One More Time

When Dad was nearing the last years of his life, when he could no longer move about and travel like he once had, he would sometimes wistfully talk of how he wanted to visit someone, somewhere, “one more time.” 

“One more time,” he would say.

“I’d like to drive to Kentucky and visit you one more time,” he’d tell me, or “I’d like to drive back to Altus (Oklahoma, where he spent most of his life and career) one more time.” 

We would wink at each other when he dreamed of a European cruise or an all-inclusive resort in Mexico “one more time.”

After Dad could no longer drive but still had his vehicle, my brother Mark saw him sitting alone in the driver’s seat, staring, dreaming, I suppose, of traveling somewhere “one more time.”

That’s why I felt a tug in my heart when our son, David, Jr. (Dave to our family), wanted to visit his Uncle Mark (my brother) perhaps “one more time” because of Mark’s ALS condition.

Lori and I followed Dave, his wife, Kayla, and their three little ones: twin daughters Addie and Vera (20 months old) and Stella (3 years old) from Kentucky to Oklahoma.

Once in Altus, Mark’s three children and all their kids arrived, too, from Lubbock, TX, Shawnee, OK, and Altus. Even Lori’s nephew, Cooper, broke away from studies at Weatherford, OK, to join the family.

Soon, the kids were splashing on a slip ‘n’ slide while the adults told stories. We had plenty to eat, but not so much that some of the more ambitious adults could join the kids in a game of kickball. 

I’d forgotten how much I’d missed Mark’s infectious grins, and though his voice has weakened, he still has a knack for “putting the jam” on a story to draw an extra laugh. In a quiet moment, Mark whispered to Dave that the only way it could be any better was if we had homemade ice cream. Without hesitation, David retrieved Grandmother Whitlock’s recipe for ice cream, and before we could ask what was for dessert, we were lapping up the homemade ice cream. 

Our time together quickly blossomed into a family reunion. The next morning, we all had breakfast together at our favorite hometown café and shared stories about how Dad could give a master class on working the buffet. 

Then Dave and his family headed back while everyone waved bye, wondering when we would reunite “one more time.”

We tell ourselves stories at family gatherings, and in those stories, we see ourselves as part of a larger story, filled with joy, sadness, pain, and happiness—a collective story of life together, embracing the past with its mistakes and successes, opening into the present with its fears and possibilities. 

Journalist Ellen Goodman has said of herself, “This packrat has learned that what the next generation will value most is not what we owned, but the evidence of who we were and the tales of how we loved. In the end, it’s the family stories that are worth the storage.”

This Father’s Day, I will pause and remember to tell a story about my family, nourished by the visits I have with my heavenly Father as we meet in his Word, the Bible, Torah and Gospel stories recounting life in my forever family, expanding my identity to a time and place beyond this time and place, ever awakening me to this present moment.

As Mark swallowed his last bite of ice cream, he whispered to me, “I sure am glad Dave came.”

“Me too,” I thought, especially since we aren’t sure we will have, “one more time.”