A Daughter Forever
by Constance B. Fink © 2001
The phone startled me as I put the final touches on my weekly leadership training
presentation.
“Hi, sweetheart.” It was Mom. I could almost see her smile.
“I have bad news,” she said. I felt my heart pound through my chest and I put down
my pen. “I found a lump in my breast this morning.”
The color drained from my face and everything in the room faded to a blur, except the
phone in front of me. I stared at it. My fingers touched the display. What do I say?
Finding her voice Mom said, “I’m sorry.” Even though I was twenty-eight years old,
married, and had lived for the past seven years lived one thousand miles from home, I
needed my mother more than ever at that moment. But what happens now?
We talked about the doctors, the procedures, the diagnosis, as if to get the sketchy
details out of the way. Before hanging up, she told me of her New Year’s prayer a
few weeks ago—that our church would become a praying church, never expecting
God to answer this way this soon.
That day, January 18, 1983 marked my first personal tragedy. It was an unexpected
turn, yet I sensed it would be significant. How would the story end? Would Mom be
one of the few to rise above the statistics? Or… no, I can’t jump there yet, it’s too
painful. I could feel my own life begin to slip through my fingers. What does one grasp
at a time like this?
As much as I wanted to be with my mother, I was afraid to go home, afraid to take the
first steps into an uncertain future, afraid I would not be strong, afraid I did not know
what “strong” looked like in such a situation. Nevertheless, I traveled to be with my
mother the day of her surgery.
I was glad I did. On my last day there many fears dissipated when Mom took my
hand and said, “I will pray for you through the unknown journey ahead.”
For me? With renewed strength, I said goodbye. Until later.
So began the one-year roller coaster of chemotherapy, radiation, weakness, pain,
doubts, discouragement, anxiety, and even some temporary relief. Until October
1985. New pain. More tests. Conflicting opinions. Overwhelming advice.
Unanswered questions. But cutting through the confusion, God kept His promise to
take care of His children. At the right time. In the right way. Specially fit for the need.
Specially fit for the person. An encouraging word, a supportive hug, or a practical
provision.
One year later, October 1986, knowing she would not be with us for Christmas, Mom
requested we gather around her nursing home bed to sing “Silent Night.” Just two
weeks later, she spoke her last words: “The Lord is my keeper. Nothing will happen
to me that is not His perfect will.” The words, to me, were like a baton, that she
passed on. I took hold, vowing to keep a firm grasp.
Three days later, we stood around Mom’s bed, and my father held her hand. As he
prayed, Mom took her last breath, and the color instantly left her face. Dad stopped,
kissed her, and then finished his prayer knowing that at that very moment, she too,
joined him in the presence of God. Reality for her. Faith for him.
Without releasing his grasp on our hands, he turned to my brother and me, and
smiled. “We still have each other.” These words enveloped me with security,
stability, and purpose, as though Dad knew that the bottom had just fallen out of my
life and that I needed the reminder that things were still in place. Simple words.
Timely care.
After years as a praying woman, a supportive pastor’s wife, a giving mother, a
suffering patient, sixty-seven year old Lydia Braunlin entered heaven…as a welcomed
daughter. Goodbye, Mom. Until later.
A few weeks later, my second personal tragedy struck. This time it was through
Dad. Alzheimer’s had pointed its ugly finger at him and, by Christmas, its grip began
to choke the life out of him. Both parents gone in a matter of weeks—one physically,
the other mentally. The one who represented security and stability to me was slipping
through my fingers just when I needed reassurance of a parental grasp more than ever.
But instead, the roles reversed and I grasped him, thus beginning nine years of silent
grief—suppressed yet painful, loss without closure.
Alzheimer’s gripped much of my father’s functioning, memory, and relationships.
However, two things were untainted by its ugly clench—his character and his spirit.
Underneath the confusion and deterioration remained a strong gentleman and servant,
full of humility and kindness. His reverence for God was the strength of his life to the
end.
Under the grip of the disease, Dad’s conversations became muddled with confusion.
But in prayer, his dialogue with God, there was clarity and focus. For years, each day
he walked the nursing home hallways, stopping to sit and read his Bible to lonely
fellow-residents. Watching this unassuming, humble man, it was almost inconceivable
that, for sixty-one years, he pastored and grew a large New York metropolitan church
with over one thousand members, over one hundred missionaries, situated on twenty-
two acres with nine buildings, a regionally-renown Christian bookstore, a Christian
school, an adult evening Bible school, hosted a daily radio program and an annual
summer-long conference with countless world-famous Bible teachers and speakers.
Despite thousands of people in ministry around the world because of his poignant
influence, the pastorate to Herrmann Braunlin was to quietly read God’s Word and
pray with needy individuals. A pulpit was unnecessary, for pastoring was his life.
The weeks prior to his 91st birthday marked quick and significant physical
deterioration, thus beginning Dad’s final stage of life in October 1995. And then came
Tuesday. Though unable to speak, Dad experienced a resurgence of alertness when
my brother, Tim, stopped for a visit. It was as if the Alzheimer’s loosed its grip for a
time. Tim’s time. After a private heartfelt talk, Dad responded, not audibly but with a
look and touch on his son’s arm, head, and face that said “I love you” as clearly as if
he had spoken the words. After Tim, a young father of eight children, thanked his
father for being a perfect example, he said, “You will be going to heaven soon.” Dad
responded with a big smile, well aware of the approaching day for which he lived his
entire life.
Upon hearing this report by telephone, my husband and I knew it was time to go.
Uncertain as to how long his alertness would linger, I requested Tim take my picture to
Dad the next morning. While Dave and I boarded a plane, Dad held my picture in his
hands. With his finger, he traced my face. Although apart, we connected for that
moment.
At 10 p.m. I arrived, unprepared for what faced me. As I entered his room, I was told
he had slipped into a coma a few hours earlier. I was too late. Reality struck a
forceful blow as I caught my first glimpse of a very thin man, with agitated and shallow
breathing, hooked to a loud rhythmic oxygen machine. I struggled to find his familiar
features. Where was my Dad? I could feel the panic bubbling inside me. Dad, where
are you? I could not move or speak. I just stared with my hand over my mouth.
The nurse bent down to his ear and said, “Pastor, Constance is here.” No response.
Where were the familiar outstretched arms and enthusiastic smile? I waited. Dad,
where are you! I was too late. Wait, what was that? A tear? Yes! It slid down his
cheek and his breathing relaxed. He knew me. He knew I was there. He had waited
for me. Though unable to speak, his heart reached through the strong grip of the coma
for this moment. My moment. His last words to me were unspoken with a single tear
that said, “I love you,” as clearly as if he had spoken the words. His last tear. A tear
of joy. For me, his daughter. And permanently etched in my mind is this picture of
our tender relationship where words were often unnecessary to understand the heart.
I lay next to him with my arm around him, gently stroking his face, while my husband
quietly read favorite Scripture passages, and Tim inserted timely humor, until our father
entered the presence of His Savior three hours later. What a privilege to have been
with this great man as he crossed the threshold of heaven. Goodbye, Dad. Until later.
Turning to Tim, I put my arms around him and said the now-familiar words of
comfort, “We still have each other.” But, this time, the words sounded hollow, and as
soon as they left my lips, they seemed to fall into a deep dark hole, grabbing me with
them. Tumbling into the pit, I tried to find something to grasp, but there was nothing.
Where am I? What is happening to me? I am terrified. Alone. Lost. Cold. I am
not going to survive.
But sometime later, from somewhere in the deep dark abyss, I felt my Heavenly Father’
s warm arms. He was there! There in the pit? Yes, He was waiting for me! And He
embraced me as I never felt before. Drawing me close, He tenderly said, “I love you
with an everlasting love.”
And my Heavenly Father still holds me close. Close enough to feel His heartbeat. A
place I will never leave. A relationship I will never lose. And someday I, too, will
cross the threshold of heaven…as a welcomed daughter.
Constance B. Fink was raised as the pastor’s daughter of a large metropolitan
church in New Jersey. She has a degree in psychology from The King’s College in
New York, and has worked at Moody Bible Institute in Chicago, and in the
Counseling Center at Bradley University. She has also been director of Christian
education, church secretary, church librarian, and coordinator of several women’s
programs. Married for twenty years, she and her husband are currently members of a
quiet community and rural church in northwest Illinois. Her articles have appeared in
Bible Advocate’s Now What magazine, Voice Magazine, Charisma, New Wineskins,
Rest Ministries Newsletter, and local newspapers. Email Constance B. Fink
back to Hope Stories
by Constance B. Fink © 2001
The phone startled me as I put the final touches on my weekly leadership training
presentation.
“Hi, sweetheart.” It was Mom. I could almost see her smile.
“I have bad news,” she said. I felt my heart pound through my chest and I put down
my pen. “I found a lump in my breast this morning.”
The color drained from my face and everything in the room faded to a blur, except the
phone in front of me. I stared at it. My fingers touched the display. What do I say?
Finding her voice Mom said, “I’m sorry.” Even though I was twenty-eight years old,
married, and had lived for the past seven years lived one thousand miles from home, I
needed my mother more than ever at that moment. But what happens now?
We talked about the doctors, the procedures, the diagnosis, as if to get the sketchy
details out of the way. Before hanging up, she told me of her New Year’s prayer a
few weeks ago—that our church would become a praying church, never expecting
God to answer this way this soon.
That day, January 18, 1983 marked my first personal tragedy. It was an unexpected
turn, yet I sensed it would be significant. How would the story end? Would Mom be
one of the few to rise above the statistics? Or… no, I can’t jump there yet, it’s too
painful. I could feel my own life begin to slip through my fingers. What does one grasp
at a time like this?
As much as I wanted to be with my mother, I was afraid to go home, afraid to take the
first steps into an uncertain future, afraid I would not be strong, afraid I did not know
what “strong” looked like in such a situation. Nevertheless, I traveled to be with my
mother the day of her surgery.
I was glad I did. On my last day there many fears dissipated when Mom took my
hand and said, “I will pray for you through the unknown journey ahead.”
For me? With renewed strength, I said goodbye. Until later.
So began the one-year roller coaster of chemotherapy, radiation, weakness, pain,
doubts, discouragement, anxiety, and even some temporary relief. Until October
1985. New pain. More tests. Conflicting opinions. Overwhelming advice.
Unanswered questions. But cutting through the confusion, God kept His promise to
take care of His children. At the right time. In the right way. Specially fit for the need.
Specially fit for the person. An encouraging word, a supportive hug, or a practical
provision.
One year later, October 1986, knowing she would not be with us for Christmas, Mom
requested we gather around her nursing home bed to sing “Silent Night.” Just two
weeks later, she spoke her last words: “The Lord is my keeper. Nothing will happen
to me that is not His perfect will.” The words, to me, were like a baton, that she
passed on. I took hold, vowing to keep a firm grasp.
Three days later, we stood around Mom’s bed, and my father held her hand. As he
prayed, Mom took her last breath, and the color instantly left her face. Dad stopped,
kissed her, and then finished his prayer knowing that at that very moment, she too,
joined him in the presence of God. Reality for her. Faith for him.
Without releasing his grasp on our hands, he turned to my brother and me, and
smiled. “We still have each other.” These words enveloped me with security,
stability, and purpose, as though Dad knew that the bottom had just fallen out of my
life and that I needed the reminder that things were still in place. Simple words.
Timely care.
After years as a praying woman, a supportive pastor’s wife, a giving mother, a
suffering patient, sixty-seven year old Lydia Braunlin entered heaven…as a welcomed
daughter. Goodbye, Mom. Until later.
A few weeks later, my second personal tragedy struck. This time it was through
Dad. Alzheimer’s had pointed its ugly finger at him and, by Christmas, its grip began
to choke the life out of him. Both parents gone in a matter of weeks—one physically,
the other mentally. The one who represented security and stability to me was slipping
through my fingers just when I needed reassurance of a parental grasp more than ever.
But instead, the roles reversed and I grasped him, thus beginning nine years of silent
grief—suppressed yet painful, loss without closure.
Alzheimer’s gripped much of my father’s functioning, memory, and relationships.
However, two things were untainted by its ugly clench—his character and his spirit.
Underneath the confusion and deterioration remained a strong gentleman and servant,
full of humility and kindness. His reverence for God was the strength of his life to the
end.
Under the grip of the disease, Dad’s conversations became muddled with confusion.
But in prayer, his dialogue with God, there was clarity and focus. For years, each day
he walked the nursing home hallways, stopping to sit and read his Bible to lonely
fellow-residents. Watching this unassuming, humble man, it was almost inconceivable
that, for sixty-one years, he pastored and grew a large New York metropolitan church
with over one thousand members, over one hundred missionaries, situated on twenty-
two acres with nine buildings, a regionally-renown Christian bookstore, a Christian
school, an adult evening Bible school, hosted a daily radio program and an annual
summer-long conference with countless world-famous Bible teachers and speakers.
Despite thousands of people in ministry around the world because of his poignant
influence, the pastorate to Herrmann Braunlin was to quietly read God’s Word and
pray with needy individuals. A pulpit was unnecessary, for pastoring was his life.
The weeks prior to his 91st birthday marked quick and significant physical
deterioration, thus beginning Dad’s final stage of life in October 1995. And then came
Tuesday. Though unable to speak, Dad experienced a resurgence of alertness when
my brother, Tim, stopped for a visit. It was as if the Alzheimer’s loosed its grip for a
time. Tim’s time. After a private heartfelt talk, Dad responded, not audibly but with a
look and touch on his son’s arm, head, and face that said “I love you” as clearly as if
he had spoken the words. After Tim, a young father of eight children, thanked his
father for being a perfect example, he said, “You will be going to heaven soon.” Dad
responded with a big smile, well aware of the approaching day for which he lived his
entire life.
Upon hearing this report by telephone, my husband and I knew it was time to go.
Uncertain as to how long his alertness would linger, I requested Tim take my picture to
Dad the next morning. While Dave and I boarded a plane, Dad held my picture in his
hands. With his finger, he traced my face. Although apart, we connected for that
moment.
At 10 p.m. I arrived, unprepared for what faced me. As I entered his room, I was told
he had slipped into a coma a few hours earlier. I was too late. Reality struck a
forceful blow as I caught my first glimpse of a very thin man, with agitated and shallow
breathing, hooked to a loud rhythmic oxygen machine. I struggled to find his familiar
features. Where was my Dad? I could feel the panic bubbling inside me. Dad, where
are you? I could not move or speak. I just stared with my hand over my mouth.
The nurse bent down to his ear and said, “Pastor, Constance is here.” No response.
Where were the familiar outstretched arms and enthusiastic smile? I waited. Dad,
where are you! I was too late. Wait, what was that? A tear? Yes! It slid down his
cheek and his breathing relaxed. He knew me. He knew I was there. He had waited
for me. Though unable to speak, his heart reached through the strong grip of the coma
for this moment. My moment. His last words to me were unspoken with a single tear
that said, “I love you,” as clearly as if he had spoken the words. His last tear. A tear
of joy. For me, his daughter. And permanently etched in my mind is this picture of
our tender relationship where words were often unnecessary to understand the heart.
I lay next to him with my arm around him, gently stroking his face, while my husband
quietly read favorite Scripture passages, and Tim inserted timely humor, until our father
entered the presence of His Savior three hours later. What a privilege to have been
with this great man as he crossed the threshold of heaven. Goodbye, Dad. Until later.
Turning to Tim, I put my arms around him and said the now-familiar words of
comfort, “We still have each other.” But, this time, the words sounded hollow, and as
soon as they left my lips, they seemed to fall into a deep dark hole, grabbing me with
them. Tumbling into the pit, I tried to find something to grasp, but there was nothing.
Where am I? What is happening to me? I am terrified. Alone. Lost. Cold. I am
not going to survive.
But sometime later, from somewhere in the deep dark abyss, I felt my Heavenly Father’
s warm arms. He was there! There in the pit? Yes, He was waiting for me! And He
embraced me as I never felt before. Drawing me close, He tenderly said, “I love you
with an everlasting love.”
And my Heavenly Father still holds me close. Close enough to feel His heartbeat. A
place I will never leave. A relationship I will never lose. And someday I, too, will
cross the threshold of heaven…as a welcomed daughter.
Constance B. Fink was raised as the pastor’s daughter of a large metropolitan
church in New Jersey. She has a degree in psychology from The King’s College in
New York, and has worked at Moody Bible Institute in Chicago, and in the
Counseling Center at Bradley University. She has also been director of Christian
education, church secretary, church librarian, and coordinator of several women’s
programs. Married for twenty years, she and her husband are currently members of a
quiet community and rural church in northwest Illinois. Her articles have appeared in
Bible Advocate’s Now What magazine, Voice Magazine, Charisma, New Wineskins,
Rest Ministries Newsletter, and local newspapers. Email Constance B. Fink
back to Hope Stories
© 2004 Dave and Merry Marinello, all rights reserved.
Welcome! Thanks for visiting our little "harbor" amid life's storms. We hope you
will find rest and encouragement in your struggles, big or small. Here you can:
will find rest and encouragement in your struggles, big or small. Here you can:
A Daughter Forever
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Hope is My Anchor
Strength for your soul amid life's storms
Strength for your soul amid life's storms