I am not a techie nor the son of a techie.
So it was an iffy move when I purchased Amazon’s virtual assistant, Alexa, as a gift for my father. I didn’t know how the silly thing worked and I was sure that he didn’t know either. Fortunately my kid brother was around when the gizmo arrived. He pulled her out of the box on Christmas morning, set her upright on the table, fiddled a bit with her buttons, then put her to task straightaway.
“Alexa, how is the weather in Madagascar?”
“Alexa, tell us a joke.”
“Alexa, do you know the way to San Jose?”
My father enjoyed this game endlessly. We all found this curious as Dad was a very clever man but not particularly loquacious. His communication-of-choice often consisted of grunts, huffs, and eye-rolls that required years of training to interpret. Mom, of course, was best at this, and would sometimes, after a long and complicated series that left us scratching, offer a clear translation: “Your father prefers rhubarb.”
As Dad’s health deteriorated due to the diabolical effects of diabetes, Alexa became his friend. He did not have to rise from his chair or read a computer screen. He could play music, surf the web, and get the news. When he came home exhausted from dialysis, Alexa was ready.
We joked from time to time that Alexa was hardly the lady we believed her to be, but more like a Big Brother who was taking notes. Dad’s background in law-enforcement and his penchant for Fox News made this absurdity even more delightful. “Be careful Dad,” someone would say, “Alexa is listening.”
Last weekend, I traveled home to sit with him after the decision was made to stop the dialysis. It was a terrible and beautiful time.
Dad was in the living room in a bed provided by the hospice folk. I opened all the blinds to let in the winter sun, a rare commodity in western Oregon. It was bright and warm. Mom was there, strong and communicative. My kid-brother was there too and we sat on the couch opposite his bed. Alexa rested on the table in the corner, ever listening.
Over the course of the next two days our conversation wandered from memories of the past to activities in the present. Dad drifted in and out. We laughed and we cried some. All the grandkids called on their cellphones. We held them up close so he could see.
In the longer stretches, Dad would speak.
“Alexa, play Handel’s ‘Hallelujah Chorus.’”
“Alexa, play Handel’s ‘I know that my redeemer . . . ’” (his voice trailed off weakly, searching for the word).
“Liv-ETH, Dad. My redeemer liveth,” I offered. “But I don’t think Alexa knows King James English.”
She did.
Alexa must have played the '“Hallelujah Chorus” twenty times. Her cylinder just rattled.
At last, the awful moment came; I had to leave. My plane was waiting. I kissed my father on the forehead and combed his damp hair with my fingers. There were tears in the corners of his eyes. I struggled to speak. Nothing could get around the lump in my throat. So I prayed in squeaks and huffs instead.
I thanked God for my father, for his love and influence. I thanked God for the conviction that while we would not see each other for a while, that we would, one day, surely see each other again. I thanked God that this was not really goodbye.
Then I had to go. “See ya later, Dad.”
The following night, Mom heard him stirring. She went out to his bed to offer some comfort. She told him what a wonderful visit we had had and how splendid it was for the grandkids to call on their phones. Dad smiled. The room was dark. Outside the window the great evergreens bent low.
When he did speak again, he uttered words that would be his last in this mortal frame.
“Alexa, be quiet.”
One cannot be certain of such things, but I am convinced that what he experienced next was neither dark nor silent, but a blaze of glory followed by a grand symphonic explosion. Sight and sound welcomed him home with a choral performance that defied all earthly experience.
“The kingdom of this world
Is become the kingdom of our Lord,
And of His Christ, and of His Christ;
And He shall reign for ever and ever,
For ever and ever, forever and ever.”
See ya later, Dad.