It is after 2 in the morning. Normally I don’t sleep like a baby, which means I sleep really, really well, even if I do sometimes burn the candle way past the midnight oil. Wake me up, shake me, ask me “are you sleeping?”and I’ll grunt, smile, and turn over to sleep yet again.

Not this night. Apart from the stifling heat – which I should be used to, coming from the Little Karoo – the wind has picked up and is howling. I start worrying about things: Wipe Out, wiped out (again)?, Dianne’s birthday gift which still needs to be assembled before the day begins in all earnest, the cost of a tank of fuel (R600 to fill her up now), the men’s camp (will it rain out – yet again?),  a colleauge that does not smile like she used to… And my dad.

Yes, that’s it. It has become an obsession: what, why, when, how, and again – how…

I literally feel the logisticts and emotions overwhelm me. He is being discharged today.

How will he/we cope? Will he suffer much? Will we be able to handle him delicately enough so that he is comfortable in the circumstances? Will there be time for me to tell him how I love him with an indescribable love? Will he be coherent enough to put his hand on my head and bless me with an impartation of his gentle spirit? Will he go gasping for every breath, as my biological dad did? Will he lose his mind, like my stepdad did? Will he go gently into that good night, as Dylan Thomas so eloquintly put it, or will he rage against the dying of the light?

I don’t want this good man to go without a fight; I want to see him hold on to life. For Jeanne, for my mom, for us… But then I want him to go. To be at peace. To go peacefully and gently into the light – not that dying light, but the bright light that is God’s presence.

I am reminded of the epiphany I had last week. Do I trust God FOR His way, or do I trust Him IN His way?

As the minutes tick away, I hear Erwin’s song over and over… God will make a way; He’ll make a way for me. 

In my spirit I tiptoe to his bedside, kiss him, and release him to the Father to go towards the light; to go into that good night.


Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


About Minette

I am mother of four, wife of one, jane of all trades, master of none.
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