“It was a bad bleed.” The doctor sitting in front of us was describing my 54 year old father, who had just suffered a stroke. “Because it was hours before they found him to get medical help, his prospect for surviving is 50-50. But, his ability to function, if he survives, is even lower.”

The words rang in my ears but they could not take full force yet. It was 2:30 am. All six siblings from different marriages gathered in the OHSU trauma ward. This was our dad. My oldest brother, Dan, and I had been praying for his salvation for years. And even more fervently since high school when we made a pact to pray, “Whatever it takes, God…show him his need for You.” No, it couldn’t end this way, something deep within was assured me. This can’t be how it ends.

Dad was unconscious for 28 days. Once I was speaking with a Christian nurse asking what his chances of survival were. Standing by Dad’s bedside, I faced her as she tried to encourage me, “You just never know, people can be in a coma a long time and just come out of it.”

“He doesn’t know God yet. I’m sure God will have mercy.” As I spoke, Dad put his hand on my shoulder. It scared me. But, the thrill of him making any movement brought hope to my soul.

Once out of his coma, he desperately wanted rehabilitation. Insurance would not pay for therapy unless he had a home to go to after rehab. “Come live with us,” I said wholeheartedly with our one-year-old son in my arms. 

“I don’t want to be a burden,” he said, looking at Levi and back at me.

One month at the Good Samaritan rehab center and Dad was on his way home with me. After being a chiropractor for over 25 years, Dad was used to going places and meeting people. He was the life of the party and had been the president of the Chiropractic Association for Oregon. Now he was in a wheel chair with only 20 percent use of his right side. This would be a tough adjustment. He was happy to get out of the hospital that mild February day.

As we drove home, I couldn’t help but rethink the occupational therapist’s words, “Young children and stroke patients don’t fare well together…nerves, you know.” Great, my husband and our four boys, ages seven and under, were full of energy. “What are you doing, God?” I didn’t want to doubt Him without at least trying. Besides, this is what we had prayed for, Life. God gave Dad life and now an opportunity to bless and be with him on a daily basis. His Scientology friends had all ditched him. He and his current wife had divorced just months before the stroke. Two days before the stroke my oldest brother Dan begged us to be praying. Saying, “Dad is moving to the Scientology headquarters in California. Melinda, we have to pray. I’ve been there. I’m telling you it will be the last of Dad as we know him.” Surely God was up to something, maybe even answering the, Whatever it takes prayers.

My dear husband, David prepared our home for Dad’s arrival. We had just decorated the nursery in a Pooh Bear theme. David moved the crib-sized bunk bed to the downstairs boy’s room. It would be a little squished, but they would manage. In went a hospital bed for Dad, right under the Pooh Bear boarder.

Dad adjusted well, ate every meal with us, retreated to his room as needed, and patiently worked with the in-home therapists. Longing for an outing besides a doctor’s appointment, Dad joined us for church. David made the sacrifice to treat us to a meal out, every Sunday! Something about the combo made cherished memories.

“I’m not Christian, I’m just watching…” Dad said to me one day.

“That’s fine.” I smiled. In twelve months Dad met with a dear friend of ours. Pastor Rick answered his questions about Scientology and the Bible. They began meeting weekly. By spring he wanted to be baptized. So, with Pastor Rick and my Brother Dan’s help they wheeled him into Hagg Lake. With all his friends and family watching he professed the name of Christ as his Savior that sunny March day. My soul leapt for joy to watch him cast off all that had meant so much to him, to name the name of Christ!

Dad has always been a giver, not a taker. So as soon as he was able he said, “I want to do the dishes…every meal.” And he did, left handed. Being a busy mama of littles, it wasn’t always easy to get alone time with Dad. We made a house rule that while Gramps was in the kitchen, short of a necessity the kitchen and Mama were not available. It was in this setting that my dad began sharing with me the Bible stories he was listening to each morning.

I wanted to giggle. My Dad, I grew up seeing only every other weekend, now was living in my home, doing my dishes, and telling me Bible stories. God was making up for the years the locust had eaten.

Then it happened, January in the wee hours of the morning, in the middle of a snow storm, our sweet son Andrew was born. Dad held him that morning with joy. Without the stroke he would not be here for this precious moment. The weather kept the outside world away. But inside, God was making up for lost time.

It has been sixteen years since Dad’s stroke. David built him an addition. Dad’s health has improved a great deal. He enjoys cooking man style—smoking chicken or salmon for the family. Several of our little ones have learned to read by practicing with Grandpa. The other half of our tribe has been born since Dad moved in. Here I thought he was coming so we could bless Him. The other day he told me the reason God still had him here on the earth was to help us with our growing busy family. He still does our dishes and visits with me while we work in the kitchen together. I knew God was big, but I didn’t know He would care to work so specifically and practically in our lives. He deserves our abandoned devotion. For truly He can do exceedingly abundantly above all that we could ask or think (from Eph. 3:20.)