I Can Only Imagine Read online

  I was shocked. This kind of thing hadn’t happened in so long. But his rage immediately sucked me right back into every childhood memory of hurt and rejection.

  I screamed, “I hate you! I am done! I’m out of here, and I’m not coming back!” I grabbed my keys and stormed out, slamming the door behind me.

  As I sped away, I had every intention of never returning. If that version of Dad was back, I wasn’t sticking around to see it—living or dying. I was not returning to those old patterns ever again, now that I was old enough to do something about it. Finally, this time I did have a choice.

  Just as I had always done when something bad happened between Dad and me, I went to Kent’s house, even though he was away at college. And just as she had always done, his mom listened to me. After tending to my bleeding head, she called Dad to tell him I was there and not to worry. She recommended he give me some time to settle down.

  I stayed at Kent’s house for four or five days. Being with Kent’s mother, one of my surrogate moms, was always comforting to me when these situations made me feel so insecure and alone.

  As Dad and I cooled down, I thought about his battle with cancer and the limited time we had together. I finally swallowed my pride and came back home. We talked it out and apologized. But what was different this time was that we worked together toward a resolution.

  We never had another issue after that. Not one. We lived in peace. I think we both knew there was no outside problem worth our time and energy. Dad was quickly losing his war with cancer. No disagreement was worth our relationship, especially now.

  (So what about my relationship with the girl? Well, I should have listened to Dad. She ended up breaking my heart right before graduation. In fact, I decided to not even go to the senior party. I think I was the only one not there. Dad was right all along.)

  Something about that plate-breaking incident and its aftermath opened yet another new chapter for Dad. From the moment I came back home, he treated me as an adult and gave me a lot of respect. And something about us working through what happened took away the remaining fears I had still been holding on to.

  Confessions, Coaching, and Counsel

  Dad had asked his doctor how he would die from this disease. Also a family friend, the doctor was a straight shooter. Typically, he said, the lungs fill up with fluid, and the patient slowly drowns.

  From the get-go, Dad made it clear he did not want to die in a hospital. He was diagnosed with cancer when I was a freshman in high school and started chemo during my junior year. By the beginning of my senior year, as his symptoms got worse, we had moved out most of his furniture and set up a makeshift hospital room in his bedroom. After chemo treatments or emergency care, he would return home to his own private recovery room with all the equipment he needed.

  During the last year, hospice nurses came to the house. The mother of one of my childhood best friends was a nurse, and Dad was comfortable around her, so she agreed to help during the day shift. His night shift nurse was a guy he became close friends with, and Dad was devastated when the man was killed in a car accident. Dad said he couldn’t go through anything like that again, so he wanted to stop the nighttime care and just have our friend come during the day. In his emotional state, he couldn’t take having to get to know and trust someone else.

  During that transition, we also decided that Mammaw Millard would move in to help take care of us both. It would also be good for her and Dad to be together in this final season, because they had been so close for so long.

  The nurse showed me how to give Dad his medications through his IV during the night. I’m sure this was against policy, but we were trying to accommodate his wishes to the best of our ability. One of the shots had to be given somewhere between midnight and four in the morning, and it took at least two hours to work through the IV, so Dad and I started having impromptu middle-of-the-night conversations.

  In some ways, it was as though we had just met and were getting to know each other for the first time, at ages eighteen and forty-eight. He asked me questions about my life to get me to start talking. At first I didn’t want to communicate much, but Dad was a captive audience and hung on my every word. He saw this time as a gift from God to make up for the lost years, but I wasn’t ready to give in and get too close.

  Early on in this arrangement, I had to put Dad’s care first, over my own life, and this contributed to lingering feelings of resentment toward him. Because I was now essentially serving as the night-shift nurse, I either couldn’t go out on Friday nights or had to be back home in time to administer the meds. But in classic Millard fashion, he kept chiseling away at me. Eventually, I would sit down and download my entire day with him and talk over any problems or frustrations I had.

  As time went on, I saw the value of getting his wisdom and counsel. A new healing was taking place. I started looking forward to those late-night sessions. I even began to skip going out at all on weekends and would just stay home so we could hang out. I still have the journal where I wrote the words, “I had the first real conversation ever with my dad tonight.”

  Dad had immersed himself deeply in Scripture and learned so much in his walk with God, and he shared much of his newfound knowledge with me. He became my personal pastor, teaching me from an amazing mixture of life experience and biblical wisdom. All that I learned from him in those last eighteen months laid the foundation for my own life as a husband, father, and minister.

  One night Dad and I were watching a video of one of our church musicals. He looked at the TV, smiled, and said, “Hey, there’s Shannon. Boy, you better hang on to that girl. Don’t you ever let her get away. You two were meant for each other.”

  I reminded him that we were no longer dating, but he continued: “Well, whatever you did, Bart—even if you don’t know what you did—you’re wrong. So get it right with her.”

  We both laughed, but I took his comment to heart as his approval of Shannon and his blessing of our relationship.

  In the I Can Only Imagine movie, one of my absolute favorite scenes is when “Dad” looks at “Bart” and with a smile says, “Did I ever tell you how I met your mother?” “Bart” smiles and shakes his head. The scene fades as “Dad’s” story begins. To hear my “dad” speak so fondly of my “mom,” like a real married couple would do, was really special to me. That was such a brief but beautiful portrayal of the many intimate moments Dad and I shared together in those midnight meetings. He told me hundreds of details of his life, confiding in me as a best friend.

  The Sewer Summer

  (My First and Last “Real” Job)

  I was grateful that Dad was able to attend my high school graduation, although he was very sick. As summer began, I needed a job so I could make some money before I started college in the fall. After all, life still went on, and the bills had to be paid. So Dad contacted some friends and found out about an opening in the city water and sewer department. His likely motivation was to put me on the fast track to a city job so I could have a secure position in Greenville for the rest of my life. I interviewed and was hired.

  Journalists love to ask musicians what jobs they worked prior to their careers taking off. So many well-known artists have crazy stories about what they did before music. Well, I’m no different. In fact, I’ll put my work history outside of music up against anyone’s story!

  My duties at the city water and sewer department were simple. First, I was given the keys to a large tractor with a massive mower box underneath that you could raise and lower. I was supposed to cut the grass under and around all the city water towers and storage containers. That part wasn’t too bad—just really hot outdoor work sitting almost on top of a large diesel engine.

  But wait, there’s more! Each week I had to go to the sewer plant and put on rubber wading boots, protective eye goggles, and a gas mask circa World War II, fire up a high-pressure water hose, and squirt all the . . . uh, human excrement . . . that was caked up like concrete inside the tank, the goal being to f
orce it down the massive drain in the middle. The aforementioned doo-doo was piled about three feet high all the way across the huge circular container. Picture standing in a giant commode that has backed up due to a particularly large bowel movement (and not your own, by the way) and having to forcibly and manually flush it by applying a stream of water. (I’m so sorry. I’m just trying to accurately paint this picture for you.)

  That job involved more gagging than you would ever think possible. In the blazing summer heat, my sweat pooled up in the gas mask, and I would be forced to remove the antique apparatus to wipe my face off to be able to see. But that would expose my nose to the stench and trigger my gag reflex, causing me to throw up. (I promise you I am not making this up!)

  But that wasn’t even the part of the job that ended my illustrious and short-lived career with the City of Greenville. One day I was mowing around a reservoir that had large, steep slopes surrounding it. I tried cutting the grass by driving around the sides at an angle, but it freaked me out because it felt as though the tractor was about to tip over on its side. So I decided to try another approach. I would point the tractor at the hill, drive straight up to the top with the mower down, pick the mower up, then let the tractor coast back down in neutral. (You’re already saying “Uh-oh,” aren’t you?) The plan wasn’t that bad except for one little glitch: at the base of the slope was a small, concave concrete ditch for rainwater runoff. Driving across that little trench going uphill was no issue for the tractor. But coming back down was another story.

  When the back wheels hit the trench, everything stopped immediately. Now I was sitting at a critically steep angle with most of the weight of the tractor in the back. By instinct, I hit the accelerator and gunned the engine. The tractor didn’t move, but the front wheels rose up off the ground. (In the eighties, we called that “poppin’ a wheelie”—but it was never meant to be applied to farm equipment.)

  I had obviously enacted some irreversible law of physics. There was no stopping the front end’s backward arc.

  I was strapped in by the seat belt and beginning to flip back. A thin metal awning on the tractor served as a sunshade, and I could hear the four support arms of the roof starting to buckle under the weight of the tractor. Then the truth registered, or an angel screamed in my ear, that once the weight of the tractor came all the way back, the roof was going to be crushed like a beer can on a drunken redneck’s head—with me inside!

  Just before the moment of impact, I unbuckled the seat belt and rolled out the side onto the ground. The tractor finally got hung up enough that it stopped before turning completely upside down, but let’s just say that the entire contraption was no longer drivable. It hung in a precarious position on the side of that hill.

  What did I do next? Well, I did what any irresponsible eighteen-year-old whose brain hasn’t fully developed and who is scared to death but stinkin’ mad all at the same time would do . . . I walked to my car, drove home, fixed a sandwich, and watched some TV.

  When Dad realized I had come home early, he asked, “Hey, why aren’t you at work?”

  “I quit! I hate that job and I am not going back—ever! Ever!”

  He never said another word.

  I never heard anything from the city. Maybe Dad took care of it. I really don’t know, but we never spoke of it again.

  That was my one and only attempt at what Mammaw Millard would call a “real job.” While I know this is a comical and crazy story, God’s guiding hand just kept gently pushing and leading me toward His plan for my life. I was placed on this planet for a reason, a mission, and God was molding and shaping who I would be, bringing about His will for my life. Just as He is doing for you, my friend.

  Six

  FINISH WHAT HE STARTED

  No matter what you’ve done,

  Grace comes like a flood,

  There’s hope to carry on,

  He’ll finish what He started.

  —MERCYME, “FINISH WHAT HE STARTED,” FROM WELCOME TO THE NEW (2014)*

  During almost every late-night conversation, while the meds worked their way through his IV, Dad grew emotional and told me how sorry he was for the things he had done and how he had treated me. He expressed how much he wished he could fix what he had broken. But he also passed on hundreds of invaluable pieces of wisdom he thought I would need as I navigated my way through life, marriage, parenthood, and my career. To this day, I find myself doing the very things he told me to do and constantly telling my own kids what he shared with me.

  One of the biggest victories that came from those middle-of-the-night talks was that I learned for the first time to trust my dad. Honestly, that is a miracle, something I never thought I’d be able to say, much less experience. Who would ever have known, after the horrible impact he had on my childhood, that those soul-sharing moments could make such a positive difference in the rest of my life?

  I had planned on going to Texas A&M University in the fall, and I attended orientation in early June. While I was there, Dad got really sick and had to go to the hospital, so I went home. That incident caused me to rethink moving so far away. I decided Baylor University in Waco would be a smarter choice. That way, if Dad took a turn for the worse, I could get home a little quicker. Kent was already at school there, and they had offered me a small scholarship.

  But that August, as I was staying at Kent’s place in the process of enrolling at Baylor, Dad ended up in the hospital yet again.

  So after two tries of going away to school, I decided being even a few hours down the road was going to be too difficult. After all, every time he went to the hospital, we feared it could be the end. I moved back home just before the start of the fall semester and enrolled in East Texas State University, which was only about twenty minutes from Greenville. I could commute to class from the house each day.

  Dad didn’t want me to change my plans because of him, but I told him I knew I needed to be at home. I was all too aware that sooner rather than later I could go to college anywhere. For now, proximity to Dad was my priority.

  Mirror Image

  There were times when Dad was so sick that he would cry out for me to hold him, or he would ask me to change him in order to keep his dignity in front of the hospice nurse. Those were very hard moments for us both, but we bonded during them. He trusted and depended on me, and I did my best to unconditionally love him. Even when something was difficult or gross, I had to get over myself and help take care of him for his sake.

  One particular day is forever burned into my memory. The hospice nurse needed to change the sheets on the hospital bed. There was not a comfortable place to move Dad, so I told her I would pick him up and hold him while she took care of it.

  Dad was down to around 120 pounds. I easily scooped him up in my arms and stepped back to give the nurse plenty of room to do her work. As I planted my feet to stand, I caught something out of my peripheral vision and turned my head to look. What I saw was our reflection in a mirror.

  There I was, staring myself in the face, holding Dad. He was limp, like a rag doll resting in my arms. For all those years, I had been so much smaller than him, living in fear of this large, gruff, angry man, feeling so insignificant in his shadow as he towered over me with intimidation and disgust. Now the tables were so horribly turned, and he was completely helpless. I was the strong one. But I had no anger, no bitterness, no vengeful thoughts—only sadness and grief that my new best friend would be leaving me all too soon.

  In that moment, I knew it to be a privilege that God was allowing me to hold my father in the same way that my heavenly Father had carried me for all those many years. In fact, in these final days, He was carrying us both, granting us the grace to see every hour we could spend together as a gift.

  Go Chase Your Dream

  So many incredible songs gave me strength and an outlet for all my emotions and feelings in those days. Not long before Dad took a final turn for the worse, I was scheduled to sing a solo in church on Sunday, as I often did. Dad wa
s, of course, too sick to go. But when he couldn’t be there, he always listened to the service on the radio. That Sunday I sang “He’s All You Need” by Steve Camp. I still recall the lyrics: When you’re alone and your heart is torn, He is all you need. When you’re confused and your soul is bruised, He is all you need. He’s the rock of your soul, He’s the anchor that holds through your desperate time. When your way is unsure, His love will endure, a peace you will find through all your years, the joy, the tears, He is all you need.†

  When I got home that afternoon after church, Dad called me into his room. He said, “Bart, you have an amazing voice, and I know you can do great things with it. I want you to know that I heard you on the radio that very first time you sang at church, and I was so proud of you.”

  What? I thought to myself, totally surprised. He had listened? It turns out that right after his exploratory surgery and his cancer diagnosis, he had tuned in to hear me sing at church, but he had never said a word about it. He went on to tell me that he had kept the radio on and listened to the pastor’s message. Who would have ever thought that God would use me and my singing—something Dad had overlooked—to get through to him with the gospel?

  I was speechless. But now knowing what had happened helped me better understand so much more.

  As I sat down beside the bed, Dad went on: “God has a plan for you with your singing. You’re really good, Bart. Listen, playing it safe is just not worth it. Whatever you’re passionate about, you need to just go for it 110 percent. All in. Don’t let anyone or anything stop you. Okay?” Through his tears, he told me to not let anything stand in the way of me pursuing my dreams.

  Wow! What a turnaround from all those old messages he had preached to me about being realistic and taking no risks in my life.