Idaho faith: Writing about parents’ suffering and death, a pain I cannot bear

When my father became ill about 20 years ago, I had some reflections.

God knows why I wrote it. It has been awhile since I wrote it, but written things either inspire or cause the writer and readers to search their souls. My note was simple and written on the back cover of a used checkbook.

When I finished writing, I looked at it. It was the work of art transformed by God into a meaningful haunting experience. I had written, “I will not sit and see my parents suffer and die and then build a huge tomb as a symbol of my love for them.”

I also feared thinking about erecting an epitaph with their stories, written from a heart that never cared to say how much I loved them and show that love while they breathed.

“This is about the pain I am unable to bear — the suffering of my parents. Writing this is painful enough to force me not to. Yet not writing would be the last blow to eliminate any element of real living left in me. I regret that words, for the deep pain of my heart, escape my mind, leaving me with no option but to violently force language into my suffering.

My father’s and mother’s illnesses are not news. What is news is my inability to accept that dad, the symbol of strength and durability, is no longer the man whose footsteps betrayed his presence, even when he was a distance away. His suffering brought his years vividly in front of my face to torment me.

As a child, I watched him run after lost goats. As a youngster, I walked quickly following him as he hurried to open his shop. In my transitional years to manhood, I walked in front of him to provide security when he had imbibed several beers. I had to because my tomorrows and those of my siblings depended entirely on him.

My father worked hard to uplift the status of his family. It was hard work whose rewards I witnessed when we moved from the mad structure we shared with wild rats, snakes and ticks to a brick house I was not ashamed to show classmates. He encouraged us to do well in school in the best way he knew how, either by spanking or giving us gifts.

My father was thunder with a human heart. His word was final and the law. His decisions and actions were not questioned. Yet I saw his tears when my brother and sister died, and even the day we buried my grandfather. He paid private doctors for my stomach and malaria problems. When we came home from boarding schools, he celebrated our presence and progress by slaughtering goats.

He could not rent a college graduation gown, so he bought one for me as he saw his dreams turn into reality.

This was a man whose suffering brought me the kind of suffering I was not used to — the need to stop his aging and pain without knowing how.

I will erect my parents’ epitaphs while they live and I will write on them that sweat should not be rewarded with bitter tears.”

My father’s commitment to education was second to none. He deeply believed and valued the education of young people, knowing that the future of a society depends on whether its youth are educated. He helped many children go to school. I took an orphaned boy home, and dad not only provided food, but educated him from 6th grade through high school.

One of his life’s highlights was seeing me carry on his love for education and helping needy children. He was thrilled by the founding of Caring Hearts and Hands of Hope and Caring Hearts High Schools. In the past 12 years, hundreds of vulnerable children have been supported with their high school and university tuition. Currently there are 400 students in high school and 225 students in universities and vocational training colleges.

My dad never missed any Caring Hearts and Hands of Hope function unless his health could not allow him. His last function was the naming of the Kituku Musoo Hostel for boys in his honor. Dad was blessed to see the fruit of his sweat and vision.

God took Johnson Kituku on May 16 after years of his battling myriad illnesses. But his dreams of a quality education serve him. The successful legacies of so many, many Caring Hearts children are evidence that Johnson Kituku’s inspiring love for learning will never be forgotten.

Writer’s note: If you are moved by Johnson Kituku’s life and are able to sponsor a needy child, visit caringheartsandhandsofhope.org to learn more.