Father’s Whistle

My dad had a whistle.

It was the kind that mattered not what we were doing.  Growing up, our world was to stop when Dad’s positioned fingers on the tip of his tongue and lips gave a forcible expulsion of breath.  It was a call to attention that demanded ours.  It was the kind that drew all six of us back together to the same place at the same time.

The Lord says, “When I whistle to them, they will come running.”

It’s weird that the world kept going round and round on his last day.

To and from I saw people going.

This and that I saw people doing.

But, I was holding tightly.

Both of my hands were holding on to my dad’s right one with dear life.

I watched the monitoring instrument.

It was erratic at first

Until it was too slow.

We watched his oxygen.

We saw his heart rate.

Until there were neither.

Everything stopped.

I know there were still ticks and I know there were still tocks that seemed to matter.

One nurse rushed for another to get the official time.

I didn’t need the other nurse.

It was 5:40 PM.   

I was there.

We all were.

All six of us in the same place at the same time.

For the last time.

It was our Father’s last whistle.

Zechariah 10:8

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