In whose hand is the soul of every living thing, and the breath of all mankind.
My uncle got to the point where he could not breath on his own. Unlike my father, who had COPD, he had mesothelioma. The cancer had ravaged his lungs and the rest of his body. Where once stood a strong, vitile man, a frail shadow of his former self emerged. In spite of this condition, he kept a pleasant demeanor. Always with a kind word, and a welcome greeting when you met. The man inside was untouched by the ravages done to his body. Breathing had become labored, but he tried to speak. His disposition always revealed a smile despite his ailment. A positive attitude was something he and my father had inherited from my grandmother. This mindset carried him through war in the south pacific on a naval ship, through the tough times of farm life during the great depression, and now through his final days.
What could instill such a way of thinking? What reassurance was he aware of that kept him upbeat? What hope did he have when the doctors had none for him? His life, his very breath, lay with a man that could make him whole again. This man was no doctor, but he is the great physician. Christ is that man that could make him whole again. So he laid down his tired old body, in exchange for a new one filled with light. And what disease free lungs he must now have. He's now able to shout, and shout he does. As children, being the oldest, Uncle Bob yelled at the younger children to come to supper. My grandmother alerted him first, he passed the message along to his siblings. I'm sure they heard him shout all over heaven, as he called my father to his eternal home, where his mom was waiting on him at the great supper with the lamb.
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