Writing Last Lines That Count

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“Vulnerability sounds like truth and feels like courage. Truth and courage aren’t always comfortable but they’re never weaknesses.” – Brene Brown

This post was originally published on 4/19/2023. Heads up that you may have already read this.

On the last morning I saw my beloved dad, he greeted me with a hearty “You look great.”

His untimely death a short time later has permanently etched all the details of that breakfast into my treasure box of memories: the yellow walls of the Varsity Restaurant on NE 65th street, the booth in the open section, the jeans and sweater I was wearing, the cupcakes I gave my parents for their upcoming drive to Arizona, the eggs and waffles, but it is those words that are most precious.

Because both my dad and I both knew that he wasn’t talking about anything to do with my hair, make-up or clothes – he was talking about the light in my eyes. How did I know that it wasn’t just my dad being his effusive self? Let me explain.

Here’s the thing I’ve learned about last lines. As much as we’d like to prepare for them, many (most?) don’t happen how and when we think. Take my dad’s line – neither of us knew that in 6 days time, after arriving and unpacking for a winter in Tucson, that he’d get on a bike, hit a car, and die almost instantly.

That might be an extreme example, but even for the end of a friendship or relationship, the speeches we plan are not what end up expressed. Life, interplay, and random things happen to make things unexpected. So we have to instead do the work to speak honestly and communicate authentically whenever we can.

For me, that work began when three years before my dad’s death when I went on a whim to a meditation class. After 90 minutes of seemingly innocuous visualization and breathing exercises, I spent the rest of the day weeping. It turned out to be just what I needed to start opening all the compartmentalized boxes within and let life flow again. The grief, and shame that came from my recent divorce and that I wasn’t as successful at everything I believed I was supposed to be, came pouring out and I was given openness in return.

So that in the two years before my dad died I was able to choose to broach the subject of spiritual beliefs with him. To talk about what mattered the most to him as a Presbyterian pastor of 40 years. It was a risk because we didn’t talk about religion in my family once all of us kids were grown. Out of respect for keeping things amiable, we’d just stopped talking about our differences.

When we braved the waters of deep beliefs and possible differences to engage in conversation about why he believed what he did and vice versa with me, that meaningful dialogue changed the perception of difference between us and removed the barrier of what we thought were off-limits zones.

Peeling back that veneer of friendly and loving banter in which my dad and I always talked, to delve into deeper issues created a closeness that was precious. My dad knew I was interested in him, I’d spent hours recording our conversations, and I gained relief from my fear that I was doing life “wrong” in his eyes by focusing on meditation instead of theology.

And that is how I knew that my dad’s last line to me was not about the surface details of appearance but instead about a light that had dulled in the last years of my troubled marriage and then divorce. And then through meditation, openness, and vulnerability, that light had been stoked back to its full glow. Sharing that journey with my dad made it possible for him to comment on it.

His death affixed all the details of that breakfast in my mind. But my heart will always remember, “You look good.” It was a gift that started with changing our patterns long before the last line. It’s so hard to talk with our loved ones about the topics that seem most fraught. But in the grief of losing someone, knowing that kinship was there helps.

If we want to have great last lines, we have to risk the vulnerability to be seen.

“You look good.” Which as last lines go, was pretty damn amazing.

My book about our conversations and my journey to find what fueled my dad’s indelible spark and twinkle can be found on Amazon: Finding My Father’s Faith.

62 thoughts on “Writing Last Lines That Count”

  1. The last word of a loved one can stay with your forever. My dads were “son I am dying”. It was in that moment that i realized that there were forces in this world I can’t stop.

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  2. This is a bittersweet and beautiful post, Wynne. You are right that no matter how much we plan our last words, we usually don’t have much say in whether we get to say them as we had planned. So it’s best to always treat each day as a special one with our loved ones and to not be haste with words we rather not say too.

    I think about this often especially on mornings when I have to head into the office – like today! – and so your words especially resonate with me today.

    The last words your said shared with you are so lovely and while the pain of his loss never goes away, I’m glad you have those beautiful words to stay with you.

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    1. So interesting you think of when you say goodbye to go into the office. I think that’s incredible that you are that aware – what a great thing to be cognizant of! Happy Wednesday!

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  3. Last words. My dad’s last words to me forty-ish years ago were “I love you, Princess.” Like you, I remember details. He was in hospital and we were talking on the phone; me, on a yellow landline on the corner of the kitchen counter. He died suddenly the next morning.

    I’m enjoying popping around your blog and getting to know your story.

    Liked by 2 people

  4. You were blessed to have created a beautiful space with yourself and your dad where you could be open and see each other. That made the meaning of his last words all the more precious!

    My own father died when my daughter was a baby, so she never got to know him, and only heard about him from the stories I kept alive for her, whilst my mother also extended her toxicity to my daughter and neither she nor her kids want to know her. That combo pressed upon me the need to create healty relationships with my daughter and grandkids.

    Creating space for one another to be real and authentic, that’s the best gifts we can give to each other.

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  5. I love this post and how you captured, for all time, the magic of the moment – all the details – so you can go back and revisit, rejoice about that special breakfast with you dad. Forever. 💕

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  6. It is good that you guided your father and yourself to have a conversation and connection that still binds you to him. So many told me they never risked that kind of interaction and lived to regret the unsaid but necessary. I love you is often enough — to friends, relatives and anyone we care for. You know, Wynne, that it can change your life.

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  7. It’s such a gift that you were able to connect with your dad on such a deep level before his untimely passing 💕, and a great reminder to breach those important (though potentially uncomfortable) topics before it’s too late, and a reminder to say what’s on our minds. Personally, my life is filled with an inordinate amount of “I love yous” but I never worry that I’ll regret having not said it.

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  8. My mother was in poor health before she passed, and I actually “took away” two last lines from her. They will both stay with me for the rest of my life, but she was a shell of herself by then so what she said really had to be put into context. I just hope if given the chance to give a last line or two to my loved ones, what I say will be more encouraging and uplifting. Great post, Wynne.

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    1. Encouraging and uplifting — my experience of you on WP is that you are both through and through so I imagine that your last lines will be consistent with that! Glad you could put your mom’s words into context.

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  9. As a dad, I really appreciate the way yours was attuned to you, really saw you. How powerful just three words can be! This is who I desire and endeavor to be with my kids. And yes – stepping into the touchy topics with vulnerability – this is the good stuff!! Thank you for writing about this. In reading, I feel a sense of deeper resolve and belonging.

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    1. Ah, I imagine that you are vulnerable and attuned to your kids, David. Your awareness seems to be focused on all the right things. What a gift for your kids! And thank you for your kind comment!

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  10. Sadly, we don’t always get the chance to have those special last words. Fortunately, the way people make us feel through their behaviour towards us – and towards others – stays with us long after they’re gone. You are right to count your blessings with respect to your relationship with your Dad, as am I with both my parents, who have been gone for going onto 50 and 60 years.

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  11. What a gift that you and your dad worked through your differences in spirituality and could share the bond you did have. I can’t get over how shocking it was to lose him like your family did.

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    1. Thank you, Elizabeth. It was shocking for us — but there was something almost miraculous about it too. He never had to get “old” and slow down. Here one moment and in Heaven the next. Does that make any sense?

      Liked by 1 person

  14. I was captured by the picture with you and your father. We don’t see pictures in the emails we receive from WP. But then I opened the reader, I saw this beautiful image of you and your father and I read the post. It was very touching.

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  17. Wonderful post, Wynne. Reading your post reminded me of a line in your book when he said, “Hmm, that is hard… You can do it. You are doing great.” Thank you for your writings and I echo Vicki’s comment; I wish I had the opportunity to meet your dad. Pastor John Piper says about biographies, “God regularly uses human agents to stir up His people. So the question for us pastors is: Through what human agents does God give us vision and direction and inspiration? For me, one of the most important answers has been great men and women of faith who, though dead, are yet speaking (Heb. 11:4).” Again, thank you for writing the book and for your wonderful blog.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I wish you’d had the chance to meet my dad too or that he was here to write a guest post. He’d have liked you so much — all the deep kernels you pull out. Thank you for your thoughtful comment, Edward. May we all be agents to give others vision, direction, and inspiration!

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  18. As I read your beautiful post early this morning Wynne, I’m left with a profound lightness. The kind of lightness you feel when you reach that pinnacle of becoming. You chose a different path than your dad, yet you both acknowledge the difference with such grace.
    The words he said will of course be etched in your memory forever, yet what’s even more beautiful about your relationship is the calm beauty of acceptance that lays within it.
    I’m so sorry for your tragic and sudden loss. I don’t have to tell you your dad’s light continues to shine bright through you. 💕

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  20. Your post shines. Opening up parts of yourself through meditation. Opening up by talking deeply about issues that can be difficult. Opening up with this blog post. Thanks for sharing these shining thoughts, Wynne 🌞

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  21. I have very few memories of my father… For better or worse, they are locked from me in a way that I have never been able to access. However, my last meaningful interaction with him squared away most of the hurt and guilt. Such little interactions, such as yours, with your father, are so precious.

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  22. What a powerful message, Wynne! “If we want to have great last lines, we have to risk the vulnerability to be seen.” 💞💞💞

    Liked by 1 person

  23. Your dad seems a wonderful soul. I wish I could remember the last words my mom and dad spoke to me. They’d probably sadden me no matter what they were because I would either think on how much I miss them or how much they suffered. I’m glad you have the precious words about the life in your eyes from your dad in your mind (so long as it makes you smile inside).

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    1. You have a good point about the longing and suffering. Definitely part of the experience. Thank you for reading and for your kind words!

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  25. This is incredibly moving. It’s amazing how those seemingly ordinary moments become so precious in hindsight. Your dad’s words were truly a gift, and it’s clear that your relationship with him was deeply meaningful. Thank you for sharing such a touching memory. -ArConsultings.org

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