express their condolences. And they came, and they came. For three hours, a steady stream of people continued to come through. The stream of people (Was it 500? 1000? More?) varied between family members, church members from both churches, Dad’s former students, co-workers, friends new and old — and it quickly became clear that Dad had touched a huge number of people’s lives in so many different ways — something I always knew but had never experienced first-hand. His ministry and influence were broad and yet personal to each person he had touched.

Dr. Jay McCluskey summed up who we was brilliantly, to a church overflowing with people who had gathered to celebrate his life:

“Verlin Tucker was a builder. Now Verlin wasn’t a builder, like a contractor, but… he built things; he built up things. He could build just about anything I think he set his mind to. He could build a workshop in his backyard. He could build a laundry room on his house, and he could build a deck off the back. He could build or restore a tractor, and with great pride he would take it to the local tractor shows. He could build a truck that would run on diesel fuel converted from the waste grease from a local fast food restaurant…. He could build a high school auto mechanics program from the ground up and make it one of the shining stars of its kind in our state. He could build a sunday school class or a discipleship track. He could build a bluegrass song of praise to the Lord. He could build a Bible study… he could build a home… he could build three great boys.

“And he used great tools, because good builders need good tools: Integrity. Character. Insight. Verlin was a builder who desired deeply to have things to show for his effort; the product of his work. In the agricultural society of the Bible days, they called that “fruit.” Because when you put forth work, that was what you had to show for it — the harvest, the fruit that came. And as I look around I see the fruit of what Verlin Tucker built in all of our lives. And while he’s gone from our presence, his fruit remains. Because that’s what Jesus said — Jesus said to his disciples: “You have not chosen me, but I have chosen you, and ordained you that you should go and bring forth fruit, and that your fruit shall remain.” And what Verlin Tucker built remains. And we would do well to invest our lives likewise.”

The next day, we had the graveside service in Louisville, amidst an oncoming storm that echoed the thundering in our hearts and the tears streaming down our faces. We had lunch afterwards down the street from the cemetery, at the church where my parents were married, and revisited the cemetery afterwards, and said our final goodbyes.

In the week following, the family “camped out” at the house and shared the collective grief, compounded with the many tasks necessary to begin to settle the estate, and to allow for Mom to move forward in a practical sense. The house was full of life, and memories, and tears, as the ten of us — Mom, Becky, and I, Brian, Sherrie, David, Shannon, Keegan, Kaden, and Brenna shared the space and sorrow together, leaning on each other both figuratively and literally through the rest of the week. On the evening after the burial service, the seven of us adults somehow ended up sitting in the kitchen floor together recounting stories about Dad — another image that will be permanently embedded in my mind. The kids -too young to be directly aware and affected by the loss- served as a frequent distraction from the grief, and a reminder that life and joy continue despite all other indications that the world had ended. As we all began to go our separate ways, working out schedules of when we would each return, and who would handle which tasks, it was clear that a new chapter was beginning in our lives: one that is yet to be written, but that takes a sharp turn in a different direction than any of us expected.

I’m not sure where to go from here. But something that’s echoed in my mind for the past several days, as strange as it sounds… is a line from the movie Cast Away: “I know what I have to do now: I gotta keep breathing. Because tomorrow the sun will rise… and who knows what the tide could bring?”

It’s comforting to realize that God has a plan for us. Dad and Mom had just celebrated their 40th anniversary, and a wonderful, inspirational example of a marriage. Dad had just attained his dream of being a Pastor to a church in the weeks leading up to his death, and had completed practically all of his life’s goals up that point, being ready to move into the next phase of his life. It’s no coincidence that Dad had visited with all three sons the month before on a cross-country trip, and had talked to all three of us the night before on the phone, ending each call with “I love you”. And it’s no coincidence that he had just had a rare visit with his two brothers just two weeks prior. It wasn’t a random spark of the universe that he passed in the early morning after having a chance to tell Mom about the dream he had had, in which he had symbolically laid his life’s legacy to rest, content to look on with the joy of knowing that all is well. And with tears in his eyes, describing this dream, he spoke his last words: “It was so peaceful.”

And he’s gone. But never forgotten, and not without meaning and purpose, which continues through me, and all of those who knew and loved him.

Originally published at https://www.facebook.com.