I had been out of touch with God and for more than thirty years and had bumbled my way through life, trying to solve my own problems while unsuccessfully searching for answers and happiness. After all, I was college educated, had graduated as a Distinguished Military Student, served as an Army officer in Vietnam, and was successful in a computer sales career. Over the years, Satan assured me that I didn't need the false hope and comfort that these fun-lacking, conforming Christians clung to. (I have since found more peace and happiness since rededicating my life to Christ than I ever had previously). I realized at this time, that if I was on my deathbed, I would be afraid and ill prepared. Lying helpless on a bed, with no control over your body and destiny would be pretty terrifying.

My father had been sick for many years, having been totally disabled in World War II. Japanese Kamikaze planes had attacked his ship. He had seen death all around him. Heavy explosions had caused concussions and brain damage, reducing this formerly strong, handsome man to a fraction of his previous health and strength. Upon meeting him, you would assume him to be of normal health. However, since the war he had been unable to exert without going into convulsions. Our entire family grew up knowing how to react when he went into convulsions. We would put the spoon into his mouth to prevent him from choking and hold his limbs to keep him from injuring himself. We attended a small country church and I vividly remember seeing my mother and friends aiding him after a church service while members watched anxiously. He tried many times to find an avocation that was within his limitations and was always disappointed.

Medication reduced dad's convulsions, but affected his mood. We grew up having to be quiet around him, being careful not to upset him. Although frustrated with his plight, my father was a devout Christian and seldom complained. He knew that God that must have a reason for his afflictions. Indeed, he did.

Over the years my two brothers, our younger sister, and I experienced seeing my father in various hospitals for a variety of reasons. Three weeks after my birth, my dad had one of the first brain operations in America. My eighteen-year-old mother, Leora inherited a terrible situation. She was told that dad had little chance of ever walking again and that his life would be brief at best. My father had turned his life over to Christ after his four-year Navy stint. God and my persevering mother sustained the family through all the difficulties. My father was determined to walk and kept getting out of his wheelchair and falling. Finally, he could walk with a cane. After two years, he was able to walk unassisted, but with some difficulty since his reflexes were damaged from the brain surgery and his inner ear had been damaged during the war. He lost the effective use of his right hand and his disabilities required him to give up his driver's license.

When I was a baby, our small house burned to the ground we lost everything. Our wonderful country church members and family members assisted us in building a new house and to helped us through some of the hard times. After many delays, the Veterans Administration began paying my father full disability compensation.

Over the years, Clyde had heart bypass operations, eventually having a pig valve placed in his heart. This was a great opening for us to kid him. He had a rebuilt vertebrae in his upper spine. When I was thirteen years old, we moved to Richmond, Virginia near a Veterans Hospital for a year while my dad underwent treatments. It was a horrible time. I remember mom once having to use our small collection of silver dollars to buy gas. I can't remember how many hospitals dad had been in over the years and how many times I had received calls that his poor health might not allow him to make it through this particular procedure. I later joked that my father was the only person who could assign two, three, and four star ratings to intensive care units at the major Virginia and West Virginia hospitals. In May of 1989, my father was diagnosed as having lung cancer (a result of many years of smoking) and was given many nauseating radium treatments. The treatments greatly reduced the cancer.

When I visited my father in this Lewisburg, West Virginia hospital, it appeared that this time might be the end. A combination of cancer and a worn out body might take its toll. He was receiving heart shock treatments. When I arrived, he had several tubes in him. He was pale and he didn't have the energy to feed himself. His doctors and nurses had given him a few days to live and were amazed at his good humor and perseverance. My father was too weak to lift his arms. My mom fed him soup and other nourishment. I recall his replying to a nurse's light-hearted question about how he got such good treatment with the reply, "I just pretend I'm sick." He continually joked about a variety of topics and was completely at ease.

I finally asked, "dad, do you have any fear of dying?" He replied, "no, I don't." "Many years ago, I would have, but now I know there is nothing to be afraid of."

My father didn't push his convictions about Christ on people, but it was obvious what he was saying. If it was God's will for him to die, he was ready and anxious to go. There was nothing to be afraid of. Those few moments were powerful in my eyes. I thought I had seen bravery in Vietnam and in other situations, but it occurred to me that to lie helpless on your deathbed, with no control over your body and destiny, and to joke about it is true bravery. It is total reliance on and conviction in Jesus Christ.

Per his wishes, the family brought dad home to spend his last few months. My brothers and sister lived closer to him than I did, and they were great about visiting him and helping out. My brother, Donnie rigged up a ramp for his van and took dad on a few Sunday drives. Afterwards, an exhausted Clyde would sleep for hours. My younger brother Denny and his family couldn't do enough. My sister Gail helped all she could.

After a few months, my father's body began to wear out and he went downhill rapidly. Over the years, my father and mother had visited with, consoled, and helped scores of people. Those same people came from everywhere to visit, help watch him, and bring food. Toward the end, my brothers and my sister aided my exhausted mother in watching dad around the clock. Dad's last remaining brother Junior and his wife Louise (both of whom I've grown to love and respect greatly) visited often. (Louise has since passed away). A wonderful, giving cousin we had always called Virginia "Ginny Daire" Meadows came often and still does. I have often said that every family needs a "Ginny Daire." Lloyd and Pansy Tincher, our great-aunt Ruth Hall, Steve Gunter and other wonderful friends were some of the many who came to dad's bedside.

Neighbors Garth Gunter and Clifford Simms were among the Christians dad had helped nurture from Christian infancy to faithful, strong Christians. They and their families visited as often as they could, always fearful of tiring a grateful Clyde. My father continued to disintegrate and after over two weeks of not eating, it became obvious that his body was shutting down and the end was very near.

How did my father act during these last weeks? True to form, he stayed in great humor. He insisted on staying at home. His doctors agreed with him since they had done all they could do. Visitors would arrive and although dad was in agony from a combination of the cancer, his inability to eat, and the poor rest, he would respond to their inquiries with "I'm great, I hope you are." When appropriate, he would motion them to come close while he hugged them and told them he loved them. He talked about heaven and about looking forward to seeing his dad and other family members. He tried to sing hymns, although his voice and strength did not permit it.

During the last ten days, God permitted him to see bits of heaven. Dad described magnificent lights, colors and a serene setting with a beautiful waterfall. He saw Jesus and Mary. This surprised mom because unlike the Catholics, Baptists do not typically tie Mary as closely to Jesus. Dad would try to lean forward while squinting and appearing to be looking off into the distance. He described these obviously pleasing sights to those around him.




Dad's nurses were amazed that he kept hanging on and felt that he must be waiting on something. My mother had been devoted to dad and had nursed him for forty-six years. Dad finally confided to her that he wanted to go to be with Jesus, but didn't want to leave her. He asked gently, "will you go with me." I cry when I remember this. Mom told him that she couldn't, God wasn't ready to take her.

Within forty-eight hours, the end came and again, it was true to form. Dad drifted into and out of consciousness over the last two days. He was asleep when he passed away. My sister was by his side and called, "mom, he's dying!" In the early morning hours of December 3, 1991, at his Rainelle, West Virginia home, Clyde Tincher lifted his arms, opened his eyes wide while looking toward heaven. He smiled sweetly, and left to be with Jesus. How touching, how powerful.

My mother displayed her faith during the ordeal and after dad's death. She said she wouldn't bring him back to the suffering for anything. Friends and family came in a procession to bring food and gifts. The pastor, who is a family friend preached from his heart and delivered a loving, but powerful farewell, stressing that "this is not a tragedy, this is a triumph" and that "Clyde is now with his Lord." At the grave-site, my mom asked for dad's wedding ring and the funeral director, a longtime friend, went to the casket and discreetly removed it. Mom said that dad was in heaven. That was not him in the casket and she wanted the ring to keep with her at home. I have grown in Christ since that time and I more fully understand and appreciate her belief in God as demonstrated with this gesture.

I have learned that a Christian's testimony can serve God long after he is gone. My dad understood God's love and majesty and allowed God to direct his life. My father's testimony helped awaken me from a purposeless, sinful life to a joyous one, walking with the God who walked with my heavenly father. My mother told dad that his bravery had brought me back to Christ. Despite his pain, he replied, "then it's all worth it". I regret that I did not take the opportunity to benefit from my father's intimate knowledge of God. I look forward to seeing him in heaven.

My father found his purpose in life. We had difficult times, but in my forty-five years with my father, I never heard him curse, look at another woman in an improper fashion, talk badly about anyone, or live outside the Lord. He wasn't perfect and didn't claim to be. But as far as setting an example for Christ, he excelled. Clyde Tincher accepted his five talents (Matthew 25:14) and multiplied them many times. Today, he is with his beloved Lord. At the funeral, amid a church full of friends and ministers, the pastor told us that if we could be half the man our father was, we would be achieving something. I agree.