A message from Stefan

Stefan wrote this message which we read out at Dad's funeral.  It deserves to be read in full.

Today, August 15^th is my birthday, and so I guess, a good day to talk about my father, and reflect on the last 45 years I shared life with him.

Not only did he help give me life 45 years ago, but in deeply significant ways he also taught me how to live that life.

I think of walking with him at the up-market Kemp’s Corner, near our home in Nana Chowk in the heart of Bombay, where we lived for the first 15 years of my life. I was perhaps 10 years old, the age my son Ashish is now, and I remember as I was walking, suddenly realizing that Dad had disappeared.  

I turned around to see him, way behind, sitting on the sidewalk, his feet in the gutter, next to a leper who was begging by the side of the road. Dad had given him a tract about God’s love for him, and was talking to him with his arm wrapped around his shoulder, and the man with leprosy was smiling.  I remember feeling terribly awkward, feeling a hot flush of embarrassment standing there alone, as wealthy people in suits and briefcases walked by.  

However, it was only much later, while in college, as my sense of what is important in life began to crystallize, that I thought back to that experience. I distinctly remember the feeling of embarrassment being replaced with one of pride, deep pride for who my Dad was.  For his humility and love for the ordinary, the small, the poor, the down-trodden.  For his right-side-up values in a world that is upside-down.  

It was Dad’s clarity of vision, that people matter, that people are made in the image of God and have value, that has profoundly shaped me.  I remember a second time walking with him many years later as a 30 year-old in Connaught Place, the heart of New Delhi.  Right in front of our eyes an auto-rickshaw came careening out of a side alley, out of control, and although missing a second auto, clipped its edge and pulled off some of its bumper.  I remember the driver of the damaged auto getting out, livid, raining abuses upon the first driver.  

Dad walked up, gently touched his arm, and told him, “Look, think about what just happened in Gujarat”.  The terrible Bhuj earth-quake of 2001 had just taken place.  Dad said, “Think about the people who have lost their lives, the mothers who have lost children, the wives who have lost husbands, the children who have lost their parents. What you have lost here is nothing, just some pieces of metal.”  

I remember the auto driver’s anger dissipating, him thanking my father, him getting back into his auto and driving away.

Or the story of a Mussoorie friend who told me about the brand new generator my father had helped him buy for some hill-side project, which he had kept in his jeep and which got stolen overnight.   I remember this brother telling me how he went to Dad with great fear and trembling and was so surprised when Dad’s immediate response was: “No problem.  That is only a generator.  You are so much more important than a generator.”

And finally there is my own experience, learning about grace—that usually abstract theological idea that instead of the punishment we deserve, God embraces us with arms of love.  

I learned about grace, because with my Dad I experienced it. During a two-year period that my parents lived in the US while I was in college, somebody gifted them a car.  Having planned an overnight journey with some college friends to visit my brother 16 hours away I asked my father if I could take the new car.  Although quite hesitant, because they hadn’t even begun using it, he gave me permission.  

To cut a long story short, having driven all night on our way back, due to an error on our part the engine overheated and totally broke down.  I remember walking in the morning light, with dread in my heart, along the stretch of desolate high-way to a stranger’s house, knocking on the front door and asking to use his phone.  My Dad picked up the phone, and cutting me short as I tried to explain what had happened, asked me just one question: ‘But are you okay?’  

He then arranged for a tow-truck/crane to drive out to us, which pulled the car straight to a junk-yard.  Instead of the anger, or grave parental advice I expected and deserved, when I reached home he simply held me in a long tight embrace. And he never mentioned that car to me, ever.  Ever.

 Of course my father made many mistakes as well. With all the wonderful things about my father, he was also flawed.  We are all flawed.  But as children, we see the flaws of our parents up close, and often experience them in very direct ways.  As children we enter the world expecting perfection, as we should, and end up hurt, often disappointed.  

Just before my first child Ashish was about to be born I remember being gripped with fear about fatherhood.  I remember thinking about how impossible it was going to be for me to be the best father.  I was going to end up disappointing my child in some way or the other, just as I had known disappointment with my own father.  But then something released me from all fear: I suddenly realized that just as I have had been able to forgive my father for his failings, one day my child would forgive me for mine. 

Forgiveness is a wonderful thing.  It changes everything.  It literally changes the world.  And I am grateful for the many opportunities my father and I have had to forgive each other, to be forgiven by each other, and to set things straight.  

My father has departed.  But over the years, I have been grateful for many departures, up at the top of the hill behind Sisters Bazaar, where having walked up the hill from Shanti Kunj after yet another visit, I get into a taxi, and wave till the last moment possible and Mum and Dad disappear from view.  

The ache of each impending separation became opportunities to set things straight, to seek out Dad’s forgiveness and in turn to forgive, to stand there at the top of the hill and experience the bliss of a father’s embrace of total love and acceptance.  And I am grateful to Dad for that.  Having had the chance to resolve so much, having experienced so much grace with my father, somehow this last goodbye here on earth isn’t as hard as I thought it would be.

Not only did he help give me life 45 years ago to this day, August 15^th, but in deeply significant ways he also taught me how to live that life well: through his compassion, through helping me experience the reality of grace, and through knowing the wonderful freedom that comes from forgiveness.

On behalf of my wife and three children, I want to say how deeply we wish we could be there with you all, but have found peace in the limitations that we are forced to live within.  I count it a special blessing to have had the opportunity to spend time with my father a month ago, during the double window of opportunity in which I flew to India, and my father still had his strength.  

I arrived in Mussoorie with much fear and heaviness, knowing that he was dying, knowing that those were possibly the last days I would see him on this earth. But to my total surprise, from the moment I stepped into Shanti Kunj, Mum and Dad were so full of peace and joy, and those 10 days so full of celebration and gratitude, talking about the past, talking about the future.  Gratitude for life to be lived, and gratitude for the remarkable life that God had granted him.

A trip back to a funeral

Raymond Elmore Eicher - Dad to us - died at around 7.35 PM on the 13th of August in the year of our Lord 2016.  Dad peacefully breathed his last in 'Bethel Villa' and went to be with the Lord Jesus Christ from our home on the Harriet Benson Memorial Hospital campus in Lalitpur, Uttar Pradesh, India.

Within minutes of Dad passing away, our house filled up with God's saints.   The palliative care team came in and washed the body and dressed Dad in his favourite clothes.   The coffin, which we had arranged to be made before-hand was brought to the doorstep.   A large block of ice - pre-ordered - was wheeled on a trolley and willing hands got to work chopping it in small pieces and filling plastic bags.  The air-conditioned ambulance which was on stand-by was called from Jhansi.   A quick meal was cooked in our kitchen by some of the saints.   People filtered in to pray and give comfort.

Sheba and Enoch were already on the train to Delhi and Dehra Dun when we discovered that Dad was sleeping with Jesus.   As we had pre-planned, in the even of Daddy passing away, we told Sheba that we would leave as soon as possible and meet them in Mussoorie the next day.   

A quick email to Stefan, Premila and Rudy brought back calls from them within a few minutes.  We were able to tell them that Daddy was free from pain and was with the Lord.

Mum went in a room to be quiet and pray and write down her thoughts.  I started packing up for the journey.  It was going to be the last one with Dad.

A quick post on FB to tell our dear ones that Dad was free from suffering.  The post precipitated an avalanche of prayers and notes of condolence and encouragement for all of us in the Eicher pariwar - near and far.

Just before 11 PM almost all was ready.  Dad's body had been placed in the casket and ice put all around him (we had specifically had a larger coffin made for the ice).  We gathered in the living room for some words of encouragement by Rev. Emmanuel Masih.  Mum shared about just how much peace she had that Daddy was free from his suffering and with his beloved Lord.  Rev. Kishore Mathews prayed for us all. 

And then the surreal experience of having my dear father carried out of our home in a coffin.  I knew that his trip to Lalitpur would end this way - and since Mum wanted to have the funeral in Mussoorie where they have lived the largest portion of their life together - we had made the arrangements ready for this trip.  But to have Dad carried out in a casket...

Once the coffin was secure in the ambulance, and our things were stowed away in the HBM Hospital vehicle, it was time to thank our dear ones and pray again.  We were taking Dad away from a place where he had been blessed deeply by the care given.  Before we stepped into the vehicles, we broke up our circle in the darkness with the rousing shouts of Dad's favourite "Bollo Prabhu Yeshu Masih ki Jai!  Wo phir se anewala hai! Wo jeevan ka jal hai! Wo jeevan ka roti hai!  Boooollllo Prabhu Yeshu Masih ki jai!"

At 11.30 PM we were on our way, driving out into the darkness, headed for Delhi.   The small group of us in the main hospital vehicle - Biju Mathew (the hospital head), Sharafat (the driver), Arbind Singh (our dear friend from Mumbai days who is posted with the Air Force in Agra), Mum and myself - began our thanksgiving service in the vehicle as we sped along the highway past Jhansi and Gwalior and on to Agra and Delhi.   We reviewed the last days with great thankfulness and shared the last moments of Dad.  We sang and prayed as the dark countryside slipped past us, and the ambulance (with Narender and Rahul Singh - a male nurse from HBM in it) drove ahead of us, its small blue light blinking in the night.

A grey Sunday morning saw us pull into New Delhi.  Mum, Sharafat and Narendra went with the HBM vehicle to rest at Victor and Sarah's home, while Biju, Rahul and myself waited for the undertaker's ambulance to meet us.  We then transferred the coffin to the new vehicle and clambered in to where Dad's body was to be embalmed in North Delhi.

A small blessing was that the undertaker's office was not too far away from Neeru's parents - and so they and her sister Tanuja and her husband and son were able to meet me and pay respects to Dad. We are glad that Stefan was able to coordinate all of this.  The miracle of mobile phones which allow us to talk while driving through the night and set up a meeting like this.







Victor and Sarah had already arranged for Mum to fly to Dehra Dun with Sarah.  Mum was able to have some deep sleep and then she and Sarah left for the airport at 2 PM, while Victor joined the HBM vehicle to meet us up in north Delhi.  We were blessed to be able to pick up my childhood friend Indi and his wife Lydia and their daughter Hannah as well.

Our small convoy of 2 vehicles crawled out of Delhi in the mid-afternoon sun.  It seemed most of Delhi was also driving in the same direction.  Slooowly.  As we moved along the text messages kept coming in.  People near and far telling about how sad they were Dad had passed away, and assuring us of their prayers.   The vehicle hosted various planning sessions for the next day's funeral, and Indi got down to work (using his daughter's computer) to make a programme and song sheet.

Meanwhile, Mum and Sarah were in Dehra Dun after a short 30 minute flight - arriving at the quaintly named 'Jolly Grant' airport at just after 5 PM.  And where then greeted by a 4 hour traffic jam - only arriving in Mussoorie well after 10 PM.

For our part, we kept going with the body.  Knowing that the funeral was to take place the next day.   Not having slept much the previous night I dozed off more often the closer we came to Dehra Dun in the darkness.  A big Punjabi dinner was wolfed down at a dhaba near Roorkee, and the final kilometers disappeared into a haze of sleep for me.

We finally pulled into the Landour Community Hospital at 12.30 AM on the 15th, 25 hours after we left Lalitpur.   Dad's coffin was put in one of the rooms and we drove up the winding roads to Sister Bazaar and a dozy family reunion with Sheba and Enoch and Asha (who had been given permission for a week out of boarding from Wynberg) as well as Mum and Sarah.

The next day was going to be a big one so we slept at 1.30 AM.  We were so thankful to have made it up safely over all the kilometers and have Dad's body ready for the burial the next day.  The prayers of God's people sped us over the land, and enveloped us with an amazing peace.

A word from a 22 year old

Among the many tributes that have flowed in about Dad (and Mum of course), here is a special one: A scan of the decision form that Dad filled out when he first joined the mission that he spent most of his life serving Christ through - Operation Mobilisation (then called 'Send the Light').

Dad filled it out as a 22 year old.  It has a glaring mistake on it.  His date of birth - instead of Sept. 5 1941, is filled in as Sept. 5 1963 - the year he filled in the form.

But there were no mistakes about the core commitment in the form.  This was not an application - it was a commitment.  The form had Dad saying that he would be joining 'Send the Light' for a student literature ministry in Mexico in the winter holidays of 1963.

The next summer saw Dad pack a single suitcase - having disposed of everything else he owned - and board an aeroplane for France.   He told me that leaving La Guardia airport he distinctly sensed that he was saying 'good-bye' USA (he was forsaking his green card) and heading back to India.  Which he did.

A summer in France with other young people - living by faith and sharing their faith with earnest enthusiasm led him to confirm a long-term commitment.  The autumn of 1964 Dad joined the second group of young people who drove out in rickety third-hand trucks and vans to India (via Austria, Bulgaria, Yugoslavia, Greece, Turkey, Iran ... and the others going through Pakistan ... but not Dad - and that is another tale to be told).   Among this group was a young Christa Roesli Fischer who would 4 years later become his wife, but that story will also be narrated another time.

A good 53 years later we are now in a position to weigh out Dad's life.  To see the sweep of what he and Mum did - and who they became with the grace of our Lord coursing through them.

But look at what Dad wrote as a 22 year old!  On the back of the 'decision form' he had written a testimony:





Dad concludes the short paragraph with this statement:  "I want to live my whole life for His glory and am completely open to His leading to whatever place He may have me in life.  I want his first and best for my life and want to tell others of His wonderful Self and of His saving power."

Wow.  Has that ever come true in Dad's life.

He has lived his whole life for the glory of the One and Only.  It is almost embarrassing to meet person after person who tells me about just how much Dad has lived out the love of Jesus - and how much they were impacted by him and Mum.  This evening a group of us - the extended Eicher clan of local brothers and their families - met together at Shanti Kunj to thank God and share stories and testimonies about how God has used Dad in our lives.   The stories went on and on... mixed with some tears, some songs, and a lot of thankfulness.  Multiply this by many.

Does this mean Dad did not make mistakes or have flaws?  Certainly not.  But the overall outcome of his life is one where God was glorified - and many of his short-comings were ironed out in the process as well!

Dad has been open to the leading of the Lord Jesus wherever He wanted.  Mum shared this evening that they moved 7 times in the first 7 years of their marriage - including living for some months (around my birth) in a hell-hole of a place teeming with rats.   Dad moved out to visit countless teams over his tenure as co-leader of OM India - and traveled the globe to share about the needs and raise prayer support.

He also traveled some distance in the various ministries he poured himself into.  After handing over the main OM India leadership at the age of 46 (sobering to me... as I am 47 now) and then moving up to Mussoorie he carried on serving with OM for another 7 years or so.   After that, Dad served and learned with local churches, was involved with prayer ministry and YWAM, and finally he and Mum spent the best part of a decade helping promote the inner healing and deliverance work linked with Ellel Ministries.  Dad certainly went wherever Jesus wanted him to.

It  is such an honour to say that we have watched Dad live out his desire articulated as a 22 year old - that he wanted God's first and best for his life.  An almost unending parade of people are testifying to this.  It is humbling to receive the kind words that have flooded in over email and social media over the last week.  Dad put God first.  And did so consistently over the years.

And regarding telling others about the wonderful person of Jesus and His saving power...  well we have seen this lived out time and time again (sometimes to our annoyance as we wanted to get on with our walk or errand of the moment).  The most recent being a joyous sharing of his faith to a doctor couple from Jhansi and a student from Bhubaneshwar while they were travelling with Dad on the train from Delhi to Lalitpur.

Dad's tongue is now silent (at least down here on earth in this life that we are living).  But it was not silent over the course of his life.

How blessed to know that Dad has lived out the desire of his heart as a 22 year old.  We are all the richer for it.

Dad's last days

Dad was with us in Lalitpur for three weeks.

He came to Lalitpur very sick.  A miracle trip across a goodly portion of our country.  Buoyed by the prayers of so many.


He and Mum's time with us was a blessing.  An intense final three weeks of daily caring for Dad.  A night and day participation in his life and pain.  An hourly opportunity to talk and pray.



And pray we did.

All kinds.  The basic one for 'healing' was definitely there.  We are after all asked to come to our Lord Jesus as little children.

But alongside that prayer were many auxiliary conversations.  Talking to God to help Dad with pain relief and strength.  Prayer for aiding in his breathing difficulties.  Thanksgiving for the many blessings that we have received over the years.

And Dad prayed too.  Prayed after he had his first pleural tap with Dr. Tony and Rahul in the hospital. Blessed people who came to see them.  His life continued to show forth love.

 Life was stripped down to the very essentials for Dad.

Sleep.  Pain relief.  Food. Toiletting.  A walk.  The Word.  Massage.

Food was an on-going challenge.  It was heart-breaking to see how little Dad ate.

This was a picture of an early meal.

Many of them went hardly eaten.  We tried to encourage him to eat - but he had the struggle of pain of digestion and very uncomfortable gas.  The legacy of a very complicated life-extending surgery done last year - and the on-going spread of the cancer.

Each day he seemed to eat less.  We were told not to force him.  His body was shutting down.  We tried to respect his need for calories and balance it with a loving encouragement to eat.

Dad struggled with breathing as the cancer in his lungs did its thing.  The fluid which accumulated in the pleural cavity started to crowd the lungs for space.   It was so hard to see Dad struggling to breathe.  You feel so helpless.

And so we took the help of our dear Dr. Tony and the medical team Dad had a pleural tap done.  Three times in the three weeks.  We knew that the cancer in the lungs would produce fluid again - but wanted to breathe as easy as possible.  This is what they took out the first time.  Almost 1 litre of fluid.

It was repeated 2 more times when Dad's breathing became hard.  We are grateful to the palliative care team that they were able to come to our home and do the procedure in Dad's bed room.   The three procedures done  really helped Dad's quality of life.

Dad did not want to die.  None of us do.  One of the things he insisted on was a walk each day.  His walks were slow and painful, but he tried hard to get out at least once a day.  As the days went on, the walks become slower and shorter.

And then finally, he did not walk outside at all.  Even the walk to the toilet was a strain and would take some 15 minutes to cross 15 meters.

Taking his medications was key.  We had a little book in which Dad wrote the doses he took and when.  He was meticulous about this.  But in his last 10 days, he had stopped writing.  His world had shrunk.

I had the privilege of giving many of the medicines to him.  We had previously had his medicines beside his bed, but since he was not taking them regularly, I stepped in and prayed each time Dad had to take his morphine.

The drug did help a lot to control his pain.  But did not leave Dad pain-free.  There was always pain in the back ground.  It was hard for Dad to keep talking about it.

One way around the pain was to distract the mind.  I read aloud the major portion of a biography of DL Moody to Dad.  We also read from scripture - covering 11 chapters of the gospel of Luke.

Mum and others would also read with Dad, and sing and pray with him.

As time went on Dad began to slip into greater and greater dependence.  I found it harder to have him stand up and sit down.  Walking took ages and required a set of instructions to keep his legs going. Dad would fall asleep talking to you.  But what a privilege to hold this dear, dear father of ours.

A few times Dad apologised for 'the trouble he was causing us.'   We were able to tell him repeatedly how blessed we were to be caring for him - and that Sheba and I were doing so on behalf of Stefan and Neeru as well as Premila as well.   Dad was reassured to hear this.

Dad's slipping into greater and greater dependence marked a role-reversal.  The hands who had cared for me when I was an infant now needed caring for.  The meticulously organised mind now needed us to write down what medications he had taken and when.  The large pastoral heart now needed encouragement and constant inputs.

Mum was such a rock of love and support for Dad.   Christian marriage is based on a promise to each other and to God... in sickness and in health... till death do us part.   Mum lived out the consistency of love over the 48 years of their life together.

I found the same in my dear Sheba who uncomplainingly supported in her quiet and efficient way. For most of the nights I slept with Dad so that Mum could get some rest too.  Sheba's love and service helped Dad so much.

As did the prayers of the saints.

Victor and Sarah were planning to come over the 13-15th weekend.

Seeing the deterioration in Dad's condition, we asked them to come the next day which they did.

While all of this was going on, we were also planning for the next step.  Mum told us that she wanted Dad's funeral in Mussoorie, so we began getting the logistics together.

Stefan was in regular contact with us by phone and through him Premila was also being kept abreast with the situation.  Rudy called daily after he spent the first week of Dad's Lalitpur sojourn with us.

In the last week, our dear foster brother Narendra Kumar came out from Varanasi to care for Dad, which was such a great blessing to us.

 On  Tuesday, Dad became more and more disoriented, and less and less able to care for himself.  Feeding was now by spoon.  His walks had been stopped.  He started to lie in bed more than before.  Previously, Dad had insisted on sitting, even though most of the time he was dozing off.

Thursday night was traumatic as Dad slipped into a regular groan.  The groan continued the next day during his waking hours.

We had to continue to give Dad his medicines - and what food he would take.  In the end we mainly spoon fed him.  We were able to give almost every dose of his pain medications as tablets which he swallowed.   In the last days, when he was mainly sleeping we did give 2 subcunateous injections of the pain killer when the pain spiraled and he was not able to swallow.  But since we did not have much injectable morphine in stock, and since Dad did waken up most of the time, we would crush the medications, put them on a tea-spoon, mix it with fruit juice which he then swallowed - followed up by more fruit juice to take away the bitter taste in his mouth.

All through these times, it was such a privilege to care.  To look after one who had been so healthy earlier, but now was painfully thin .   We were exchanging roles.  We are now able to care for him whose loving hands and heart had cared for me, as well as Stefan and Premi and Rudy (and their spouses and kids).

The Bible tells us that "It is appointed for you once to die, and then the judgement."

Dad lived this out to the 'T.'  Even in his pain, he tried to make small jokes.  As he drifted in and out of confusion, it was not clear how much he understood, but when we sang, we could hear noises from Dad as he kept the tune, but which he could not get his mouth to sing the blessed words of the songs we sang together.

Dad was mentally and spiritually ready for death, and his failing body was taking him there.   How many times I got up in the middle of the night and wondered if Dad had been taken from us.  But each time I could hear his breathing.  Not this time, then....

The last few days were a total blur to me.

Dad's groaning and mental confusion were disturbing, but our main task was to help Dad be as at peace as he could.  We fell back on prayer and reading scripture aloud and hugging Dad and telling him just how much of a privilege it was to care for him and Mum.

On Saturday the 13th of August, we started Dad on a new set of medications.  They seemed to work a bit, as Dad's groans subsided.  But the pain did not fully disappear, and so we continued to touch and massage his feet and back, and pray for Dad.

His breathing was stronger than before, but still enough of a problem to require constant Tender Loving Care.   Dad clearly relaxed and his groans were so much softer.  After a while Dad drifted to sleep.

At 7.30 pm, Mum slipped into Dad's room and planted two kisses on Dad's forehead.  She wanted to do some journalling, and decided to do that in another room.

I had been talking and praying with bro Arbind Singh in the front room.

I quietly stepped into Dad's room to see how he was and noticed that he was very quiet.  Very, very quiet.

His breathing seemed to be quite soft.   I tried to hear his breathing or see him move, but he did not.   He was warm but I could not find a pulse.

I called up Dr. Tony and he came over immediately.  We looked at Dad and shone a light in his pupils. They were dilated.  Dad had died.

We said a short prayer and I went out to call Mum.  I brought her into the room and told her that Dad had gone to be with Jesus.

She held me and said: "Thank you Lord that Ray does not have to suffer anymore."

1 AM and all is not well

It's been a very tough day.  And we are well into the night - and early morning of the next.  1 AM to be precise.

Dad was in pain and had difficulty breathing all last night.  That continued into today.  How we wish we could have a magic button to press and have everything 'turn out right.'  Well, that doesn't happen.

We do have prayers - sometimes anguished, other times joyful.  And we do sing songs of praise and hope amidst it all.  But no magic, no-pain-at-all solutions.

The day outside was sparkling.  The recent rains cleared and we had sunshine and blue skies.  And so many hues of green...




We also had a host of ladies come to the "Van's Hall" which is the HBM community health and development department's training room.  They were here for a day-long training to get our village self-help groups more active and to continue to process of grooming leaders.

Rajkamal from Dehra Dun was our main resource person - and the day just flew by.   Each of our 18 self-help groups sent their president, vice-president and treasurer.   It was wonderful to see what God can do through these women.  Self-help groups - a form of microfinance - has huge potentials for helping create new value in situations of on-going poverty.

Much as I would have liked to attend the whole day - Dad's condition kept calling me back home.

It was a very hard day for him, as he was groaning through most of it.  Groaning because it was hard to breathe and he was distressed and in pain.  We were not able to give him tablets to swallow in the morning - so we crushed the morphine and mixed it with a teaspoon of fruit juice and give it to day with prayer.  He managed to keep it down.

But Dad did not get much relief for most of the day.   We have been taking turns to be with Dad.  But it was especially distressing today to have Dad moaning.  We tried to keep assuring him of our presence.  Tried to tell him how much we love him and what a privilege it is to serve him.  We read him a special letter from Premi.  We sang a number of times - with Dad even 'joining in' on the odd occasion with what can best be called musical grunts.

We don't have easy answers.  But we do have each other.


And we have people who have come to pray with us.   And talk and help with planning the logistics for the next steps given Dad's current condition.

We also have the intrepid Palliative Care team who all came over to help out with Dad tonight.

At 11 PM we felt that he just was in too much discomfort.  And so we did another pleural tap.  Amazing to have the team come to our door step.  Amazing to have the procedure carried out on Dad's bed - with our living room coffee table serving as a support for him.

We are humbled by the expressions of love and support that we keep getting.

So many are praying.  And do we ever need those prayers right now!

Totally out of the blue we had two chaps from our child hood.  In my growing up years, I was bookended by Romy (10 years older to me and Noel (almost10 years younger).  They stopped in - totally out of the blue - from Dubai today - and spent an afternoon with Mum and us before taking the night train towards points west.

The palliative care team of HBM did their job well, and we still have 2 members of the team with us till 1.30 AM to make sure that Dad is doing better - and to give him his morphine as an sub cutaneous injection then.

And so we live to tell our tales for another day.   But how long Dad will survive is an open question.
Each day he has been deteriorating some.  Today was hard.  It's now past 1 AM and all is not well. But we do know that the King is coming!  What a blessed hope we have.

Thank you so much for joining us on this journey.   Bon nuit!

This is my body, broken for you

These are days in which Dad is fading.  

Over the last week, each day he is less able to do the things he always has done.  His detailed medicine lists - where he made small diagrammes of each pill he took, and what dose, and when... that little notebook has not had any entries by him since August 3rd.   The last day he wrote, the marks are squiggly.

Dad has been reading less.

Previously, he would pore over his Bible.  Making small notes. Praying.   These days we read to him. He sits with eyes closed.  Hearing some.  Dozing off for other parts.

The paper used to be a small highlight - with him asking several times in the morning whether it has come.  Today it went unread.

He knows he is super drowsy and does not like it.

When he talks with people, he slips off to a kind of sleep.  The portion of the day in which Dad's eyes are closed is ever greater.

Earlier he would force himself to go out for a small walk each day.  The last 3 days have been walkless days.  The short shuffle to the toilet takes enormous energy and concentration.

So many dear ones want to come and meet Dad.   The love that the army of people around the world have for Mum and Dad is just amazing.  We see the many, many who have been touched in various ways across the decades.  People who are who they are today because of Dad and Mum's kindnesses to them at crucial times in their lives.

We are suggesting to most that their coming will be too painful - especially those who plan to travel large distances and have not seen him for many years.  Dad just is not in a position to meet people anymore.  That portion of his life seems to be swinging shut now.   But we have so much hope, since we do believe in the resurrection life - a life beyond the limits of the here and now.  A time when we will know and be fully known.

And so we are left with the remains of the day.  The opportunities that we have had over these last weeks and months to share this life with Dad.  The times of prayer and farewell.

The times of being able to serve him in small ways.   The conversations that we have had.

It struck me two nights ago:  Dad's tongue is now being stilled.

What he has spoken in his life has now largely been said.  He will not greet people on the streets of Landour as he has always done.  He will not give people small portions of Scripture in their native tongue in the trains.  He will not insist on meeting the beggar and slipping him a note along with a word of encouragement and honour - and a short prayer.  He will not tap away at his computer - sending some advice to a person in a distant land, ending it with sooooooooooooooooooo much love!

Those times are largely over.  Dad's fund of words has been largely said.  And he can rest knowing that he has said what he needs to say, and said it well.

Mum continues to love her dear husband in word and deed.


We are grateful that Narendra is with us at this time - his gentle actions and loving words are a great help as Dad slips into increasing silence.

Mum continues to sing to Dad and read from the Book of books.

They started their lives together with scripture: "will you magnify the Lord with me, and shall we exalt His name together?" and have held true to their vows across these 49 years.

They continue to speak to each other - with Mum being the more vocal one now.

It is hard to communicate when the one you love does not reply much.  But love overcomes the silence and fills it with acceptance.

How much does Dad understand?  How much is his pain under control?  It is hard to say since he communicates so much less.

Mum has been so strong in so many ways.

But strength needs feeding too.  We are grateful for the tide of prayer going up on behalf of Mum as well as Dad.

We would love to see Dad 'healed' but it looks increasingly certain that his healing will take place when our Lord returns and everything is renewed.   This is no cop-out.  It is the very hope of glory.  Resurrection.

I am so grateful for Sheba's quiet and sensible love.  It is hard to be supervising your father-in-law's palliation, but the deep core of kindness in Sheba continues to play itself out in our lives.


We are thankful that we do have these days with Dad - as painful as the gradual slipping away is.

At least we are together.

At least we do have these times.

There are a host of 'what-ifs' that swarm around, but we need to hold on to the Lord and not look back.

A bitter-sweet experience for me took place the day before yesterday.

It was the Lord's day - and the family was worshipping at the RE Mission church on the HBM Campus.  I was alone with Dad at home.

Dad and I remembered our Lord's suffering and triumph together.

 "This is my body - broken for you" said Jesus to His disciples on that dark night before the darkest day.   He gave them the bread and asked them to remember Him - something Dad and I were able to do with the symbolic eating of the bread.   "Thank you Jesus" Dad said as we prayed together.

"This cup is the new covenant in my blood; do this, whenever to drink it, in remembrance of me," our Lord said when He passed the cup around at the end of that meal.  We here in Lalitpur, the two of us also took part, and joined all those in the church 50 meters from us, and all those around the world who were joined in communion too.

Am I ever glad that Dad and I shared that meal of remembrance of the Lord's resurrection on Sunday.

I don't know if we will do so again in this age. 

God be with you till we meet again;

1. By his counsels guide, uphold you;
   With his sheep securely fold you.
   God be with you till we meet again.
2. (Chorus)
   Till we meet, till we meet,
   Till we meet at Jesus' feet,
   Till we meet, till we meet,
   God be with you till we meet again.
3. God be with you till we meet again;
   When life's perils thick confound you,
   Put his arms unfailing round you.
   God be with you till we meet again.
4. God be with you till we meet again;
   Keep love's banner floating o'er you;
   Smite death's threat'ning wave before you.
   God be with you till we meet again.

This picture taken this morning - inside Dad's room.... and the picture below in our little garden outside his window...

Pies in a time of Cancer

We had a pleural tap yesterday.

Rephrase that:  Dad had a pleural tap.

Dad had increasing trouble breathing the previous day and night - and so Dr. Tony Bishwas and the team came over mid-morning to drain the fluid that had accumulated in Dad's pleural cavity.  The cancer in the lungs has been producing more fluid than is normally drained from this cavity.  This fluid build up is called a plural effusion and makes it hard to breathe as the lungs are crowded in.

Dad had undergone a similar procedure a week prior which gave him much relief.  A whole litre of fluid had been removed then.  Yesterday's procedure went well.  Instead of going over to the hospital, the whole team came to Dad's room.  The blessings of being here.

While the procedure was taking place in Dad's room, another procedure was happening in another room in the house.

You can guess what ... by the blur in the picture above.

Yes, it is our 78-year-young bundle of energy - a.k.a. Christa Roesli Eicher (nee Fischer) who just cannot sit still.  Her heart beats with love and her hands live out her heart.

So I was not surprised to walk by the kitchen and see this:


In Mum's methodical way - all the ingredients and implements are ready... for the action to take place.
A few minutes later, the above had been transformed into this:

And another apple pie has been shaped with love, at such a time as this.

Apple pies in the time of cancer.  Apple pies which Dad cannot eat more than a nibble, because all food at this point just turns him off.  It is heart-breaking to bring our tiny offering of food to him, and have him eat a few mouth-fulls, and then get his signal that he has 'had enough.'

The homeopathic doses of food that he is getting these days is not enough to keep him going.  But we are not going to force him.  We cajole and smile and try to edge in another bite or two, but beyond that we let him set the pace on what he wants to eat.

The pies (and there were two of them baked yesterday) are for all of us.  An expression of love.  A statement of homely continuity in times of sorry.  A small extension of the home that Mum has lovingly crafted in the many places and spaces that we have wandered over all these years.

Mum continues to live out the life that her mother Roesli Fischer lived.  A hard-working woman with a big heart ... and who loved to bake.  

As a young girl, Mum would tell her mother to relax and sleep on the odd day that her mother got off from her labour in the coal business (Fischer Brennverstoff in Leipzig) that her husband Willi and her ran.  But instead, she would find her mother in the little allotment plot, gardening.   A whole generation later, Mum continues to live out this drive of love in her life.  Kinetic love.  One pie at a time.