Last Words 

Apparently, rehab centers aren’t known for making good coffee. 

“What can I bring you the next time I come?” I’d asked Dad at the conclusion of a visit. 

“Bring me a good cup of coffee,” he said. 

So the next day, I skipped Sunday school and headed to the rehab center. Dad had been admitted weeks before to try to regain strength to go home, but instead he’d grown steadily weaker.  

My day was full—church, then a family birthday party, then a women’s ministry event. I hadn’t initially planned to visit him, but if I didn’t go, he wouldn’t have a visitor until the following morning, and I wasn’t comfortable with that. 

I swooped through the drive-thru of his favorite breakfast spot, ordered a coffee and a sausage/egg/and cheese biscuit, and hopped back onto the road. Soon I was peeking around the corner of his room. 

Sometimes when I visited, I’d find Dad sleeping, but this morning, he greeted me with a smile—one that grew wider when he spotted the cup in my hand.  

I poured in two creamers and placed it in his hands. 

He took a noisy sip. “Ahhh,” he said. “That’s good coffee.” 

We shared another smile, then the conversation grew serious.  

Going Home 

“I just want to go home,” he said.  

“I know, Dad,” I said. “Hang in there. They’re doing everything they can to help you get stronger.” 

He sighed, then took another sip and a bite of biscuit. He chewed, swallowed, and spoke again. 

“I wish I had a movie of my life. The good parts and the bad.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “I’ve never wanted a tattoo, but if I had one, I’d want it to say, ‘In God we trust,’ because everything I’ve accomplished in my life, God helped me accomplish. I’m very grateful.” 

Then he dug way back in his memory for something that had happened when he was “a scrawny little kid in middle school.” He’d been cleaning off a table and tossed a wet paper towel into the trash. His aim was off, and instead of landing in the trash can, the soggy cloth hit the biggest kid in the class. 

He was not happy. 

“I’m going to hit you,” the boy said, lunging toward him. 

Dad closed his eyes, raised his fists, and prepared for the worst. 

Thankfully, a friend came to his rescue—a big friend. 

“‘You’re not gonna hit him,’ he said. ‘But you can hit me as many times as you want—before I hit you back.’” 

“For some reason,” Dad said, shaking his head, “the kid changed his mind and backed off.” 

We laughed at the memory. 

“I just want to sit on my deck in the sunshine,” he said. “If I could do that, I’d be halfway to better.” He took another sip, and the silence stretched between us. “Sometimes I wonder if God is punishing me. I’ve asked Him to take me home, and He hasn’t.” 

“I know it’s been hard,” I said, laying a hand on his arm, “but I know one thing. God is not punishing you. I recalled one of my favorite Bible verses. “Romans 8:1 says, ‘There is therefore now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus.’” 

“When you placed your faith in Christ when you were thirteen years old, Jesus took your punishment. Just like your friend offered to take the hits you deserved, Jesus took all the consequences of your sin on the cross. When you surrendered your life to Him, He gave you His righteousness.”  

Last Words 

We visited a while longer, and the conversation moved on to other things. The state of his finances. If I’d remembered to pay his physical therapist. What he should wear to his cardiologist appointment in the morning. 

He took a few more sips of coffee and nibbled a bite of pound cake. I gave him a hug and a kiss.  

“I’m gonna go,” I said. “I’ll see you in the morning.” 

He nodded. 

“I love you, Dad.” 

“I love you, too.” 

One of his aids, Pete, came in later to check on him and empty his catheter bag. 

“He thanked me,” Pete said. “He was always thanking me.”  

Twenty minutes later, Dad was gone. 

I’ve never thought much about last words, but I love that my dad’s last words on this earth were, “Thank you.”  

They’re appropriate because they sum up his life.  

Dad was thankful to God for all he had accomplished. He was thankful to his family, his friends, his nurses, and the EMS workers who had helped him.  

He earned the nickname “The Doughnut Man,” because his favorite way to say thank you was with a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. He brought them to doctors’ offices, his dentist’s office, and to the nurses who’d cared for him at the hospital.  

My dad was a grateful man.  

When a nurse called to tell me that he’d passed, I wept and prayed, lifting my voice in thanksgiving. 

Thank you, kind Father, for giving Dad eighty-nine years of life. 

Thank you for the good visit you gave us this morning. 

Thank you for a gentle transition from this life into eternity. 

Thank you for the opportunity to talk about Jesus just hours before Dad met You face to face. 

I don’t know what my last words will be, but if I practice Dad’s attitude of gratitude, I hope they’ll be “Thank you” too. 

I can’t think of a better way to leave this life to meet Jesus than with gratitude on my lips.   

Enter his gates with thanksgiving, and his courts with praise! Give thanks to him; bless his name! 

Psalm 100:4 ESV 

—Written by Lori Hatcher. Used by permission from the author.