Thanksgiving: Celebrating the God of the Impossible
As the leaves outside my window burst into a fiery display of autumn hues, and the scent of cinnamon and cloves wafts through the air, I can't help but feel the familiar stirrings of gratitude in my heart. Thanksgiving, a season that wraps us in a comforting nostalgia, calls us to gather around tables laden with memories and shared stories. It's a time when we, often unknowingly, take stock of the ties that bind us.
In the quiet moments leading up to this season of Thanksgiving, I found myself drawn to a particularly poignant story—one of rekindled connections and the delicate dance of family dynamics. This year, the essence of thankfulness took on a deeply personal meaning as I was reminded of how the Lord had worked in my own life and relationships.
Growing up, my father did not want to be part of my life. As my mother embraced her newfound faith and chose to enter the waters of baptism, he would abuse her and eventually chose departure, leaving her when she needed support the most— during the vulnerable days of her pregnancy with me. He not only left my mother, but also the life our family was meant to share, and didn’t want anything to do with us. The ties of fatherhood were severed, and I became a daughter disowned, a connection rejected. Even decades later, when my family and I journeyed to Romania in 2019 and attempted to visit him, he refused to see us and turned us away. The situation seemed hopeless, and the weight of his rejection carved another layer out of the void in my heart, an ache shaped like the silhouette of an absent father.
In the face of his refusal to acknowledge the familial ties that bound us, I maintained a connection with the branches of my biological father’s family. I exchanged conversations with my aunt—his sister— through text as we nurtured a fragile thread of communication. It was through her that I received the somber news of my father’s diagnosis. Liver cancer, a formidable adversary, had woven its presence into his life. A 13cm tumor gripped his liver, rendering him bed-bound and on hospice. I have always been bringing my father to the Lord in prayer, pleading with God to have mercy on him and to reveal Himself in my father’s life.
One fateful day, I got a call that would change my life forever. On June 29th, I was on a call with my aunt when her voice on the other end of the line carried the weight of an unexpected revelation—my father expressed the desire to talk with me, if I was open to it. Without hesitation, I affirmed my willingness. As I dialed his number, my mind raced. I had been seeking to reconnect (or at least gain some closure) for years. I had no clue what to expect. But when he picked up the phone, his voice filled the void of decades of silence. The conversation unfolded gently, full of small talk that belied the weight of the unspoken. He asked about how I was doing and how my family was doing as well. I told him about my children—their names and ages. He wished us well. When I mustered the courage to broach the subject of future conversations, his response echoed with unexpected openness, words I never thought would escape his lips: “Absolutely.” And in that simple affirmation, a door long thought closed cracked open, inviting the possibility of a new chapter in a story I had thought to be finished.
Two days later, on his birthday, I dialed his number, my heart brimming with both trepidation and hope. As the conversation unfolded, he gradually opened the door to a deeper exchange, and the words flowed more freely between us. In the midst of our dialogue, an idea formed—a desire to bridge the geographical and emotional distance that had defined our relationship for far too long. With a hesitant yet hopeful tone, I asked a question that held the weight of unspoken longing: "Could I visit you the next time I find myself in Romania?" His response, tinged with a mix of vulnerability and acceptance, resonated through the phone, "Yes, if I'm still alive by then, you can visit whenever you wish."
In the wake of this poignant exchange, my husband and I wasted no time. Five days later, I found myself boarding a flight, bound for Romania. Our reunion was filled with joy. I would spend 5-9 hours a day with him at his bedside, offering care alongside his wife, who had been a steadfast presence offering meticulous care. I prepared home-cooked meals made with fresh ingredients from local farmers, infused with warmth and familiarity. I would juice drinks brimming with vitamins and nutrients. The rooms, where we would share meals and conversations, held the echoes of our shared history.
Yet, the weight of his condition cast a heavy shadow. He was prescribed with a large dose of Tramadol, a heavy medication, to treat his pain. Every sip of sustenance was through a straw, a bitter reminder of the fragility of life and its tender moments we were determined to grasp.
In the folds of my belongings, I brought a handkerchief anointed with oil and prayers by a brother from our church. Alongside it, a collection of verses, serving as beacons of hope, solace, and reminders of God’s promises in the midst of suffering. As the rhythm of days unfolded, prayer and reading from the Scripture became the silent heartbeat, a constant presence weaving through the fabric of our shared moments.
In the following days, his state had improved. By the time my departure looed, he defied the constraints of his condition, sitting up, partaking in meals with an appetite rekindled. He had opened up to me, and while we didn’t talk about the past, we were our interactions bore the warmth of newfound camaraderie. He sought my presence by his side. In those moments, as I would gently stroked his hand, a sense of closure settled within me—a bittersweet acknowledgment that, despite the years lost to silence, a bridge had been built between us. The weight of unspoken histories lifted, and in its place emerged a quiet understanding, a balm for the wounds of time.
Since my return to the States, we have been calling every day and keeping in touch. My husband and children often speak with him and call him as well, and for a while, it seemed like his cancer had improved. His formidable tumor shrank from 13cm to 1.5cm, and his dose of medicine had been reduced from 100mg to nearly nothing. He had embraced faith, accepting the Lord into his heart as his God and Savior.
Yet, the fragility of life, like an unpredictable tide, revealed itself in the past month. The cancer, once subdued, surged back with an unrestrained force. Today, he grapples with weakness, finding himself once again on the precipice of life's inevitable end. In the midst of this painful resurgence, questions surfaced—why this relapse, and why now? I wrestled with these questions, and came to realize that God did not want to let my father die without rekindling our relationship and giving us closure, so He extended his days through His divine providence to save his soul. It pains me to see my father suffer from this disease, but we are both grateful that the Lord has brought us together again, and closer than ever before.
Above all, my heart overflows with gratitude for the prayers that ascended from the members of our choir, church, and the extended family in Christ. In a testament to the miraculous hand of God’s divine intervention, that which doctors deemed impossible transformed into possible; when they said he had less than three months to live, the Lord gave him more. What the world deemed impossible, the Lord has done, and after hearing our prayers for 42 years, He intervened in His perfect timing, healing wounds and rewriting the narrative of our stories.
As this season of thanks dawns upon us, my heart resonates with profound gratitude for the blessing bestowed by the Lord. In the midst of trials and triumphs, I stand in awe of His miraculous intervention, transforming impossibilities into testimonies of His mercy. Every moment of rekindled connection, every stride toward healing, is a testament to the enduring grace of our Creator. As the psalmist declares in Psalm 107:1, "Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his love endures forever." In the spirit of gratitude, I offer my heartfelt thanks for the miraculous journey He has led me through, a journey marked by His unwavering faithfulness and countless reasons to give thanks.
Happy Thanksgiving!
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