Preston Gillham

This generations’ most famous atheist is dead today. Christopher Hitchens passed yesterday at age 62.

He gambled to the end that he was right about there being no God. Now he knows for sure, something he asserted vehemently that was not knowable in this life.

Joel Siegel of ABC News writes of Hitchens:

“Hitchens became the public face of atheism. Critics assumed his cancer diagnosis, in 2010, would lead Hitchens to relent and embrace God. But he remained a proud non-believer to the very end, as he made clear in an early October 2011 speech at the annual Atheist Alliance of America convention in Houston, as he accepted the Freethinker of the Year Award. His body gaunt from the ravages of cancer, Hitchens said, ‘We have the same job we always had: to say that there are no final solutions; there is no absolute truth; there is no supreme leader; there is no totalitarian solution that says if you would just give up your freedom of inquiry, if you would just give up, if you would simply abandon your critical faculties, the world of idiotic bliss can be yours.’”

Lots of humanity in that quote, huh? Lots of misconceptions about what becoming a Believer means. Lots of hostility. Lots of strong words—too strong.

Strong words can belie doubt. Not always, of course. But I’m just saying: the superlatives in Hitchens’ acceptance speech caught my attention.

Lots of Christianity’s brightest minds debated Hitchens, ostensibly believing that by intellectual argument they could convince heartfelt assent. Apologetics are for Believers. Unbelief isn’t about belief at all. Unbelief is a conflict of wills—the divine in tension with the human.

Life and death are a wager. Pascal said in essence, if I believe in God, and govern my life according to that belief, only to die and discover I was mistaken—i.e., there is no God—then what have I lost? On the other hand, if I live a life of unbelief, and die to discover I was wrong, then I have lost all eternity.

I can’t help but wonder this morning: Does Christopher Hitchens live today only in his legacy or somewhere more profound?

It is now twenty-nine days since Dad/Bill died of complications due to Parkinson’s disease. In these intervening days hundreds of you have written to express your grief, joy, reminiscences, condolence to my brothers and me, and your affection for Dad, Mom, and our family. Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart on behalf of us all.

In your notes you have also spoken about transformation—transformation of life, marriage, outlook—that has occurred while living alongside the ministry of Dad and Mom. I’m happy for you, thrilled that through knowing Dad and Mom you have more fully grasped the height, and depth, and breadth of Jesus Christ who is your life and love.

It is true that Dad has departed this life and joined those who went before him, including of course, Mom seven months ago. It is also true, as Larry Norman sang, all of us are “only visiting this planet.” Sooner than we might think, we too will depart this temporal to fully apprehend our eternal.

In the meantime, Dad and Mom left a legacy. Now it is your turn—our turn, those of us who remain—to leave a legacy.

One of the things we worked very hard to manage at Lifetime Guarantee, the ministry Dad, and Mom, and I founded many years ago, was the personalization of the ministry. It is very hard to be personal with a large mailing list, but based upon your notes, we were successful. Many of you posted on the Lifetime memorial page about letters you received, dinners enjoyed, and even serendipitous meetings with Mom or Dad. You spoke of notes written on pages of books, cell phone numbers exchanged, hugs in lieu of handshakes, and so forth. You wrote about radio broadcasts heard in the middle of the night that were “just for you.” The archives at Lifetime are filled with hundreds more such notes received over the last thirty-five years.

Mom and Dad and I each had visible presences on the platform of Lifetime Guarantee, but Mom and Dad were the more visible face of Lifetime, I more the one pulling levers behind the curtain of the organization. As we positioned ourselves to launch into ministry via radio, we convened a strategic meeting in which we determined to not use any illustrations, or make any references, to current events while on the air. Our hope was to create a legacy of ministry material that was timeless. Twenty years later I run into folks who ask if Bill and Anabel record each day or each week.

When we assembled ourselves in Houston to partner with Mars Hill Productions to create “The Life” video, each person in the audience, especially the ladies, was coiffed to eliminate “high style” and any other physical feature that would cause the video to age prematurely. We carefully chose Mom and Dad’s attire, worked on Mom’s hair, Dad’s glasses and lapels, and the decoration in the room to create a classic style that would stand the test of time. Many, many of you have written to say that you continue to use “The Life” long after similar products have gone out of style.

As technology changed, so did Lifetime—in order to foster a legacy of ministry. All of the audio materials created through Lifetime were converted to digital formats. Today, the audio ministry of Bill and Anabel and me reaches a potential listening audience many, many times greater than our radio broadcasts did at their zenith. Every product—audio, video, and written—was digitized against decay and for dissemination across multiple platforms.

Another standard at Lifetime, one of our stated core competencies, was simplicity and practicality through personal transparency. Our belief was that we could best encourage you, and guide you on life’s path, through not only teaching but also showing. There are lots of diagrams and illustrations, but there are many life-stories. We all need information, but in the end, we all need an example.

Mom is gone, dead on November 7, 2010. And Dad is gone, dead on June 23, 2011. I transitioned Lifetime, the Board of Directors, and myself on August 31, 2008 to the next generation of leadership. The ministry of Lifetime continues, but more to my point in this note is that there remains a legacy of ministry, a legacy rooted in simplicity, personal transparency, ageless relevance, practicality, and the message of Jesus Christ’s transformational power.

Yes, Mom and Dad are gone, but they left you—all of us—many tools standardized to the key element for successful living: Christ in you and through you the hope of glory.

Yes, there is a mailing list of significant size at Lifetime, but our Heavenly Father doesn’t measure success by the size of a mailing list. You know that. Dad taught you this with his egg illustration. Remember? Size isn’t what’s most important, not even results. What is most important is methodology.

My point? You know the methodology of ministry. Dad taught it to you, we demonstrated it for you, and Lifetime diligently created resources to equip you for ministry. The legacy you celebrate as you recall Bill and Anabel is a legacy that you can—that you must—access and possess and share with others, just as you have been taught, and have seen, and have witnessed in us.

My brothers and I, our families, and the ministry of Lifetime are deeply grateful for your attention to our loss and a grief that will never be assuaged in this life. But life proceeds. We are transients, just visiting this planet. Our highest calling is first to trust in Him who is life, grace, truth, mercy, and wisdom from God. Our greatest privilege is to transfer our calling to others, and in so doing, create a legacy rooted in Life.

There are many hundreds of audio messages at Lifetime.org. You can listen and learn for the rest of your days. There are hundreds of pages of written resources, a daily devotional, and many hundreds of articles on an array of subjects that are all indexed. All of this is part of the legacy created at Lifetime Ministries for you to draw upon as you grow, and live, and transfer yourself to others.

Although I have transitioned myself from Lifetime and into a new phase of professional life, I post thoughts and writings at my website, PrestonGillham.com. I publish books and materials here as well. In fact, my latest book, “No Mercy,” is a work of fiction designed to demonstrate the battle that rages between the flesh and the spirit. But the story of “No Mercy” doesn’t end there. This adventure of a King and his two sons demonstrates the victory that is ours in Christ Jesus. In the main character, Hank, there is an example to follow.

Dad and Mom and I, and the ministry of Lifetime, would be heartbroken if we ever had any inkling that you ran aground, lost your way, or turned away because our lives on Earth have progressed toward change and death. Seize the day! Our remaining time is short. It was only “yesterday” that Dad and I signed the formation papers for Lifetime Guarantee. Immerse yourself in the open legacy available to you and join those whose feet are upon the road to greater revelations of victory.

Thank you again for writing in memory of my Dad. He finished well midst very difficult circumstances. I miss him terribly, but I wouldn’t return him to this place for anything. Instead, I will go to him—we shall go to him, as well as those who come after us.

Teacher. Communicator. Funny. Compliment to Anabel. Founder. Writer. Media personality. These are quick descriptors for Dad—or, Bill, to all but two of you.

I remember sitting between Dad and Mr. McCann—Preston McCann, one of Dad’s best friends and the man whose name I carry—on many Friday nights watching a high school football game somewhere in Oklahoma. I was engulfed between two giants in my life and was consumed occasionally with cigar smoke from Dad’s stogie.

Dad was informed later on, by well-meaning folks, shortly after becoming a follower of Jesus Christ, that it wasn’t proper for a Christian to smoke cigars—not even at a ball game. So he quit in honor of his reputation and in response to his desire to do right by his Savior.

As I think about it, it strikes me ironic that one of my most vivid memories—celebrated recollections—of Dad is the smell of his cigar. He and I founded what would become Lifetime Guarantee Ministries in the late 70’s and were partners in ministry and business for thirty years. We marched in many campaigns, fought many battles, influenced hosts, created best sellers, and formed wonderful legacies, but my first memory is a smell that wafts readily across the savannah of my mind in Dad’s absence.

When Mom passed in November she was alone. Alone in the sense that no one was with her, holding her hand. How could we have been unless by happenstance? She was alone for less than ten minutes. I received a call and went to her vacated side. Death had not yet turned cold.

I received a call regarding Dad as well. It was June 22^nd at 1:30 in the afternoon. But let me back up two steps.

I’ve met with a group of men for sixteen years. Every Wednesday morning, 832 times, we have gathered at Scott Walker’s office to drink coffee, read a book together, discuss our concerns and our victories, and then to hold hands around the conference table and pray. On June 22^nd, a few minutes before 6:00 AM, one of my Wednesday buddies, Lamar, rang me on Skype from New York to say that Scott was dead. His heart quit cataclysmically on the precipice between Tuesday night and Wednesday morning.

My Wednesday buddies and I—all except for Lamar who was traveling in New York and Scott who was with Jesus—gathered in the corner of a downstairs room at Colonial, drank coffee, and collected our thoughts, such as they were, such as they could be given our grievous loss. We prayed the best we could, staccato thoughts, trusting the Spirit within would fill in the gaps.

I left Colonial shell shocked. In my truck, I put my head on the steering wheel and sobbed convulsively until the reservoir of tears reserved for such a time was empty. I lifted my head, wiped my eyes with my palms, and my nose with the back of my hand. I nodded with little embarrassment to a lady in the car next to me who observed my grief while talking on her phone, backed out of my parking spot, and drove to visit Dad as was my custom.

Dad had a cough and wasn’t doing as well as he had been on Tuesday. Dad had good days and not-so-good days. To me, this was one of the latter, until I visited with Dee, Dad’s hospice nurse. She was concerned Dad had aspirated food into his lungs.

The version of Parkinson’s Dad suffered made his muscles stiff. Early on, Dad began to shuffle when he walked, then began slurring his speech. He lost his ability to write, eventually his eyes quit following words on a page and he could no longer read. Jackie, Dad’s nurse at the care facility—and truth is, my care giver as well—helped me understand: “Preston, at some point Doc will lose his ability to swallow,” she had told me months earlier.

In retrospect, I thought I understood what Jackie told me about death due to Parkinson’s, but I didn’t really—until Wednesday, June 22, 2011. When Dee and Jackie said they suspected Dad had aspirated, I shook my head. “What’s that?”

They were graceful in their explanation. I wish I could recall how they worded it so I could provide the same grace for you, but I can’t.

Their words aligned in my unsophisticated mind into this: They suspected Dad was coughing because he had sucked food into his lungs. His body was creating mucous to isolate the foreign body—just as it would do a bacteria or virus in the lungs. If they were correct, the mucous designed to isolate the foreign body would progressively compromise the efficiency of his lungs to the point of death, death by pneumonia.

Jackie and Dee both hugged me, told me they would let me know the test results, and ensured themselves that I was okay before they let me go. It was 11:30 Wednesday morning.

I ran errands and went to the chiropractor to get my head screwed back on straight. I filled the truck up with gas. At 1:30 I was in the Costco parking lot when Dee called to say Dad was declining rapidly. When I hung up the phone, Dee had defined my next steps: summon my brothers.

Dad stabilized that afternoon, and remained so. The nurse’s report was the same at my bedtime as it had been when I left Dad late in the afternoon.

Jackie called Thursday morning at 6:15. In the night Dad rapidly resumed his exit from this life.

I saw the arrival of the continuous care nurse Thursday morning. I witnessed Dad’s care givers come into his room. A giant of a man, Darshay, Dad’s aide came in to see him on his day off. He bent over Dad, addressed him as “Doc,” patted him, then engulfed me in his black arms for reassurance before turning to the door. The housekeeping lady with orange hair and piercings, Alissa, stopped her cart and came in to  stroke Dad’s hair. Joanne, who gave Dad his baths and trimmed his nails, kissed him on the head, knelt and prayed over him. Samuel, the night nurse from Kenya, whom Dad called Obama, came in early.

Jackie came into Dad’s room in ten-minute intervals. Each time, she hugged me, checked Dad, confirmed his vital signs with the continuous care nurse, and then kissed Dad on the head before leaving to tend to her duties. Ten minutes later she would return. She stayed late.

One by one they all came, called him “Doc” and spoke affection into his “good” ear, the ear with the hearing aide. Word spread. They held my hand, stood next to me. Caring.

Dee was insistent that Dad have his hearing aide in his ear—especially in his turn toward death’s door. Dee’s a tiny lady, at least in stature, but she put her hands on my shoulders, checked to be certain I was okay (she knew about Scott’s passing), and guided me so I wouldn’t suffer regret later over what should have been—could have been—said to Dad. She ordered his hearing aide battery changed and the device checked to be certain Dad had every advantage and provision for his journey.

As he progressed toward death I told Dad everything was under control, cared for, and in order. “It’s okay to make your exit, Dad. We’ll be okay here. I’ll see to it.” I told him he was finishing well, told him to tell our twins in heaven, Alex and Anna, hello and that we would be along soon.

Dad’s chest ceased to rise and fall. The nurse listened for his heart. “Is he gone? Is that it?” I asked, and Susan nodded.

Dad slipped away at 3:18 on Thursday afternoon, June 23, 2011. Dianne held his right hand, I held his left. Another of my Wednesday buddies, John, who had lost his best friend in Scott a day earlier, had his hand on my shoulder when Dad’s earthsuit breathed its last.

The care givers, those divine humans who fence daily with death, referred to Dad’s gaze as “fixed.” That was the term they needed for their charts—to satisfy the suits in the carpeted offices. After she charted Dad’s condition, Jackie turned to me, “Doc is looking at something. Maybe it’s Anabel. Maybe it’s Jesus. He sees something. I can tell you that much.” She edged close and I put my arm around her.

Jackie is an Oklahoma girl, one of two that cared for Dad. Jackie is moving back to Oklahoma, Leflore, Oklahoma, eighty miles from where Mom and Dad, and my brother, Mason, are buried. Jackie’s husband has already moved. She has shortened vacations and delayed moving “until Doc was gone.” She called two days ago to check on me, to cry with me, to share our loss. Where does one gain a heart possessing this capacity, I wonder?

I have gained mercy since September 2010. That’s when the odyssey of Mom and Dad’s passing began. I didn’t know I was gaining mercy. The first inkling I had of this was in the emergency room of Baylor hospital as I sat beside Mom’s fractured body on October 2, 2010. This infusion can only be Father’s provision as is necessary.

I use the word “gained” on purpose. I know I am the recipient of mercy, but now that I’m gaining mercy I am realizing I didn’t know what mercy was inside of me. As you would expect, I received many things from Mom and Dad, but the final gift of their lives was the opportunity to find and exercise mercy.

I can’t explain mercy to you yet—maybe not ever—not that you need me to or expect me to. It is akin to blessing, but seems at this point to be the fuel, the driving force, the passion of blessing. It’s good, no doubt due to divine providence, that I can’t write about or talk about mercy yet. It is better that I live with it for a while before I intellectualize it and reduce it into words.

When Dad died, I put my head on his still chest and cried. I wasn’t sad that he was gone. The last four months were hell for him and everyone around him. I’d asked Father to take him, even gotten a bit irritated that He had not. Dad needed out of the physical mess he was in, at least it seemed so to me.

It is sixteen days since Dad died. I’m still not certain which tears belong to Dad’s passing and which belong to Scott’s. I’ve delayed writing, thinking I could distinguish the drops that have formed a river. To no avail.

I’ve wondered the last sixteen days—wondered about these tears that come over me at the most inopportune times. Why would I cry over my Dad’s completed freedom?

I have taken some time to retreat into the mountains, to walk in the afternoon showers, and to stand in the rush of a snow-melt stream and fly fish. I’ve done this because I’m exhausted, and fragile, and tender, and am a man suffering. I’ve gone away to these environs because they are raw, unadulterated, and straightforward. I know this geography as a place of comfort. The nuance of regular life makes too much noise when I need to sort through my soul.

I’ve concluded that my tears are about finality. There will be no more memories made with Dad. I’ll have to make do with the ones I have until I make my own passage and we pick up over there, beyond this orb debauched by the Fall. But there are enough memories for the remainder of my lifetime.

When he died, the bell tolled for my Dad, my professional partner, my friend, and my colleague. There is a whole lot of loss in that sentence. But, it is okay. It is a rich legacy.

Some years ago I sat in the living room of my friends, Latchezar and Lucy Popov, in Sofia, Bulgaria drinking a glass of wine and talking of our families. Being the same age, we shared the same future: our parents were soon to be gone. Latcho said, “You know, Preston. We are soon to be orphans in this world.”

I’d never thought of myself as an orphan before, until Latcho said that, but he was right. His words returned to me after Dad entered the care facility and Mom was dead. I leaned back in my chair at the recollection and considered that identification: orphan.

Orphan! A phrase from Father’s book came to mind: “I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you.”

I wrote His pledge on a sticky note. I pasted it next to my computer as a comfort until it peeled away due to wear.

I fished Homestake Creek two days ago. It was poor fishing given the unprecedented volume of snow melt, but I still fished. I edged along in the torrent, flipping my fly where Browns might lie, shielding my glasses from pelting rain with the brim of my cowboy hat, and heard those words rise out of the river: “I will not leave you an orphan.” The rush of the river transferred into me the intensity of Father’s message for me.

Years ago, when the symptoms of Dad’s illness were first manifesting, I talked with Dianne: “I don’t want to come to the end of time and regret not engaging Dad more. We work together every day, but I don’t want to have more memories of working with Dad than I have of being with Dad. I’d like to propose to Dad that we take a trip together, and that we pay Dad’s way.” My wife readily endorsed my request.

Dad and I were in his garage building the furniture that would accommodate the recording equipment for the Lifetime Guarantee broadcast that would eventually reach 55 markets and thousands of listeners. As we cut and glued and clamped, I said, “Dad, I’d like to take you on a trip, all expenses paid. I’ll take you snowmobiling in Wyoming, salmon fishing on a boat in Alaska, or trout fishing in Yellowstone. You choose.”

The best picture of Dad and me, or at least my favorite, and one that hangs in our hallway, is from fishing on the Firehole River in Yellowstone. Dad had gone into the woods “to make water,” as his Pop had termed it, and returned with only one suspender fastened on his waders, an initial clue to his eventual demise to Parkinson’s. That single suspender was crossed across his chest, the other dangled behind. I didn’t say anything, and I didn’t fix his suspender. I was glad we went fishing.

As the affirmation from Father’s book reverberated in my empty mind, “I will not leave you an orphan,” I fished Homestake Creek in a steady rain, and I remembered fishing in Yellowstone with Dad. I also remembered burying Dad’s ashes next to Mom’s and my brother’s twelve days ago in Eastern Oklahoma, a land threaded together by streams my Granddad Hoyle fly fished.

After losing his brother and his father to death, Norman Maclean wrote, “Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of those rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.”

Finally, Dad is free. Released from the chains that bound him, the chains he spoke to you about, that he wrote to you about, and that are his legacy of thought, ministry, and desire. These are the substance of his words.

Like Dad was, and like you are, I’m haunted by them. I too have written and spoken and thought about this freedom that is ours, that Dad and I spent hours discussing, forging them into our souls with the furnace who is Grace. Today, there is no longer a mystery for Dad in the haunting words of Scripture.

Dad is free. And one day, we too shall be.

Hello friends.

Since my last post, the family has trekked to Poteau, Oklahoma and back to bury Dad’s ashes next to Mom’s. We honored Dad, celebrated him, recognized him, thanked God that he is no longer suffering the humiliation of Parkinson’s and dementia, and comforted each other with our love and the confidence that, while we can’t return Dad to us, we can go to him.

As I promised, I will write more about Dad in the days to come. Right now, I’m afraid my mind is scattered and my emotions flat. Soon though.

A memorial service for Dad will occur on August 20, 2011 at 11:00 AM Central. The service will be held at Southcliff Baptist Church, 4100 SW Loop 820, Fort Worth, TX 76109.

I will meet anyone interested for breakfast at Courtyard by Marriott, 3150 Riverfront Dr, Fort Worth, TX 76107 at 8:00 AM on the morning of the  20th.

Dianne and I will host a reception for family, out-of-town guests, and friends at our home, 2020 Wilshire Blvd, Fort Worth, TX 76110 from 3:00 to 5:00 .

Again, know  of my deep gratefulness for your care, love, and words of comfort. I look forward to honoring Dad with you on August 20th.

Friends, friends. Thank you for writing. Thank you for mentioning my family and me to Father. Please don’t stop. I sense your presence in this place.

I don’t know. Perhaps there are those who get used to death and the dying process. I should have asked Dad’s hospice nurse that question in retrospect, but I didn’t think of it until now.

Dad was in a mess. He wasn’t all broken up like Mom was after the tumble that destroyed her in November, but he was afflicted with the progression of profound Parkinson’s and associated dementia. His brain was sabotaged by the effects of the Fall, rotted throughout with disease, and compromised by the plaque of his sickness.

Parkinson’s is what killed him, the dementia dictated it was an ugly process. What a wicked disease! Please come quickly, Lord Jesus, but until you do, thank you, thank you for the people you gifted to provide care to us all in such times of ungracious need. My soul! I have rubbed shoulders with angels since Dad moved into the care facility.

Dad turned into death’s tunnel Wednesday morning and died Thursday afternoon at 3:18 PM. I was with him. One of my very close friends, Scott Walker, died late Tuesday night of a heart attack. It has proven to be a long week.

I was somewhat prepared for Dad’s exit. I was totally unprepared for Scott’s, as all who knew him were. We buried Scott today and reached for consolation in each other. It is odd how the untimely robbery of an early death draws us together. Scott is a formidable loss, and coupled with Dad, is proving a taxing time.

I will write more later. Right now, my reserves are low. There will be a memorial service in honor of Dad here in Fort Worth, most likely toward the end of August. My brothers and I will get that figured out soon and let you know.

We will again make the trek to Eastern Oklahoma, just as we did eight months ago, and place Dad’s ashes next to Mom’s. It is fitting, and I promise: I will be in touch soon. Thank you again for your outpouring of love and thoughts.

I am a man of words—written and spoken. But, there are no words sufficient to express my thanks for the care, encouragement, and concern you have expressed since my Mom died.

In the coldness of Mom’s death, knowing you were paying attention to my plight was warmth to my soul. That you took time to write and fill my Facebook page with your affirmations, assuaged the emptiness I felt with Mom’s passing. Your presence—electronic, voice, and in-person—reaffirms that I am not alone.

It is an odd thing to realize there is no way to repay the outpouring of love and sympathy I have received. It is like a bankruptcy of the heart reversed by compassionate investors. I am grateful.

And you have done the same for my family. One of my brothers referred to the reception after Mom’s memorial service and did so with a tone of reverence, not in hallowed memory of Mom, but in awe of the support we received.

Thank you.

One of my friends said after Mom died, “No sunrise will ever be the same again.” Indeed. The structure of the world has shifted for the Gillham family.

As I have discussed these matters with my Heavenly Father, He has consistently recognized how emotionally, mentally, and physically spent I am by His simple reassurance, “It’s OK. Everything is OK.” That degree of consolation I can grasp. Much more than that and my smidge of remaining capacity capsizes.

I know that there will be more from Father as the dust settles and I recover. I will tell you about it—as much as I can, anyway. I’ll write about it and share with you. After all, we are all on the road together. Why not hold hands as we make the trek?

But for now, I am trying to implement the insightful counsel of my friend Reny: “Grant yourself some grace, Pres.” That’s harder to do than it sounds, but I recognize the wisdom in her advice.

After I rebound a bit, and the Thanksgiving holiday unfolds, I’ll be in touch more regularly than the last few weeks have permitted. In the meantime, thank you again for caring with such profound love.

It is odd to touch death. Were it not for the heart, and the treasures of faith stored there, death’s cold stiffness would feel final.

I have come to write about Mom’s passage to heaven, to speak to you with words of comfort about Anabel, and to share my reflections on her life—our life—as my Mom. I’m afraid to though. I’m afraid I won’t get the job done well. Nevertheless, I begin—knowing it will be imperfect.

I’m overwhelmed reading the comments about Mom at lifetime.org. Your notes to me at my Facebook are such an outpouring that I’m paralyzed to write a reply. “Thank you” seems worn, but it is the only blanket I find that feels warm as I think about where I am, where you are, and where my Mom is.

Mom needed to make her exit from life. She fell badly on October 2nd. She called me every day, at least once, usually several times. She started calling early on the 2nd, very early for a Saturday. I could hear her pain as she told me she had fallen and needed help getting up. I asked if she needed 911. Vintage Mom: “No. I just need you to come help me. I’ve hurt my arm and can’t roll over.”

I doubted her assessment of her situation. Mom tended to be either understated or overstated. With doubts rumbling in my brain, I turned on my emergency flashers and headed her direction. I broke a lot of rules driving to Mom’s house, which is interesting in reflection. Rules were made to be lived by in Mom’s estimation. That’s why she called me and not 911. In her mind, she needed help; she didn’t have an emergency.

The metal screen doors were locked on the house when I arrived. My key was useless. As I contemplated my situation for ten seconds, Mom called again to say her hip was also hurting. I called for an ambulance and broke into the house.

Mom looked like a squirrel that had been run over, except she was lying in the kitchen floor with her head mashed up against the base of the stove. As I straddled her body, touched her shoulder, reassured her, and waited for the emergency personnel to arrive, I asked her what happened.

For as long as I can remember—since I was a little kid—Mom periodically washed her hair in the kitchen sink. I don’t know why. She just did. And on the 2nd of October 2010, she decided to wash her hair in the kitchen sink. When she lifted her head, she became disoriented, danced around a bit trying to regain her balance, and then her feet kicked out from under her. Mom didn’t fall—she splatted.

I didn’t know the extent of Mom’s injuries at the time, but I sensed them as I stood over her. Come to find out, she broke her hip, her pelvis twice, and her elbow. The hip and elbow required surgery early the next day. Vintage Mom, she used her broken-elbow arm to reach into the front pocket of her jeans and call me.

I put my hand on Mom’s shoulder, touching her back carefully as I straddled her form. It was a helpless feeling. I wanted to reassure her and to comfort her, which I did, but they were grim assurances I don’t think I believed.

A few days prior, I gingerly broached the subject of a cane with Mom. I suggested she might use her cane when she stood up and sat down. “You know, Mom. It would give you three points to balance on. Once you are certain you are stable, you don’t have to use the cane. You can carry it by the shaft.” Adding for good measure, “If you don’t like the metal cane, there are all sorts of nice walking sticks we can get for you.” And for double measure: “I carry a walking stick when I’m by myself out in the woods, Mom. Just in case.”

Mom’s cane hangs today where it hung the day I made the suggestion she use it. Vintage Mom: On the morning of the 2nd, as I stood over her broken body, sirens screaming from both directions down Chelsea Drive, I asked Mom what happened. “I just lost my balance—but I didn’t need my cane!”

And she doesn’t, does she? I still do, and you do, and my brothers do. Because we are here and she is there. She is there with the One who took all brokenness and promised to make it right.

Anabel and I had a unique relationship. She and Bill (Dad) came to work for me in 1985. Prior to that, Dad and I worked together. Mom was around, and she and Dad did their conference gigs once a month, but that was the extent of her involvement; direct involvement, anyway. She was always involved, if you know what I mean, speaking strictly as her son.

But in 1985 our relationship shifted. It wasn’t dramatic, only sort of formal, but in retrospect I became son and boss while she became Mom and Anabel. Managing my mother was like managing a mountain river. She didn’t flow, she roiled.

The flash I saw from her green eyes as a child, I saw as she lobbied for her perspective and projects inside Lifetime Guarantee. The toughness that dug her mobile phone out of her pocket, in spite of a broken elbow, was the toughness that determined to say what she needed to say, the way she wanted to say it, and to whom she felt she needed to speak to. The tenacity to endure the last five weeks of inexpressible suffering is the same tenacity she brought to writing one thought after another until she had written enough devotionals to cover more than a year.

Most of the last 36 days, Mom would instruct me to organize her hospital room and surroundings. She wanted everything orderly and cleaned up. This was the way my room had to be as a kid.

And it is the way her computer had to be at the office. No clutter. If there were files not doing anything meaningful, she wanted them gone. On three occasions that I can recall, she cleaned her computer hard drive. By the third occurrence I knew what I was going to find when she called for my assistance. “Pres, can you come help me with my computer? I’ve lost the file I was working on.”

These were the old days of personal computing—the days of DOS. Somewhere along the way, Mom picked up the command, “format,” and three times she used it at the DOS prompt. It is very hard as a son and a President to explain to your mother and an officer in the company that everything is gone.

For Mom, it was legal to come to the office wearing both her “mom” hat and her “office” hat. It wasn’t really fair, but neither was it unethical. It was vintage Mom: determined; passionate; intense. Mom didn’t live life or come to the office half way. She brought everything she had, every time, all the time.

Managing Anabel was a challenge and a demand that drove me frequently into late night discussions with Father God. But managing Anabel was also a privilege and a reward. The comments posted at lifetime.org about her life speak volumes—about her, but also about me, and us, the people who worked and lived alongside her.

I think I knew when Mom came to work for me in 1985 that my days as her son were largely over. Ministry was her life’s devotion. Dad too, for that matter. So when the family gathered, I wore my son hat to the occasion, but my work hat was never far from reach.

And this arrangement persisted with Mom and me—until October 2nd. On that morning, the world reverted back to what it once was, with only one hat apiece: mom and son.

Mom’s last five weeks were immensely difficult, but I think they were necessary. By that, I mean they were necessary for both of us to reset our relationship.

The work Mom, and Dad, and I did together through the ministry of Lifetime Guarantee was powerful. It was important to you, to them, and to me. It was consuming as well. The notion of leaving work at the office was a misnomer. Consequently, it was pervasive to our relationship.

Lifetime Guarantee demanded professionalism from the three of us. Behind closed doors, Bill and Anabel were Dad and Mom; publically, they were Bill and Anabel. Today, they are Dad and Mom.

When I transitioned Lifetime Guarantee Ministries to the next generation of leadership two years ago, I hoped that a collateral benefit would be that I could return to being Bill and Anabel’s son. Mom and I were getting there—sort of—but powerful relationships are difficult to redirect. Dad and I regained our familial balance pretty quickly as Parkinson’s began to exact its toll from him.

But for Mom and me, I guess we needed a more profound catalyst. With her big fall, we were catapulted back to the basic relationship that defined us from the start: mother and oldest son.

I don’t recall when I stopped holding Mom’s hand as a child. I guess it must have been early, but I remember when I started again: it was October 2nd, in the back of an ambulance. I don’t recall when I stopped kissing Mom aside from a rare peck on the cheek. But I know when I kissed her on the head and treated her as my Mom again—just my Mom, not the Co-Founder of an international ministry. It was on October 2nd in the emergency room at Baylor Hospital.

My brother called last night to ask me questions about Anabel’s professional life as he assembled her obituary. The information did not readily come to mind even though I thought about it every day for thirty years. I eventually referred him to the LGI website.

But there are details about Mom that are at the forefront of my memory—like her birthday, her favorite flowers, the birds she liked, and my favorite dishes she prepared. I know her favorite poems and can hear her playing Grieg’s, “Wedding Day at Trogholden,” on the piano. I hear her tune as she whistles while getting the house in order and move again to accommodate her asking me to relocate the bird feeder to outsmart the squirrels.

And in my younger days, I can still see her with her head bent over the kitchen sink washing her hair. It was an odd practice to me growing up, but I never questioned her habit. And had I known she was washing her hair in the sink on the morning of October 2nd, I wouldn’t have questioned her. It was probably safer than climbing in and out of the shower, but it was fateful, and it was the beginning of the end.

As is the case with anyone you live around for nearly fifty-five years, I have lots of memories of Mom. October 2nd was the second time I had seen Mom carried away in an ambulance due to a broken hip. The first time was in 1963, but she lived over that fracture—barely. Blood clots threatened her then, and they threatened her again last month.

There were lots of hospitals during Mom’s final days. In fact, I was introduced to hospitals that I didn’t even know existed. I’ve learned things I would just as soon not know about: transfusions, Hospice, “Do Not Resuscitate” orders, the tenuous balance between pain management and blood pressure, to name a few. I’ve wrestled with life and death, articulated my thoughts to my brothers, and then turned to the doctor and made life-altering decisions as medical power of attorney.

I have rediscovered that the theories of life get hammered out in the living of life. It is humbling to espouse an eternal belief before crowds of people as I have done, and then flinch when the nurse reports Mom’s oxygen saturation is 50% of normal and her appendages are turning blue. “My recommendation is that she be sent to the hospital now, Mr. Gillham. Do you concur?”

Mom did not die for lack of oxygen, but it looked like she was going to on Saturday when her oxygen saturation dropped. I’ve not asked my brothers how they felt after the fact, but I felt like I was killing Mom when I declined to have her rushed downtown to one of the big hospitals.

In those moments, I didn’t have a crisis of faith regarding where Mom was going to spend eternity, but the application of my faith into life and upon death was challenged enough to give me pause. Big decisions, one after the other, concerning Mom’s (and Dad’s) wellbeing have dragged me into different catacombs inside my soul.

It is humbling to face a circumstance larger than the force of my spiritual confidence. I’m not used to that.

Death is formidable. I quoted the Scripture about death having no victory or sting, but in the end, only God faces down death. I am embarrassed that I flinched when tested and humbled by the divine mercy that patiently waited until I collected myself and sided with my eternal convictions over the temporal crisis.

Today, Mom is gone. God has made all things right for her, and my confidence of faith and trust in Christ Jesus have grown exponentially during her passage. Is there any greater treasure we can invest upon this terrestrial sphere than an eternal confidence that life is much more than the things we leave behind?

Mom leaves a number of things that will prove challenging to care for as the Executor of her estate. At the top of the list is her Bible. It was so precious to her here, but so unnecessary there that she left it. Close to the top will be her copy of “Streams in the Dessert,” then perhaps her edition of “Grace in Ungracious Places,” and the winnowing process will go on from there.

Ultimately, Mom and Dad’s lives will be resolved with an estate sale. More accurately, the stuff that made their lives comfortable and that create nostalgia for us will be sold. Their legacy—I shouldn’t speak of Dad in the past tense yet—her legacy is posted at the memorial page of lifetime.org, and that will not be liquidated. She might be forgotten, but that is our choice, not hers.

Mom lives—in heaven to be certain. But Mom lives in me, and she lives in you. She did a fabulous job of conveying what it means to trust Christ as her life. She and Dad together were unparalleled in delivering that message from Scripture. That is one reason I gave up being a son and chose to become a coach, and mentor, and their boss. Others did similarly, and in so doing, facilitated Anabel’s ability to articulate what was working itself out in her heart and life.

The message Mom wrote about, spoke about, and relayed in her devotionals at lifetime.org was not her message, and the Gillhams (me included) did not deliver a unique message; it was an old message delivered uniquely. It is an essential message that every one of us must grapple with, implement, and then if we are true to ourselves and to our belief, that we must transfer to the next generation.

Mom did this. Anabel did this. The transfer wasn’t perfect. It couldn’t be. Otherwise, none of us would have believed it was true that the infallible God lived within a fallible vessel of humanity with green eyes. You loved this about her, and in the end, I loved this about her as well.

There were incongruities in Mom. The Bible calls it the flesh, and just like the Book says, Mom’s flesh warred against the Spirit in her. As Mom said so often, publically, she was a performer. In the end, she wasn’t able to perform. In the end, she reached out for my hand and longed for one more kiss to reassure her that she was loved, accepted, and not alone.

It was good for Mom and me that life was reduced to such a tender reassurance. We were both too resolute, too head-strong, too much forces to be contended against, for too long to have laid all that aside, found each others’ hand, and allowed all that preceded and all that remained to be covered in a kiss.

In the end, I was struck by how human she was and I am, that though broken irreparably, life would coalesce into one vital concept essential for her the dying one and me the living one: mercy. Mercy together, mercy for each other, mercy from our Heavenly Father, and mercy as a way of life.

I have written a great deal about grace. My latest book, “No Mercy,” is a book about grace—and the germination of mercy. Father is speaking often with me about this complement to grace. After the dust settles—in life and in the storm within my soul—I know that mercy will play a prominent role in my next book, the sequel to “No Mercy.”

I began writing to you about my Mom and have concluded talking about myself, what I’m learning, and my next writing project. This is how it should be. If something remarkable—my Mom’s life—ended on November 7 at 12:30 PM in Room 113, then life the day after would always be less than remarkable.

I don’t believe that. I believe all that is noteworthy in her lives on in service to me and to you and to those who follow us. What is left behind an arm’s depth in the Oklahoma clay was broken beyond remedy and is rejoining the dust from which it was formed. What remains of Mom is noteworthy in that we live beyond because she lived here.

Thank God for the heart—for the capacity to bond, to connect, to remember, to hope, and to have faith. Thank God that everything is right for Mom, and that the placement of her remains in the Oklahoma dirt cries out to us through the ashes that everything will be right for us as well, and sooner than we might imagine.

Mom was born, Anabel Hoyle on May 10, 1928. She died, Anabel Hoyle Gillham on November 7, 2010. She leaves behind thousands who are better people because of her transparent sacrifice of thought, life, reputation, and story.

May we who come after follow her lead.

Dictionary.com says joy is an emotion of great delight or happiness caused by something exceptionally good. In secondary meanings, it uses: pleasure, delight, glad feeling, and festive.

Then there is this verse from the Bible referencing Jesus’ and joy: “…who for the joy set before Him endured the cross…and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.”

Are Dictionary.com and the Bible at odds?

I’ve heard a thousand sermons on the horrors of crucifixion. You have too, and even the most eloquent minister cannot capture what Jesus endured on the cross. It was hardly a delight, a happy occasion, or a festive mood. Yet, the verse says He had joy.

Why does this matter? Trying to put ourselves in Jesus’ place and comprehend His joy is conjecture. It presumes that we can know what He felt, endure what He felt, and do so without being crucified.

Here is why this is important: The Bible says that not only Jesus had joy, but you and I have joy as well. It is one of the fruits of the Spirit, in fact.

This is good news at a high level. If Jesus had joy midst crucifixion, I must have joy midst the trials that plague me. And while I can’t feel what Jesus felt during crucifixion, I do possess the self-awareness to emote during my angst. However, joy is not the first descriptive word that leaps to mind to describe my emotional state. What gives day-to-day?

There is compatibility between Dictionary.com and Hebrews 12:2. The compatibility is between “something exceptionally good” and “sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.” It is exceptionally good that Jesus is seated at God’s right hand, not only for Him, but for us as well. In fact, our joy is anchored in the fact that Jesus is seated at the right hand of God.

Joy is ours absolutely because joy is not circumstantial. (Better read that again.) Joy is visionary and retroactively applicable today.

It is religious tripe that we are supposed to display placid smiles and utter spiritual sounding dismissals in the face of difficulty. Joy is not denial.

On the contrary! Joy enables us to embrace whatever life dishes out because of the vision of joy: that Christ is seated at God’s right hand and advocates and encourages us on higher ideals; that the Spirit lives in us and exudes joy; and that we live beyond and therefore have confidence in the midst.

In “No Mercy,” Hank wrestles through this concept, but he lives it. Sometimes it is really helpful to have a guide. You can pick up a copy of the book here.

My friend Kevin died of cancer on Saturday, but he wasn’t just my friend. He had a lot of friends—praying friends—who are godly, righteous people. Certainly hundreds, if not several thousand, souls were imploring God to heal Kevin.

James writes, “The effective prayer of a righteous man can accomplish much” (5:16 b), which begs the question: Did Kevin not have any righteous people—or the requisite number of righteous people—praying for his healing?

A friend from another state called on Sunday to report that during their church service the pastor reported that “Sally’s” struggle against cancer was progressing toward victory. The cancer in her brain was gone and other, cancer indicators had declined by 50% over the last week. “Keep praying,” the pastor said. “Your prayers are working.”

Why are the righteous people praying for Sally experiencing success and the righteous people who prayed for Kevin suffering defeat?

Part of the answer lies in this: the definition of “accomplishes much,” from the James quotation. Someone we love, like Kevin, is diagnosed with a dread ill and we presume God wishes him healed. We pray, and we assemble teams of pray-ers, and we pray hard, fervent supplications for what we deem in Kevin’s best interest and our preference. At best, God will agree with us. More troubling, God is not paying attention to Kevin’s plight, but our prayers get His attention and healing occurs. Or…we conclude we are stuck with a God who doesn’t care, plays favorites, or is capricious. All are bad options.

What if accomplishing Kevin’s healing is not on God’s agenda? In other words, in His sovereignty, He knows healing Kevin is a bad plan.

We presume God agrees with our assessment, that healing is the right and best thing, and we effectively pray to that end. Then, when Kevin dies—and Sally lives—we question our fervor, our righteousness, and God’s fairness. When we are disappointed, we lapse easily into assuming we didn’t try hard enough, pray long enough, or assemble a formidable enough team to storm the gates of heaven and secure Kevin’s healing. Or, we are left with a God we would rather avoid.

And the devil has a field day in our disillusioned souls.

So why pray at all? If God is going to do what He’s going to do regardless of our prayers, no matter how effective, what’s the point?

At first glance, it would appear we should carefully define “accomplish much,” and once done, then pray successfully in agreement with God’s will and enjoy the control we derive by discerning the mind of God. I’m not buying that. When I pray like that it feels like I’m negotiating a real estate deal.

When confronted with Kevin’s cancer nine months ago, I went to my place of prayer: the streets in my neighborhood. I prayed, and said, “Father, what are you thinking?” I didn’t wait for His answer, but quickly got sidetracked by my shock and dismay and reverted to telling Father the outcome I desired with this bleak diagnosis. On this went: “Father, what are you thinking?”—but no break to let God answer, before—“Let me tell you what I’m thinking.”

I was persuasive. I asked for favors, pleaded for mercy, and bargained for healing. I hammered on the gates of heaven. I cried. I wailed. When I saw Kevin’s pain, I prayed more fervently.

You know what? This is typical, normal behavior for a friend who has gotten shocking, unpalatable news. It’s the rough equivalent of running around in a panic when the skillet on the stove catches fire.

Not long after Kevin’s diagnosis, my initial shock calmed, and I went to the streets and said, “Father, what are you thinking?” And then, I was quiet. I waited for His reply. Then, back and forth we went in dialogue about the concern at hand: Kevin’s health and the extenuating issues. This is the rough equivalent of realizing the skillet is on fire, gaining my wits, and managing the situation.

Here is my conviction regarding complex issues like cancer: Father wants us to tell Him what is on our mind. He wants to hear from us without edit. I believe He longs for an honest, forthright conversation with us. But take note: Conversation is a dialogue, not a monologue. If I do all the talking when God and I get together, we don’t get nearly as much accomplished as when we communicate.

I just hung up the phone from talking to my friend, WO. Man-to-man, friend-to-friend, adult-to-adult, WO and I discussed our loss with Kevin’s passing. Back and forth our conversation went: talk, listen; talk, listen. That’s how dialogue works. One way communication is called a sermon, or a lecture. For the most part, sermons and lectures are not very effective forms of communication. Interaction, on the other hand, is much more effective, meaningful, and powerful. This is what God desires. It is what we are equipped to do. It is what bonds us together.

Prayer is a dialogue. God, in Christ, made us righteous people so He could interface with us. The seizing of that reality affords us the effective ability to communicate with God. And make no mistake, that communication is a two-way street—a dialogue. This “accomplishes much.”

Our prayers regarding Kevin’s cancer were not in vain. How can visiting with God about a subject that is important, like Kevin, be considered pointless? Were you not inspired as you considered Kevin’s life? Were you not challenged to walk more closely with God as a result of discussing Kevin’s life with God and others? Are you not a better person after discussing Kevin with God?

I am, and in this way, my prayer did “accomplish much.” Effective prayer is not about Kevin or Sally or cancer or healing. The accomplishment is defined by God, and the only way to discover the definition, is to discuss it with God.

Do I miss Kevin? Terribly. Would I bring him back if I could? Not in a million years. Am I still discussing Kevin’s life and death with God in prayer? You better believe it.

Thank you for praying for me this week. The death of my friend—our friend—Kevin Walker, Walkit.org, is a monstrous loss. I told a friend today after lunch that there is no way to process Kevin’s life or death with our intellects.

If there was a recipe for greatness then we could bottle it and sell it. If greatness could be defined then we could study it. If greatness could be apprehended then we all could possess it. But there is no recipe, no definition, and no hand hold. Thinking about greatness is illusive. However, greatness can be recognized with the heart.

What made Kevin a great man? His intellect was an aspect of him. I knew him well, but he surprised me regularly with his incisive ability to assemble disparate pieces of information into keen wisdom.

He wasn’t short on emotion and didn’t hesitate to demonstrate what he was feeling. He cried, laughed, loved, touched, and talked readily. Having worked in Eastern Europe for years, I’m somewhat accustomed to being kissed on each cheek by men when they greet me there. But I never quite got over Kevin kissing me on the head and blessing me. The only other person who kisses me on the head and blesses me is God, and I haven’t gotten over that either, but Kevin helped me not resist Him.

Kevin was a good musician, a skillful player, a fine composer, and a gifted lyricist. He and Bobby Price won a Grammy, after all. He led worship like no one else I’ve ever encountered—and I’ve encountered a lot in my profession.

No. Kevin was all of these things, but he was—is—more. He was a man of heart who walked with God, whom he called Papa. This composite, this integration, this blending of all that was in him into an expression of his heart and God’s heart is a decent definition of Kevin. Add a streak of courage, a fiery tenacity, a resilient frame, and the description is closer.

The trouble with great men is that when they pass it catches us off guard. We are left with hard questions that roil inside us in a tumult.

One of the beauties in the passing of a great man is that it holds us accountable to manage what is in our soul versus going about our business as we are prone to do when other men pass from us. If we are not aware, denial of our loss can drown us in their wake. But riding the wave of their loss can wash us with what made them great and transport us to a new place.

Like you if you knew Kevin, I’m suffering my loss. In time, I will stabilize, but I don’t want to cling to a reef of expedient stability–like work, for example, or trite dismissals–in fear of engaging the grieving process.

No. It is not time to drop anchor or search the horizon for a safe harbor. Now is the time to cry for no apparent reason. To recall and laugh. To be quiet. To cling to my friends and bury my face in their necks. Now it is time to celebrate that my Father, in His wisdom, equipped me—and you—with the capacity to grieve and remember tenaciously that He promised to never leave me destitute.

As I do this, then I pay tribute to a great man, who in death created a current to transport me through life. My final words to Kevin were, “I love you. I’ll see you soon.” I thought that meant I would see him on Wednesday. Now, of course, I understand it meant I will see him shortly.