By Sharon van Arneman
Exactly a week ago today, in the early morning hours of Tuesday, October 27, my dad passed of heart failure. He was 84 years old. I had just spent an amazing week with him little knowing that it would be his last good week on earth.
My parents entered their senior years blessed beyond measure. With all of their four children living abroad visiting them several times a year, they were surrounded by love and they lacked nothing. So it was a routine transaction when my husband Erick and I bought our tickets to travel to St. Lucia in October. We had just spent a week with my parents in June, but funnily enough, when July came along and Winair put out its promotional Coconut Deals, giving passengers a narrow window to book flights for travel in August, September or October, we seized upon the moment and got tickets for October 10 to October 17.
It was a wonderful visit: One whole week of loving my parents, indulging them, spending quality time with them, taking them out and about, hanging out with them, spoiling them, and savouring every precious moment with them. We hung out at Pigeon Point and Vigie. We enjoyed walks on the beach. We went to town. We made it our mission to make lunchtime a completely different culinary experience every single day – and those who know my dad would know that’s no easy feat. My dad is a ground provision and fish kinda guy – and when it comes to foods, he knows what he likes, and he wants what he likes. But that week was different.
That week, my dad was exceptionally agreeable. His company was delightful and he relished the attention we showered on him. Not only did he enjoy his favourite dishes, but he also chowed down roti and pizza and dishes he normally wouldn’t have given a second glance. When Erick and I left St. Lucia on Sunday, October 18 (a day later than scheduled, due to Winair cancelling our flight the day before), it was in good spirits. We had no way of knowing that the very next day, Monday, October 19, Daddy would be taken to the hospital.
Probably no one person has singularly impacted my life as much as my dad, who was a frequent subject of my newspaper column that ran in The WEEKender for a number of years. From the time I was a little girl growing up, there was no denying that I held a soft spot in his heart. We shared a special bond and in my childish little heart, my daddy was my hero.
A serious, no-nonsense gentleman, my dad was as straight as an arrow. In fact, everything I know of him before his conversion comes from the accounts of others. They say he was a fun-loving kind of guy who loved dancing, partying and women, but his life changed completely when he got saved. The second of four children, I was three going on four at the time. So, the dad my siblings and I know is a man who was faithful to our mom and to his God, so much so that my mom became a believer shortly after my dad’s conversion. And, in time, as we grew older, each of us kids eventually made the decision to follow Jesus.
Even as a child, what impressed me most about my dad was his consistent life. He was the same person at home, at church, at work and everywhere he went. In our home, God’s word was the rule we lived by – and Daddy expected us to be perfect little soldiers of the cross of Jesus Christ. How many times we’d be joking around having some harmless fun, giggling at the slightest silliness and basically just being kids, then we’d catch sight of our dad coming in the distance, and everyone would scurry to get a Bible or a schoolbook to read to give him the impression that we were engaged in some meaningful activity.
A strict disciplinarian, he was convinced that a child needed to have the “rod of correction” applied to his “seat of understanding” on the regular – and he liked to quote the Bible verse: “Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child, but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him.” In fact, if any of us gave our mom a hard time, she had only to say, “Wait until your dad gets home…” and the angel in us would instantly emerge, because well did we know what a spanking from Daddy meant!
Did I say spanking? Let me rephrase that! Maybe the word “whipping” or “beating” or even “flogging” would more accurately describe the kind of discipline administered at our house. Some disgruntled neighbour had only to say that one of us had walked past their house without saying good morning, and that’d be enough reason for a flogging, without Daddy ever verifying whether the complaints against us were true or false. If there were any favourable aspect to the kind of discipline we received, it was that the one who did the crime was the only one who did the time. So, unless it was clear who the offender was, no one was punished.
But woe to the one who was caught telling a lie! Woe to the one who got in any kind of trouble at school! Woe to the one who was rude or disrespectful to authority! Woe to the one who was caught chewing gum or talking in church! Woe to the one who brought home a bad report card! But there were the fun times too!
When we were little and our Dad came home from work, we would race each other to untie his shoe laces. And whenever he was about to leave the house to go out, we would all grab a hold of his legs and demand to know where he was going. He would laugh and say, “In my two yards and a half.” Come to think of it, I still don’t know what that means.
Perhaps our most favourite time with him was at the beach. A first-rate swimmer who enjoyed a challenge, Daddy would often engage a nearby tourist in a swim race. Most of the time, he’d win easily, and it was hard to tell who was having more fun – Daddy or we children cheering for him at the top of our lungs. How we loved those piggyback rides he gave us as he swam; and if it rained while we were at the beach, he’d lead us in singing a silly little chorus:
♫ Rain, rain, go away
You’ll come back another day
Little fishes in the sea
Daddy, take it
Mamie, woti it
Johnny, eat it like a man♫
My dad loved life. He loved watching boxing matches. He loved playing dominoes. He loved fishing. He loved a good game of cricket – in fact, one of my favourite childhood memories of him is carrying around his transistor radio wherever he went during cricket season. He loved working out. He loved to preach. He loved books and had a well-stocked library. He loved to tell people about Jesus. He loved to sing. He loved to pray. He loved to go to church. He loved encouraging people. He loved to give, and he gave generously. He loved his wife of almost-62 years (he and Mom were married on November 25, 1964). He loved his children. He loved his grandchildren. He loved his great grandchildren.
But most of all, my dad loved his God.
When he was told he needed a pacemaker, he said no. He let everyone know that he was ready to meet his God – and when God called him home on the morning of Tuesday, October 27, he was ready to go. And his departure has left me with a profound sense of gratitude to the God we both love for having been given the treasure of spending his last good week on earth with him – memories I will forever cherish.
Until we meet again, Daddy. Thank you for a beautiful week spent with you!
