The Last Leaf Falls

Chapter 1

Of everything I've ever written, for me this is the most touching. There were days of writing where I was literally exhausted from laughing or crying or both. Much of it was because I have two daughters of my own. Some of it was because during the writing we were also fighting to keep my own dad alive. In any case, this one's close to my heart. I describe it as a love story between a father and his teenage daughter. Here's the first chapter…

The phone had barely chirped before I had the receiver to my ear. "How is she?" I asked.

"They said…" Jen took an uneven breath and my heart stopped. I searched for the slightest clue in my wife's voice, in the way she hesitated, in the way she breathed. At last, she spoke. "They said it's going to be close. Her temperature is 106."
The bottom dropped from my stomach. I leaned against the wall for support. "106?"

"They've attached several IV's and are administering the most potent antibiotic available." Jen's voice sounded detached, as if she were reciting dry, clinical facts. Over the past months it had become another little trick we'd learned to use to survive.

"They said…" She hesitated again. This one longer and more torturous than the first "They said the next few hours will tell."
I didn't speak. I may have whispered a silent prayer, I don't remember. I do remember taking a long, deep breath and trying to quiet my thoughts. So this was it. After all of these months of anguish and struggle … it finally came down to the next few hours, to some unknown infection that had crept in almost without our knowing.

"Paul? Are you there?"

My voice came back thick and husky, "Yeah."

"What about… Have you checked on-"

"The leaf?"

She said nothing. She didn't have to. I was all ready standing at our daughter's window. I'd pulled up the shade several minutes earlier. It was now five in the morning and the predicted storm, the one we'd been fearing, was in full force. Shadows from the street light danced crazily across the back yard as the bare branches of the old maple, the one between the house and the detached garage, whipped and slapped at each other. Through sheets of water sliding down the glass I caught a glimpse of a yellow and blackened leaf. It stood stalwart in the blowing wind, clinging to a large branch that stretched out over the garage roof. It was the last leaf on the tree. And, as it had remained throughout the fall, the winter, and now in the approaching spring, it had become the symbol of our family's hope…and of our fears.

"It's still there," I said.

I could practically hear her relief. "How are Sammy, Heather?"

"I got them back into bed and quieted down. They're probably asleep by now." I glanced at my watch. "I don't know what's taking Jeff; he should all ready be here. Maybe I'll just pack them up and head on down to join--"
"No." Jen's voice was quiet but firm. "You know how Heather freaks in storms. If you've got them in bed, let them sleep. Just stay until Jeff shows up."

"Jen-"

"Please, Paul. It'll only be a few minutes."

I nodded. She was right of course. Sam and his little sister had been through enough already. They didn't need any more panicked trips to the hospital, any more fears of seeing big sister Ally die. No, the sickness had robbed them of enough already. It had robbed us all. Besides stealing Ally's leg, her hope for the future, and her faith in God, it had also destroyed Sammy and Heather's innocence - their childhood belief that they would always be safe and secure. Practically every night now, six year old Heather found some excuse to pad on into our room and join us in bed. And eleven year old Sam? Well, his emotions may be more hidden, but they were just as tattered.

I glanced back out Ally's window. "You'll let me know the slightest change?" I asked.

"Of course."

"And Jen?" I gave a quick swallow. "Let's not stop praying. Whatever we do, let's not give up now."
She gave no response.

"Jen?"

"I heard you," she said. "I'll do my best."

"Me, too." I took a breath and quietly repeated. "Me, too."

"Talk to you soon." There was a quiet click as she hung up. I followed suit more slowly.

Now I was alone in my seventeen year old's bedroom. There was only the wind, the scratch of branches against the house, and the drumming rain - the perpetual, drumming rain. I'd called Jeff right after Jenny had left to follow the ambulance to the hospital. As an elder in my church and my closest friend, he and his wife were my first choice to come and stay with the kids. But the storm had obviously slowed them down - that, and making those first couple calls to start up the church prayer chain. After all, it's not every night that the pastor's first born has to fight for her life.

I closed my eyes. If only it was that simple. The real problem was she no longer wanted to fight. I drug my hand over my face. My forehead was wet and cold, my jaw a stubble of two day's growth.

"My God…" The groan surprised me, coming somewhere deep in my gut. When I opened my eyes I saw I was looking at the top of Ally's dresser across the room. Much of the white pine was dominated by a CD boombox. The rest was cluttered with ceramic knickknacks, makeup, bracelets, a few left over Beanie Babies from her younger days, a candle or two, a small vase of tiny red dried flowers, and photos of friends and family - even one of me standing with my arms wrapped around her on the beach back when we'd vacationed in Florida.

Above the clutter rose her mirror. The mirror that, a half year ago, had been plastered with cut out magazine photos of models and ballerinas. Models, because my child, like most teenagers, was the victim of gaunt, media role models, who stared at her accusingly for having the slightest trace of body fat or for actually enjoying a normal meal. How many times had I seen her deprive herself, insisting that a handful of carrot sticks actually filled her up, or watched her stew in guilt that she'd given into temptation and "binged" on a whole side of fries? (What bitter irony this would become when, during the last months, my Ally would have given anything to stop losing weight and to actually gain it).

And the pictures of the ballerinas? They'd been on the mirror because, for as long as I can remember, my little girl had wanted to be a dancer.

Memories rippled in. Memories of four year old Ally in preschool, tears welling up in those big brown eyes, pleading with the after school dance teacher to let her take ballet with the bigger kids.

"I'm sorry," the teacher explained to her in a condescending, sing-song voice. "Preschool is just a little too young, isn't it. Maybe next year, when you're a big kindergartner."

I remember Ally biting her lip and trying to hold back the tears. But if there was one thing my daughter is, it's determined. Not long after the confrontation with the dance teacher, came that fateful day when I was scheduled to pick her up after preschool. Jen was having a rough pregnancy with Sam so I was on transportation duty.

"Hey, Gloria," I said, as I entered the classroom.

"Hi, Pastor." Gloria, a bespectacled twenty-somethinger, had been attending my pre-marital class with her fiancee the past several months.

"How was Ally today?" I asked.

Gloria turned to me with a smile. "Still redefining the term, 'strong-willed.'"

"What did she do this time?"

"Actually, today, not much. Except when one of the children asked where the white in snow goes after it melts. I tried to explain that it simply evaporates but Ally wasn't buying that for one second."

"You two had a another 'discussion?'"

She chuckled. "More like a full on debate."

"And her position was…"

"It seems that the white of the snow is absorbed right into the ground with the water."

"Makes sense to me," I said.

She nodded. "Then when the tree roots drink it, it's sucked up into the branches."

"And…"

"And when they cut down the tree and make paper out of it, well that's where the white goes."

"Into the paper."

She nodded. I smiled, impressed but not surprised. Even then Ally had her own type of logic. Glancing around I asked, "So where is she?"

"Didn't your wife picked her up?"

"Not today, that's my assignment."

"Are you sure? She grabbed her lunch pail and coat and said she was going, so I just naturally figured-"

"Jen is at home, I just spoke with her."

The look on Gloria's face said it all. Without a word the two of us quickly headed out of the classroom and into the hall.
"Ally?" I called "Ally, are you here?"

We worked to keep our voices calm. "Ally?" We moved down the hall sticking our heads into each classroom. "Ally?" But she was no where to be found.

"Maybe she's outside," Gloria said. "Waiting in the parking lot."

I frowned. "She knows better than that."

We turned and headed back down the hall, our footsteps measured but urgent. I pushed open one of the glass doors and stepped into the low angle light of the winter afternoon.

"Ally…" Plumes of breath rose from my mouth. "Ally?"

"There," Gloria pointed. "Over there at the end of the building."

I turned and spotted her. She stood near the corner, in the lengthening shadows, silently spying into a classroom.
"Ally?" She did not answer. I started toward her. My feet crackled across the freezing slush. "Ally, what are you doing?"
As I approached I saw that the classroom was full of ballet dancers. And, as the students went through their routines, Ally stood in the numbing cold, pointing her little feet the way they pointed their feet, bending her little knees the way they bent theirs.

I finally arrived, scooping her into my arms. "Ally!" She endured my hugs and patiently tolerated my lecture … while all the time keeping an eye on the activities inside the classroom. Yes, it had become obvious even at the tender age of four, that my little girl had found her life's calling. And so began my life as a Dance Dad…

Soon, everywhere I turned there were pink tights, black and white leotards, unbelievably expensive toe shoes, blistered feet, and the perpetual spinning and twirling as I tried to carry on any conversation with her. Then, of course, there was … the Nutcracker…year after year after year of … the Nutcracker. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against that ballet, but how many performances can a man endure as his child moves up the ranks from playing gingerbread children, to mice, to party girls, to snowflakes and on and on, and on some more. In fact, if it were not for portable cassette recorders, along with those little earphones you can fit into your ear with nobody noticing, as well as books on tape, I doubt I could have made it.

Now, before you label me as totally insensitive, let me point out that the use of these devices not only enabled me to endure that particular ballet, but to attend it with the same enthusiasm I had the first five or six times I'd seen it. The procedure was simple; lights go down, earphones went in. When Ally came on stage, I'd hit the pause button and give her my undivided attention. When she was through, I'd hit the play button and continue my listening pleasure. And since the auditorium was always dark no one could possibly accuse me of being rude when their own little pride and joy twittered and frittered about the stage. On the contrary, I would continue to stare ahead and pretend to enjoy myself, which I actually was (more than they could have imaged).

A foolproof plan? I thought so. A win/win situation for all involved? It should have been.
Then came that fateful performance two years ago. That was the performance I had accidentally pulled the earphones out of my recorder. Of course I didn't realize that was why I couldn't hear the cassette, which would explain why I kept cranking up the volume louder and louder until eventually John Grisham's latest thriller blasted across the auditorium full volume as a somewhat confused Sugar Plum Fairy spun herself into dizzy oblivion. Needless to say that was the last of my book on tape days. It was also the last time Ally would let me get near an auditorium without first giving me a careful body search.

I smiled almost ruefully as the memory faded. It had been so many lifetimes ago. I looked back to the dresser mirror. There were no magazine cut outs on it now. No models. No ballerinas. Now, there was only the dull film of adhesive strips where they had once been taped to the glass. Ally had disposed of the pictures long ago -- back when she'd lost hope, back when she'd quit believing in God. The thought tightened my stomach. God…

What an important part He played in my life. In all of our lives. As a third generation pastor, He was all I hoped in. All I lived for. Everything I did was to serve Him, to serve His people. Until now...

Because now I wasn't so sure who He was anymore.

Oh, I still believed. I'd be a fool not to. And I'd always love Him. As the Scriptures say, "Though He slay me, I will hope in him." But now… now like Sammy and little Heather, my world was no longer as safe and secure as it once was. I could no longer claim to know Him as I once had. Now, in the darkest corners of my soul I was full of doubt and fear and anger. And those emotions scared me almost as much as losing my daughter.

I turned and glanced back out her window catching a glimpse of the leaf and the garage directly below it. The garage we had turned into an art studio for Dad after he'd moved in with us. The garage where, after his retirement from ministry, he spent dozens of hours a week painting. He wasn't great but, like Ally, he was determined. When questioned about this new passion of his, he'd just smile and say he was trying to capture God's love on the canvas.

Of course some of the older members of the congregation complained that he was wasting his time. "A man of such experience should never retire from ministry," they said. "He should use his skills to help mentor younger, less gifted pastors." (Like his younger and less gifted son, I'm sure they silently thought). Still Dad had been a pastor since he was eighteen. He deserved some rest.

But it wasn't exactly rest. For my father, painting had grown into an act of worship, another way of communing with the Savior he so deeply adored.

"If I could just capture a smidgen of His love," he would say. "If I could just show the love he had for us up on that cross, then I'd be content."

"So do it," a younger, fourteen year old Ally had challenged him one day in the studio.

"Do what?"

"Paint a picture of Jesus hanging on the cross?"

I remember my father turning to her from his easel, his hazel eyes searching hers. He pushed back his thinning hair and shook his head. "No, girl, its been done a million times before."

"So what's wrong with doing it a million and one?"

He flashed her his famous, uneven smile, the one that gave him so much character. As a child, braces for him were unheard of. As an adult he never had the inclination. "Remember how we used to say the words, "toy boat" over and over again?" he asked. "Do you remember?"

She nodded. "Sure."

"How we'd say them faster and faster, until we couldn't say them anymore, until they didn't have any more meaning?"
She nodded again.

"That's how it is with me. You're right, there's no greater picture of God's love than Jesus on the cross. But I've seen so many paintings of it, over and over again, that part of me has grown numb to it - not to what Jesus did, but to the paintings. There's got to be another way to capture that love. That's what I want to do, Buddy Girl. I want to capture and express that same love but in a way that's fresh and alive and powerful."

Ally looked at him, trying to understand. He continued. "It's like when you're dancing. Do you go through the same routine, performance after performance, without thinking?"

Ally frowned. "Of course not. I've got to feel it. I've got to feel the emotions in the music and put it in my movement. Otherwise I'd be bored out of my head, so would the audience."

"Exactly. And the same is true with my painting. I want to experience that love. I want to explore it and capture its power…for myself and for those who look at it."

Ally watched him, slowly starting to nod. Apparently the answer had satisfied her. I wasn't sure how, but it didn't matter. The two spent a lot of time in his studio talking like that, artist to artist -- often in a language I only pretended to understand.
And it was there, in that same garage, just seven months ago, after Ally had been diagnosed with cancer, that I had my own talk with Dad. Well, actually, I really wasn't talking. More like raging...

"It's not fair!" I roared. "She's only seventeen. Seventeen!"

Dad sat quietly on his wooden stool in front of a canvas, another one of his landscapes. I didn't expect him to answer. As a pastor for fifty years, he had long ago learned the wisdom of not stepping between God and His children when punches were being thrown. Instead, he allowed me to continue venting as I stormed back and forth across the studio like a caged animal.

It was the end of July. The air inside was hot and heavy with moisture. Ten days earlier Ally had convinced her mother to take her to the doctor about a persistent ache in her left knee.

"It's just growing pains," Jennifer had assured her."

But Ally disagreed. "Mom, I'm seventeen. I quit growing back in tenth grade."

"Maybe you hurt something in dance. Maybe you just pulled a--"

"Mo-om…"

"Honey, we can't afford to go running to the doctor every time you-"

"Mo-o-omm…"

As usual, Ally's persistence paid off. Soon they visited our family physician who took some x-rays of her leg. After studying the pictures he immediately made an appointment for them to visit an orthopedic surgeon who immediately sent them to an orthopedic oncologist.

That's when we first heard the word, "osteosarcoma." Next came what the doctors called, "staging." In just a matter of hours they had performed what seemed to be every test known to man, and then some. Blood work, more x-rays, cat scans, MRI, bone scan, chest x-ray, chest CTS, and finally the infamous "incisional biopsy," a procedure where they removed a section of bone near Ally's knee to examine it under a microscope.

Then, finally, after five agonizing days of waiting, praying, and leaping every time the phone rang, the results came in:
"I'm sorry, Pastor." Dr. Lawson, the oncologist's voice was gentle but full of quiet resolve. "There's no easy way of saying this, but our fears are confirmed. Your daughter has bone cancer."

Back in the garage with Dad I kicked a discarded easel that had the misfortune of getting in my way. "Didn't we pray?" I demanded as I paced. "Hasn't Iris Johnson, hasn't the entire women's group been fasting and praying for us!?"

Dad said nothing. A shaft of sunlight spilled in from the doorway illuminating several canvases in glaring brightness. Some of the pictures were squares less than a foot wide. Others were gigantic murals. Some were complete, some were "work in progress," and some were work in progress that would never be complete.

Dad picked up a rag and carefully wiped the paint from his crinkled and liver spotted hands. "What did the doctors say?" he asked. "What's their prognosis?"

I swallowed hard, staring at the floor. The multi-colored streams and spatters of dried paint on the concrete blurred in my growing tears. "Three rounds of chemotherapy," I said. "Followed by surgery, then one more round of chemo."
"Surgery?" he asked.

I nodded. "First they'll kill as much cancer as possible with the chemo." I took an unsteady breath and continued. "Then they'll go in and either amputate her leg or replace parts with a prosthesis or bone from a human cadaver." I'd meant for the words to shock him and when I glanced up I saw I had succeeded. The man sat speechless, his thin, white hair glowing in the sunlight.

I resumed pacing. My chest felt like I'd swallowed broken glass that pierced my lungs with every breath. "Why?" I demanded. "Why? Is this how He treats His servants? Is this how He rewards those who give Him their lives?"
As pastors we'd both been faced with the terrible "why" question. At hospitals, deathbeds, gravesides. And, as pastors we did our best to avoid becoming God's defense attorneys. Instead of defending Him, it was our job to simply offer His love. LOVE?

I took another ragged breath. "Why would a God of love do this sort of thing? Tell me? All she's ever wanted to do her whole life was dance. That's all she ever dreamed of. And now to just arbitrarily chop off her leg? Why??"

Dad gave no answers.

I turned at him and roared. "WHY?!"

At last he looked up. My eyes locked onto his and he knew I wasn't backing down. "Why?"

He cleared his throat. "The Scriptures say-"

"I know what the Scriptures say!" I heard myself shout. "I know everything the Scriptures say. But that's my little girl, not some theological treatise. She's my kid, Dad. My kid. And I want to know why!?"

With effort he finally disengaged from my eyes and glanced about the studio. He took a deep breath but would not look back at me. "Son…" He hesitated, then continued. "The question is not why… but how."

"How?"

He nodded. "How will God use this for His glory. How will He use it to demonstrate His love."

I exploded. "How do you love someone by torturing them!? How do you love a child by destroying her only dream?"
He still would not look at me which made me all the more angry. "Answer me!" My voice rang against the wooden rafters and concrete floor. I was harsh and mean and petulant. But I was also lost and frightened. "Answer me!"
Finally, sadly, he shook his head. "I don't know."

I stood, feeling myself trembling with rage.

In the silence he looked about the studio, all the pictures, all the canvases. When he spoke again, it was softer, vulnerable. "God's love…who can explain it. It's depth, its power."

"Isn't that supposed to be our job?" I seethed.

He thought another moment then nodded. "And I wonder if we ever really succeed… so awesome, so beyond our ability to comprehend." He paused. "All I know is that His love is greater than any circumstance you or I will ever find ourselves in. It is greater than any disappointment we will ever face. It is greater than any suffering we will ever experience."

"And if Ally should die?" I asked.

He turned to me, blinking in surprise.

"The doctors say there's a 20% chance she'll not make it through the treatments. And if it metastasizes the danger rises to 80%. If she should die, Dad, if the cancer kills her, what then?"

He took another breath and looked to the ground. "If that should be the case, and I pray to God it isn't--"

"But if it is?" I demanded.

Slowly, he looked up, once again locking onto my eyes. "Then His love will be even greater than her death."