The snow crunches beneath my feet on the way home. Still falling, it muffles the sounds of the city: cars, people, voices. Others walk past on the other side of the street, talking quietly. A car drives slowly by looking for a place to park. From the windows of the houses and apartments, light filters out through closed drapes. I can see the colored reflections of a television in a second-story window. And from above, snowflakes continue to drift wearily down.

Entering our apartment, I find the television keeping company with no one. Blinds having been already drawn, I shut the television off. The room is quiet, still, and empty. I sink into the chair. My thoughts drift wearily off. Mom called on Saturday. She had been to a nursing seminar the day before on grief, death, and dying. Her voice was drawn, carrying a weight that can't be seen. "It was a heavy day," she said. "They asked each of us as we sat in a large circle to tell of someone we lost. One woman lost her father, her brother, and her husband all in one year." She stopped talking for a moment. "And Steve asked me down to his birthday party last night. But I just couldn't go, not without Ernie. It was such a heavy day." Her voice fell off, and in the silence, I could hear her tears.

On Sunday night, I called my brother, Harry. He was getting over the flu; his voice was hoarse and somber. "I want to talk to you about something sometime," he said. "Do you think that Mom is keeping that house for us kids? I know they had a lot of dreams, but she won't be able to finish them."

I can see the house just as it had been. His shoes are still lying on the floor, change scattered on his cluttered desk, wallet and comb left where he had laid them. On the end-table lies his cowboy hat that he always wore when he rode the tractor. His shop down in the garage is still cluttered, tools that he used scattered on the floor, the five-gallon can of old nuts, bolts, and screws tipped over on the concrete-where he searched for that last bolt needed. Everywhere is his presence, in the garage where he and Mom had lived out of a small camper while he put up sheetrock in the house, in the downstairs family room where we sat and watched Quincy saving the world and Rockford receiving another black eye. There beneath the stove is the brick hearth that he had so carefully built on the windowsill his collection of Snoopies that his sister Lilly had given him. He had kept them there as a memorial-something close-after she had slipped away in her sleep. "She's not going to want to give up that house, Harry," I said. "His presence is everywhere in that house. It was their home."

I remember back to when I was little. Late at night in the dormitory, while lying in bed, my thoughts went towards home. The sounds of the Tokyo night-of distant cars hurrying home, occasionally honking, and voices just down the hall-hushed and quiet-kept time with the ticking of a clock on the dresser. People would walk by casting shadows across the curtains, maybe hurrying home from a late-night of preparing the next day's food in the school cafeteria. And then off in the distant, the blare of a train's horn would rise above the other sounds of the night. Approaching the crossing next to the school, the train would sound its horn, first rising-then falling, warping on sheer speed as it passed by so close. The sound of the horn and the rhythmic chatter of the wheels on the tracks always called to me of home-of going home.

There came a time when Harry was old enough to take us to the boarding school in Tokyo by himself. Dad would bring us to the train station. While he stood and waited for the train to pull out of the station, we'd talk through the open window. Through the tears, my sister and I would peer out-at a blurry world-and Dad would reach into his pocket for his extra handkerchief. Wiping the tears away, I'd stow the handkerchief in my pocket later to hide under my pillow, a memory of something close during the late nights. And then, when the train would begin to pull out of the station, Dad would run alongside the train, faster and faster, waving at us-then the platform would come to an end. We'd press our faces hard against the cold glass to catch one last glimpse of him standing there waving-hand held high over head.

I recall when Dad was on the Board at Christian Academy. He would drive us to school early Monday morning, getting us out of bed at 4:30. On the way, we'd eat hard-boiled eggs and eat sandwiches that had lumps of cold butter stuck in the bread. When we arrived at school, Dad would go to his meeting, an all-day task, and we would go to our classes. When school was out, I'd run to the office. Standing on tippy-toes, I'd peer over frosted windows to catch a glimpse of Dad listening intently to the grown-up's important business. Sometimes several hours would pass, while I stood there waiting-and then Dad would come out. He had a long drive home, but sometimes he would eat dinner with us at the cafeteria. Other times Dad was tired. I stood and waved as he drove away.

Years later, when Nancy and I were coming to Chicago to attend seminary, the last morning before leaving our families met at Denny's by the freeway. Dad and Mom were there, and my brother Harry. Nancy's father and mother were also there, along with her grandmother and her best friend, Randi. I sat gingerly poking at the egg on my plate with my fork, trying hard to gulp down coffee-along with the floodgates of the heart. Our conversation was forced. We talked about our plans for the trip, how many days it would take. All along, I was trying to guzzle in as much of that place and those people as I could, knowing that our lives would never again have the same sense of home, the same sense of friends and family. Here we were sitting in the same Denny's where I sat with a group of alcoholics after an A.A. meeting, listening to a woman speak of a marriage broken, of struggles with coping, and of even staying sane. Or here I had eaten with Dad and a couple who came out all the way from Chicago so that Dad could marry them. And in the bargain, they both accepted the Lord Jesus.

Time was waning. Long stretches of hard pavement lay ahead, where every mile would take us farther and farther away from the ones who were like life itself. We gulped down the last bit of coffee, finished off the last crust of toast, wiping up the last bit of egg yolk from off the plate. We went outside and stood in a little group by our car and trailer. Everyone came and gathered around. As if the moments were too much to bear, one of us brought out our Farside calendar. We laughed-tenuously. Hugs were quickly grabbed, loved ones held tight for a moment, never wanting to let any of them go. Misty eyes met for long seconds. No words, but "I'll miss you! I love you." Then we quickly climbed in the car and fastened the seat belts, strapped to a purpose and call that we had yet to realize. I ground the gears as the over gladdened car eased into first. We circled the parking lot, coming out onto the road that I had often traveled home from work late at night. And then making a left at the light, we drove back by the Denny's. Our families stood huddled in a small group by where we had left them. As we passed by, they all raised their hands above their heads-waving. The floodgates broke.

Three weeks later, while amid summer Greek, we got the phone call. Dad had cancer. Memories of him standing there came sweeping in. Little did I know how much of a goodbye that was to be.

We went home that next spring. Dad had seemed better. At the airport in Seattle, when we first got off the plane, the first thing Dad said to me was, "It's growing again. We didn't want to tell you until after you finished your finals." Words hit with such shock, wave after wave that dissipates but never go away. I sat with Mom and Dad the next week at the doctor's office. He came in to give us his report. "Ernie, we received the test results back. There's nothing more that we can do for you. Chemotherapy might have a chance of stopping the pain, but it won't stop the cancer. There's nothing more to do." He stood and walked out of the room. Dad and Mom and I sat silent, dumbfounded at words with no hope. "This hurts!" I ventured. Tears welled up in our eyes. No more words came out.

The night before returning to seminary in Chicago, I was up late packing. When I went to brush my teeth, I saw a light on downstairs. It was about 1:00 a.m. in the morning. I went down the stairs to find Dad sitting in his chair, grimacing from the pain. We sat and talked.

The next morning as we got ready to board the plane, I didn't know if I would see Dad again. We embraced. And then turning Nancy and I walked down the long, boarding corridor, our hands tightly gripped together. We sat on the plane for over an hour while mechanics worked on one of the engines. Our window looked out on the terminal. I could see Dad and Mom standing there with Nancy's parents-silhouettes in the shadows as if already fading away.

In the Autumn, when leaves are turning their brightest colors, preparing for their descent to the earth, Dad and Mom came out to visit. Dad was gaunt and pale, his face ashen and hollow, like a man who had aged too quickly. He sat on our couch in Lund house, saying little. Dad was so tired. We walked to the seminary, where he sat in the chapel while I showed Mom our classrooms. I imagine he didn't say a prayer. No, his life was a prayer. He had sat years before in these hallowed halls, preparing for all that lay ahead; now, he sat hallowed by the years, hallowed by the grace of the One that would soon catch him in strong, gentle arms. The next day we had dinner with Harry and Gladys Westberg. He smiled and laughed. Old friends brought out a former younger spirit.

At the airport, when the days had melted away like frost on the glass, we took a ride on an airport passenger carrier. Dad was too tired and sick to walk. We sat waiting for the announcer to break in with a tinny speaker voice to invite passengers to board. Dad said little. This was the man who leapt tall fences with a single bound, who raced and chased and beat us clear into his sixties. This was the man who carried six suitcases by himself on our way home from boarding school each week, the one who picked up refrigerators by himself-as if he was a one-man moving company. I can still see the boyish glint in his eyes, "You know, dynamite comes in small packages." Now he sat silent.

Two weeks later, I was standing in our bathroom, shaving, getting ready to fly back to Washington to spend the last few moments with the last of the two who brought me into this world. The night before I prayed fervently, "Lord let me see him alive. Let me make it home." Now at 6:30 in the morning, a voice raised its weary cry to heaven, "Let him go home. I don't need to see him. Let him go home." Five minutes later the phone rang. "Dad's gone."

My father had a dream. He told a group of ministers in Tacoma-but he didn't tell me. One of the men in the group, Jim Larson, had a son at the seminary. Andy Larson told me on the sidewalk outside Lund house. He told me that my dad's dream was to see me ordained and commissioned as a missionary to Japan. On that day was another mile of concrete in a long-time goodbye.

And so, we dream, snowflakes drifting down in moments of stillness, when hope and life and power and love meet us, beckoning us to come and follow, dreams left behind like pools of melting snow. Yet the One who has given me this hope and life and love moves on up ahead, not so far that I lose sight, but not so close that I have time to sit wearily down and melt.

Goodbye, Dad. Thank you!