PART TWO
Life has shifted in a way I knew was coming but still wasn’t ready for—my parent is now nearing the end of their life. The complicated history in our family hasn’t faded. If anything, it feels even more present. The heaviness present constantly.
Now the question before me is… How or do you interact with a parent who will not change? When that parent is now suffering terribly from cancer and nearing death, what do you do? What do you do when this is the same parent who has disowned you more times than you can count… even calling you in the past year just to “uninvite” you and your family to their own funeral? (Yes—that really happened.)
But to answer this question, I force myself to process it through the lens of who I am now. The question is really more about me than him.
My eyes are open now. I see the spirit of division and rejection that has plagued my family tree for generations. I see the pattern of conditional, transactional love in my parent. I see that his love is not patient. It is self-seeking and is easily angered. It is love that keeps a record of wrongs and does not always protect, trust, hope, or persevere.
I can’t speak for anyone else—only myself. My parent will not change. That’s the reality. But I have changed. I am not the same person I once was. Life has humbled me. Jesus has redeemed me from the pit. And that kind of redemption leaves its mark. It reshapes you from the inside out.
In my own journey, I’ve worked hard to crucify the pattern of transactional love so engrained within me. One of the ways I’ve done this is by reading 1 Corinthians 13 and replacing the word “love” with my own name:
“Becky is patient. Becky is kind. Becky does not boast. Becky is not proud. Becky does not dishonor others and is not self-seeking. She is not easily angered and keeps no record of wrongs.
Becky does not delight in evil but rejoices in truth.
Becky always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.”
Inserting your name into these verses is both a game changer and a “come to Jesus” moment.
So, back to the question: do I interact with a parent on their deathbed who will not change? If I do, the likelihood of being hurt again is high—fifty years of history says so. But if I don’t, will I regret it? He is my last living parent. Will I be able to live with walking away?
I chose to re-engage.
Why? Because he is my earthly father, and it pains me to see him suffer. To watch anyone suffer is hard, but to see it in the one who gave you life is different. If I can bring him even a small measure of comfort or peace in his final days, I will.
I also choose this because I want to break the generational curse of division and conditional love in my family. I’ve done every “freedom” activity I know, but I believe there’s one final step: to love when there’s no guarantees, and to serve when nothing can be given in return. If I don’t, then I’m repeating the same pattern I’ve fought so hard to end.
If I claim to follow Jesus, then I have to ask: am I keeping a record of wrongs? Am I covering offenses with love? Is my love bearing all things—not just the easy things? If Jesus is my standard, then my answer has to be yes. Jesus loves us even when we don’t love Him. I love my dad and it’s not contingent on how he treats me because my heavenly Father loved me regardless of how I treated Him.
Some would say my father is undeserving of this comfort and grace. Maybe he is. But so was I. I was the prodigal child who ran from my Heavenly Father, willfully choosing words and actions that grieved Him. I didn’t deserve His forgiveness. I didn’t deserve Him welcoming me back. Yet He loved me so much, He died for me.
If Jesus did that for me, how can I possibly withhold grace, love, forgiveness, and mercy from another human being?
When you have been forgiven much, you can forgive much. And in that choice, there is freedom. I am free.