That day is embedded in my mind as well as in writing. I still have copies of several accounts that I wrote: a letter to the parents of one of my closest friends, dated February 10, 2003; a “life assessment” essay I was assigned in nursing school later that year; an undated version of the experience which I entitled “Oh Death, Where Is Thy Sting?”; a detailed outline I chronicled when I first considered writing this book; and a recollection I wrote for my newspaper column on the tenth anniversary of Daddy’s home going.

They are all the same and all different. It is amazing how the human brain recalls and hides and misplaces…some memories play back more vivid than others. Some seem to tweak themselves through the years. Some intertwine and others remain distinctly separate. 

It was Monday, January 20, 2003 – one year to the day that Daddy had “passed out” in his Sunday School class and been resuscitated by an EMS medic. One year to the day he told of going to Heaven and speaking with Jesus, who told him: “I was going to bring you home today but decided to let someone else come in your place. You will have to wait.”

Daddy’s wait was almost over.

Frequently, he would entreat in prayer, “Lord, take me home to be with You.” Heaven had always been his longed-for destination. After mother went ahead of him, this desire only intensified. 

Even when he could no longer speak those words audibly, I could see the yearning in his eyes and in his calm spirit. He was not afraid. He was ready.

His physical condition had steadily deteriorated since December. He was now bedridden. No longer eating. Sleeping most of the time. These were indications that his body was shutting down; that he was in the process of a natural death. On Saturday, January 18, the Hospice nurse told us it would not be long. I bathed him; Randy gave him a good shave (Daddy was never fond of facial hair). That was the day our three granddaughters came to tell PawPaw good-bye, precious moments we recorded with irreplaceable photos (see chapter 14).

Soon after they left, that afternoon, Daddy went to sleep. His only movement for the next two days were deep, labored breaths through a wide-opened mouth.  Family and friends visited and spoke words of love. His pastor came and prayed with him. On Sunday night it appeared Daddy’s home-going was imminent, so I called the family together. The cinema of remembrance rolled as we recalled good times. Even the Christian radio station obliged by playing Sweet Beulah Land, Wayfaring Stranger, and Almost Home. We gathered around Daddy’s bed, and Suzie, my sister Rodema’s daughter, led us in prayer.

I was surprised that Daddy lived through the night. Stretched out in the lounge chair at the foot of his bed, my sleep was interspersed with efforts to detect the sounds of breathing. They came, irregular and with occasional long pauses. Daddy had gone for days without significant fluids (we kept his lips moistened with a swab) and there was no “death rattle,” the gurgling sound that often occurs when a dying person is no longer able to clear secretions in the throat. (While this sound may be distressing to those who hear it, doctors believe it causes no pain or discomfort to the dying person. It is a sign of impending death, usually occurring in the last 24 hours of life.)

When morning finally dawned, I sensed this would be the day that would be noted in the family Bible. It was a holiday, Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, and Randy was home from work. After discussing our misgivings, we decided to follow through on plans we had made weeks earlier to paint our bedroom that day. The walls had been crying out for a fresh coat for years, but caregiving duties had taken preeminence. Once Daddy was confined to bed, I had more free time and we had scheduled several much-needed home-care projects. We were close by and family members streamed through all day. 

Around four in the afternoon, Randy and I stopped painting for a while (we were almost finished) and since no one was visiting at the time, we took the opportunity to provide Daddy with some personal care. I gently washed his face and hands with a warm cloth and replaced his damp brief. Randy gave him a touch-up shave and patted Old Spice aftershave on his gaunt cheeks. We dressed him in striped pajama bottoms and a T-shirt with a picture of Erin and Clay – his two oldest great-grandchildren – above the words, “We love PawPaw.” 

Shallow breathing was the only sign of life. Several times there was such a long pause between inhalations that we looked at each other…wondering.

After dinner, family members began gathering once again. Randy and I completed our work at seven. I went into his room, almost loud with the voices and laughter of loved ones. This is a mark of those “who do not grieve as those who have no hope.” All present understood this was a day of victory for the beloved Dad, Pawpaw and friend. I leaned over his pallid face and whispered into his ear, “Now I need to take a shower and get ready for bed; wait for me.” I had always heard that hearing is the last of the physical senses to shut down.

When I worked as an EKG technician on the night shift at a hospital while I was attending college, I observed several patients die – usually a sudden death from an acute event or accident. I had never been present for a natural death.

My favorite pajamas at the time were long and one-piece (aka union suit) that were comfy and appropriate to wear in front of family. After dressing in them and pulling my hair back into a ponytail, I went into Daddy’s bedroom and joined in the conversations. It had been a long day for everyone. One by one, visitors said goodnight. Soon only my sister Rachel and I were left, and at nine p.m. she decided to go home and get some rest. Daddy’s condition had not changed much throughout the day.

Randy was upstairs, catching up on some Vision India matters. I followed the promptings of my heart. Carefully, I lowered the left-side bed rail and lay down beside Daddy, cradling his head in my arms. 

“I love you so much, Daddy. Thank you for being such a good Christian father and godly man. I am so grateful God gave us these past few years together. Thank you for leaving the home place to us; we will take good care of it. Please tell Mama and Wilbur (their first baby, who was stillborn) I love them.”

Could he hear me? I hoped so.

“Daddy, I will try to step into your shoes as a soul-winner. I know I won’t do as good a job as you, but I will try my best.” I kissed his cheek. Only a second passed…

Daddy sat up, his hands outstretched and lifted up. His eyes still closed, a smile of recognition glowed on his face. Then came three triumphant shouts of glory (such as when one experiences victory!). As if in slow motion, his head once more came to rest on his pillow, his arms falling softly across his chest.

His mouth closed as he drew his last earthly breath. J. Boyd Wright had just been welcomed home; his heart’s desire had been fulfilled.

The presence of the Lord was so sweet I felt as if I was somehow in Heaven myself. Being allowed to experience Daddy’s being “caught up” was a precious gift from God that I will never forget. If I had not previously believed in Heaven, there would have been no doubt in my mind after seeing Daddy enter in. The sting of death was overcome by a comforting Presence that enfolded me. 

I called Randy to come downstairs, then informed the immediate family who quickly gathered. Necessary calls were made. The pastor arrived. There were kind words, prayers, some tears. I continued to bask in His presence.

Soon, the gentlemen from the funeral home arrived. They tenderly took his body away.

Daddy’s life on this earth had ended, but his eternal life in Heaven had just begun. It was one year to the day that Jesus told him he would have to wait.