(continued from Part 8.)
During my father's last moments in the early hours of New Year's Day, I "prayed" Psalm 23, reciting it over and over at his bedside. Never has the wonderful imagery of Grace presented in its verses leaped off the pages so vividly.
I recall many times that my father sketched me as a child; but now, the last sketch I did of my father was hours after his passing-- his “death mask". It was a cathartic, peaceful, and necessary ritual to honour the father I loved.
It continued to snow that morning -- rare in Nagasaki-- and we felt a gentle calmness that could only be from God.
My father was 71 years old.
(This ends this series.)
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