The Day I Was Knocked Off My Feet As we walk along the path of life, occasionally we get knocked off our feet. At these times, we are forced to forget about the tranquil life we have forged, and face the hard reality that things are out of our control. During these times, one realizes the importance of things previously taken for granted, and begins a reevaluation of the priorities that drive the constraints of life. I was knocked off my feet on May 5, 2007. It was a typical spring day in Nitro, West Virginia. The air was crisp, birds were singing and the flowers were in full bloom. To a casual observer, looking in to our home, things were ordinary and uneventful. This was not the case, however. My mother was not feeling well. She was showing the signs and symptoms of a heart attack. Because of this, I spent the entire day with my father. I always treasured the time I had with my Dad. He was an extraordinary man. If he wasn’t working or spending time with us, he was always helping someone. He was a deacon at our church and a lot of people depended on him for various types of things. My Dad was a “jack of all trades.” He literally could do almost anything. He was a carpenter by trade, but he also did electrical, plumbing, masonry, and even automotive painting and repairs! When he was sixteen, my Dad built his first car. One of my favorite memories of him took place over Thanksgiving 2005. We had invited several people over for dinner, and my mom asked, “Could you make me a table out of rough lumber to help with the seating?” He told her, “Let me see what I have in the building before I go to Lowe’s.” He was gone for about fifteen minutes. He came back into the house and mom asked him, “Do you need money to go to Lowe’s?” He asked her, “For what?” “You are supposed to buy things to make me a table!” “Oh,” he replied. “I already made it. Do you want me to bring it in now?” This was typical of my Dad. Making and building things was his element. This particular day, though, Dad was out of his element. He was taking care of my Mom, cleaning house, cooking and spending time with my brothers and me. I rode with my Dad to the pharmacy to buy some things for my Mom, and he seemed unusually stressed. He confided in me that he was worried about our finances and he was even more worried about my Mom. I remember feeling helpless. I wanted to encourage him like he always did for me. I tried my best to tell him everything would be okay. I reminded him that God has always taken care of us, and that I knew He would get us through this, too. I can vividly remember his uncanny smile, feel his reassuring hug, and remember the words he spoke. He told me that he was so proud of me. This is a memory I will remember for the rest of my life! That evening became even more special. Mom was resting and feeling better, so my brothers and I got to spend the entire evening with my Dad. We grilled hotdogs, watched movies, and spent the night laughing about stories that Dad was telling us about him growing up. When I went to sleep that night, I felt closer to my Dad than I had ever experienced in my entire life. It was as if God allowed that to happen to help me through what I was about to endure. I woke up to an eruptive chaos. I thought I was dreaming. I heard my Mom calling my father’s name! “Phillip!” To fevered to realize it was still night, my first reaction was that my Dad was late for work, and that Mom was trying to wake him. Then, I heard Mom calling out to him again, but this time there was a distinct panic in her voice. I leaped from my bed, straining to open my eyes. From the dining room, I could see my Mom performing CPR on my Dad. Panic raced through my body as the adrenaline pumped though my veins. I ran the steps, two at a time, to assist her. “Call 9-1-1!” Springing into action, I ran down the stairs, grabbed the phone and dialed 911. While I was still on the phone, I saw the flashing lights in the distance! “Thank you, God!” I cried. When I saw the ambulance, a sense of relief swept over me. Then, as quickly as the relief came, it left again. The ambulance had passed our road. We have an obscure address. Again, I felt panicked. “What was I supposed to do?” I couldn’t just stand there and watch my Mom struggling to keep my Dad alive. I felt I had to do something. It is literally a matter of life and death! But, what? Anything! All I could think to do was to start running after the ambulance. I found myself running, bare-footed, on the cold, wet pavement. I ran down the hill as fast as I could, not sure exactly how I was going to “catch” the ambulance. When I felt that all hope was lost, I saw another ambulance coming over the horizon. I waved my arms to gain their attention. When I caught my breath, I directed the paramedics to my house. Then, I started running back home. Relief, once again, flowed from my body. When I got there, to my surprise, the paramedics were not in the house yet. I started feeling anger building up in my heart. I rushed to my Mother’s side where she was still performing CPR. “He has a pulse!” she exclaimed. My Mother had somehow kept my Dad alive for seventeen minutes. She and I were both relieved when the paramedics finally made it up the stairs. They immediately started working on my Dad’s lifeless body, or so we thought. They were being very nonchalant and even making jokes with each other, as my brothers and I watched. There was no frenzied hurrying. There was no attempt to help my Dad. They were more concerned with how they were going to get him down the stairs than they were continuing the CPR that my Mom had administered. They asked my Mom “Why would anyone build such narrow steps?” I was thinking, “Who cares? Just save my dad!” They did not even attempt to save my Dad. He was gone. The world, as we knew it, had been knocked off its axis. The few hours following this is a blur to me. I cannot recall who came to the house or whether I ate. All I can remember is repeatedly asking God, “Why?” “Why would you take my Dad and leave my Mom with three special needs kids?” “Why would you take my best friend from me?” “Why would you take a man that is so kind, giving, loving and selfless and leave men on this earth that are mean, arrogant and selfish?” To this day, I still don’t have answers to those questions. Our world is slowly getting back on its axis. When I look back over that day in my life, I often wonder how my Mother so gracefully handled that situation. On the worst night in our entire lives, she was a pillar of strength that enabled us to endure that painful experience. Her calmness during that situation was somewhat eerie, yet at the same time gave us great comfort. She held us close and told us, “We cannot see it now, but somehow this is a blessing from God. Anything that draws us closer to God is a blessing.” Hardly shedding a tear, she was the calm reassurance that we needed to get through this terrible ordeal. This was our first, real dose of the harshness of life. By enduring this painful experience, I have gained a new respect for life. By this, I mean that I no longer hold grudges or take for granted the people who are placed in my life. I am quicker to forgive others and have a continuing awareness that what happens in life is not something we can control. I have to live each day like it may be my last and treasure the moments that are given to me. As for my Dad, I treasure the last day of his life, here on earth. It was a very special day for me. But, I also treasure the opportunity I had to be his son. Through my Dad, I learned what it means to be a husband and a father. I learned how to put others before myself. I learned how to listen to others and to seek God in every aspect of my life. The wisdom that I gained from him will last me an entire lifetime. When I was younger, I thought that my Dad and I were very different. As I get older, I catch myself saying and doing the exact things that he used to do. It always brings a smile to my face to know that I am becoming more like him. My Mom was right. I have grown closer to God through the experience of losing my Dad. God has given me many opportunities to minister to other people who have lost their fathers over the last few years. It is easier to console other people when I have walked the path that they are walking. By helping them get back up on their feet, I gain the strength to keep on walking my own path. All the while, knowing that some day, I will be knocked off my feet again. .