Generations

My artist friend, Ashley Collins, has a unique approach to her paintings.?She begins with pages from books gathered worldwide, some over a century old, passed from hand to hand in communities lacking libraries or modern conveniences like Amazon's next-day delivery. The pages of each book are stained with the touch of past generations and form the foundation of her art.

Ashley covers her canvas in the stain and torn pages of old these books, each carrying the silent stories of those who once cradled them, turning each page with anticipation or sorrow. Sitting on her studio’s cold cement floor, she draws in the collective breath of history, letting the essence of countless past readers fuel her creativity. Standing, she faces the canvas, allowing the process to unfold. Each painting can take her over a year, as layer upon layer of her emotional stories blend with the pages beneath. Early in the process, one may look at the canvas and assume that she has created a beautiful piece of art.? However, the next day she has painted over what she had created, not accepting it complete but instead another layer captured on the canvas. She continues to paint allowing her raw emotions to flow through her and unto the canvas. The process is a never-ending cycle of creation and recreation.

Ashley refers to her creations as “My children,” embodying the generations of energy and emotion that echo our own inherited traits and feelings.? The layers on the canvas are part of her, like the DNA in each of us given to us by our parents.? Generations of energy and emotions that we carry with us and pass along to our own children. Emotions that rise inside us sometimes unexpectedly.?

It is in this tapestry of emotions I traveled to Mexico to see my father, most likely for the last time. I made my way through customs and found the driver waiting for me outside the terminal at station 12. We walked together in silence to his van and within minutes we were making our way to my father’s casita.? The drive would take an hour, time that I needed to prepare myself emotionally for the weekend.?

The driver slowed down his van and turned into the driveway. “Here you go, Se?or. I will get your bag for you.”?After settling the fare, I took a deep breath and stepped beyond the garage and entered the backyard. My father was there sleeping comfortably in an oversized chair. I walked past him into the kitchen and his wife, Kathy, welcomed me with a long hug. “He will probably be sleeping for a while; did you have time to get lunch at the airport?” I shook my head no, and she opened the refrigerator and retrieved all the things she would need and began preparing a sandwich for me. She updated me on my father’s health as we sat together at the kitchen table. Before I arrived, his blood pressure had fallen below 60. The nurse continued to take his blood pressure every fifteen minutes to see if it improved. The entire process had kept him from his afternoon nap until eventually his blood pressure improved and he fell asleep.? Kathy shared that nurse could not explain the drop in pressure but was thankful that it had improved.?

As I finished my sandwich my father began to wake from his nap. Kathy cautioned me, explaining that his speech had been severely affected by the stroke he suffered right before Christmas. I walked out and greeted him as his eyes turned towards me when he heard my voice. I sat down next to him and he began to talk to me. I struggled to pick out words that I could understand, and I tried to string them together in my mind. It worked better when I talked to him and asked him questions that he could respond “yes” or “no”. But he had much to tell me, so I sat with him and listened to him trying desperately to understand what he was saying. ?

I spent the next hour listening to him. Sometimes I could make out a word like “Page”. ?I imagined that he was telling me about our farm in North Dakota that his family had homesteaded two generations past. Another time his words made me believe he was talking about the home we renovated in Minnesota. As fatigue set in, his speech grew increasingly difficult to understand, and he gently slipped back into sleep, murmuring all the while. ?

Returning to the kitchen, I was greeted by the caretaker who extended her phone towards me. Brittany, her manager, awaited on the other end. After exchanging pleasantries, Brittany began asking me about the specifics of my father’s care, particularly his Do Not Resuscitate (DNR) order. She wanted to confirm my agreement with the DNR's conditions and took the time to outline the procedures that would be necessary should my father pass away in Mexico. I expressed my gratitude for both the information she provided and the compassionate care her team extended to my father.

At sunset, we sat and ate dinner together and then we prepared my father for bed. Kathy had purchased a hospital bed which made the transition from the wheelchair to the bed easier.?Despite this, it still took both of us to lift him out of the wheelchair and get him comfortable in bed. Kathy pulled up the rail and locked it in place so there was no way for my father to fall out of bed.? Prior to the hospital bed, my father would occasionally fall out of their bed, unto the floor.? Kathy would get out of bed to offer her assistance, but my father refused her help.? Eventually she would leave him there with a blanket and a pillow to sleep on the floor, only to find him mysteriously back in bed in the morning, leaving her to marvel at his determination and stubbornness.?

The time with my father went by quickly. On Sunday, between his rests, we ventured out into the afternoon sun, taking a leisurely ride in the side by side, a fleeting escape from reality. Once back, we settled him into his chair in the backyard, where he quietly fell asleep. As he slept, I sat next to him and just noticed things that I had not seen before.?His hair had thinned and grayed since October when I had seen him last.?When I looked at his hands, it was difficult to distinguish between the wrinkles and the scars he had suffered from living a full life; both cut deeply into his weathered skin. No longer the hands of a carpenter, they bore the imprint of a lifetime’s toil.

I noticed for the first time the layers that made my father.?The lineage of perseverance and stubbornness, traits passed down through generations, were vividly present in him. The pioneering spirit of his ancestors, who left the city and ventured into the prairies of North Dakota to carve out a new beginning, was alive in his very essence. Their resilience through the harsh winters mirrored in his enduring spirit.

His hands, once the tools of teaching and leadership, narrated stories of past achievements and silent sacrifices. This trait of leadership, seemingly woven into our family’s DNA, stood in stark contrast to the cruel inheritance of Multiple System Atrophy (MSA) that had overtaken him. As I sat next to him, absorbing the silent tales told by his presence, I was struck by the cruel irony of genetics. The very strands of DNA that carried the legacy of strength and resilience also harbored this relentless disease. In the silence, I found a deeper connection to my father, a blend of admiration and sorrow, celebrating the legacy while mourning the affliction.

The disease however would not slow my father down. He moved from a cane to two canes, to a walker and eventually a wheelchair. He never stopped working.? There was something in the generational layers of inheritance that had taught him that work was something to enjoy and be thankful for, never taking anything for granted.

On Monday morning the driver waited for me in the driveway. The time had come for me to say goodbye. I wasn’t sure if I would see my father again. I assumed that this would be the last time for me to say, “I love you, dad”.?

As I flew home, I texted my kids.? I wrote, “Hi my amazing family. I am on my way home from saying goodbye to Grandpa on the Farm.? I was honored to be able to share with him how much he influenced me in becoming the person I am today. I told him that he taught me to always be a man of integrity, to work hard and not complain about how much was being asked of me, but instead be thankful for what I have been given.?

I told my father that when he gets to heaven that he most certainly will be handed a carpenter’s belt and a set of tools.? He smiled. I asked him to make sure he starts building the homes around him because someday we will all be coming to heaven to join him and we want to live close to him. ?

He did his best to share with me how thankful he was that I came to visit and spend time with him. He told me, ‘Too long’, referring to dealing with the disease and he said, ‘I’m tired’.? I told him that it’s ok and he doesn’t need to be strong for anyone anymore. ?

I hugged him as he sat in his wheelchair and told him one more time that I loved him and then I said goodbye.”

I have come to better understand from this brief time with my father the layers that make us who we are. There are times in our lives that the canvas appears completed only to have another layer cover the beauty that once had been. Yet, these layers are a part of us, integral to our story, and something our children will inherit and carry forward.

As my children grow, I hope they'll look at me and start to find the truth regarding the complex layers of the generations that have made me into who I am. I'm far from perfect, and there've been countless times I've wondered about the roots of my own brokenness.

Their journey will involve the addition of new layers, some of which will be influenced by the legacy I leave behind. Their canvases are primed, awaiting the multitude of experiences that will define them. Just as I have inherited and added to past generations, so too will my children take forward the layers of our family's story, crafting their own unique narratives within the broader tapestry of life.

You are worthy, our Lord and God, to receive glory and honor and power, for you created all things, and by your will they were created and have their being.

Revelations 4:11