Randy Johnson was brought into the hospice by his son one day before his 58th birthday. When Randy was admitted, he was angry and hostile, abrupt and restless. When he was asleep, he would moan, as if something terribly wrong had happened.When asked if everything was okay, he wouldn't answer.

The staff knew he had some unfinished business he had to deal with if he was going to have a "good death." That would be my role in his life.

Randy's physical signs were rapidly deteriorating, but he wouldn't die. He wouldn't let go. It was as if something deep within him would not permit him to die.

I talked to his son to see if he knew what it was and from the expression on his face, I knew I was about to be told a deep, dark family secret. His son said,

"I'm not his only child. He also has a daughter in Boston. My dad disowned her nine years ago because she married a man of another race. From my father's point of view she had committed an unforgivable sin and he said he would never forgive her."

I then knew what his unfinished business was all about and I immediately contacted his daughter in Boston, urged her to get here to Seattle as quickly as possible. She said that her brother was keeping her apprised of his status, and she didn't want to upset him by coming. But several hours later I was escorting Randy's two children to his room in the hospice.

For the first time in nine years he saw his daughter. There was this prolonged silence. They just stared at each other. Then, with all the strength he had left in his life he opened his arms to his daughter. She ran to him and they hugged and held each other. She brushed away his tears as well as her own. She sat on his bed, neither one saying anything for the longest time.

Finally, he looked into her eyes and said the words that would free him forever: "I'm so sorry. Please. Please forgive me."

And again, the tears began to flow. But then they began to talk about old times. He would learn that he was now a grandfather to three children, and there were pictures to share, and the room began to be filled with laughter.
That night, his vital signs remained stable and strong. But then I witnessed an amazing thing. About 11:45, he said
he was very tired and just needed to rest, but he didn't want his children to leave. I stepped in and urged them to hold his hands because he was leaving and they held on to him until he let go.

But all the bitterness was gone from his face. All of his unfinished business had been put to rest. It was a good death. I looked at my watch and a new day had begun. It was Father's Day. It was also a day of forgiveness.