How does a good man die? We are given numerous examples in the Scriptures which serve as inspiration to those who call themselves Christians. My favorite is the account of King David's final hours, when he asked that his beloved son Solomon be brought to his chambers. There, in the presence of witnesses, a father offered his concluding words of advice to the young man he had designated to succeed him. We can be certain that the statements made on that occasion carried great significance, for David was obviously conveying eternal truths to his son. A man is seldom casual or frivolous when staring death in the face. Thus, these words represent a summation of all that David believed and loved:
And thou, Solomon my son, know thou the God of thy father, and serve him with a perfect heart and with a willing mind: for the Lord searcheth all hearts, and understandeth all the imaginations of the thoughts: if thou seek him, he will be found of thee; but if thou forsake him, he will cast thee off forever (1 Chron. 28:9, KJV, emphasis added).
Every son should be so fortunate as to receive such profound advice from his father. Those sixty words contain all that a young man or woman should know to live a successful and meaningful life. Notice the precision of David's words. He did not instruct Solomon to get to know about God. He told him to become acquainted directly with God. The distinction is vital (I may know about Jimmy Carter and George Washington and Albert Einstein but I have never met them face to face). I am also impressed by David's reference to God's judgment for those who disobey His commandments: "But if thou forsake Him, He will cast thee off forever." That warning has eternal implications for you and me, as well.
We've seen how King David approached the benediction of his life on earth. Let me, now, offer a more contemporary example of how a good man dies. It is fitting that I devote these concluding words to my own father. He provided the inspiration for the entire book, as you must know by this point.
The last chapter in the life of my dad begins at Eastertime 1977; when my parents came to visit Shirley and me in California. I took several days off work and spent that time in pleasant conversation with our loved ones. At one point, I turned to my dad and asked spontaneously, "What do you want for an epitaph at the close of your life?"
He thought briefly and then replied, "Only two words: 'He prayed.'" I can think of no phrase that better summarized his devotion to God and the daily communion he maintained with Him. It is fitting that his final act on earth was to ask for God's blessing on the meal that had been prepared. Accordingly, those two words, "He prayed," appear on his footstone today.
I then turned to my mother and asked, "What epitaph do you want on your tombstone?" She has a rich sense of humor and immediately responded, "I told you I was sick!"
Her remark reminded me of the eighty-year-old man who said, "If I'd have known I was gonna live so long I'd have taken better care of myself!"
We enjoyed that week of laughter and fellowship with my parents, having no idea, of course, that this was to be the last trip my father would take. The clock was ticking down toward zero, with only eight months remaining.
Later in the year, as death approached, my dad was to experience two concluding revelations from God that moved him deeply. I learned about the first in a telephone conversation in September. We were talking about my upcoming television series and various topics of mutual interest. Then suddenly Dad said, "Well, there's one thing I know. God is going to take care of your mother."
I replied, "Yes, I'm sure He will," but wondered why he had chosen that occasion to make such a statement. Five days later, he suffered his near-fatal heart attack.
As my mother and I sat in the hospital waiting for news of his progress, I remembered his strange comment on the telephone. I shared his words with my mother and asked if she understood why he had chosen to tell me about her secure future.
"I know what he meant," she replied. She then told me that two weeks earlier, my dad had been resting on the bed while she worked around the room. She glanced at him and noticed that there were tears in his eyes.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
He paused for a few seconds and then said, "The Lord just spoke to me."
"Do you want to tell me about it?" she continued.
"It was about you!" replied my dad.
"Then you'd better tell me!" she said.
"It was a strange experience," said my dad. "I was just lying here thinking about many things. I wasn't praying or even thinking about you when the Lord spoke to me and said, 'I'm going to take care of Myrtle.'" They looked at each other in awe, wondering what it meant.
Five days later, they experienced the most severe trauma of their lives, and eighty-four days hence, my mother learned the meaning of widowhood.
Although many months have passed since the death of my father on that cold December day, the Lord's promise has not been forgotten. I won't impose all the details on you. Let it simply be known that the God of my father has comforted, provided for, and sustained the woman he left behind.
Of course, she still grieves for the man she loved. There is no painless way to lose a constant companion and friend of forty-three years. The early evening hours are especially lonely, and my mother has used them to write poetry to the memory of her husband. I especially appreciated the following piece which she permitted me to share with you:
I Thought I Saw You Today
I thought I saw you today.
Standing with your hands in your pockets.
Laughing, the wind playing mischievously
with your hair.
My heart lunged toward you as
You disappeared, leaving a total stranger
standing there.
How could I have imagined the
man to be my darling . . .
My precious darling.
Myrtle Dobson
It is the nature of things that most married women will eventually become widows. Thus, I'm sure that millions of women would understand perfectly the heartache my mother was conveying with these brief words.
Book: Straight Talk To Men
By Dr. James Dobson