My parents for their 50th wedding anniversary, July 2019 — photo by Eric Floberg

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My father begged me for years to return to the church. I never felt that my faith was lost, but the convention of religion and sitting in a pew every week no longer resonated with me. Over the next 10 years, heels were dug as I proclaimed that God could be found in nature as much as He could be found beneath a steeple. But I neglected to consider how often I searched for Him there.

Fast forward to March 2024, my father is in the ICU fighting for his life. Over the course of 3 months, he had progressed from breathing independently, to requiring a nasal cannula, to needing a ventilator, and then a trach so he could close his mouth and heal the thrush on his tongue. The tracheostomy allowed my father to mouth words, and on one occasion, speak using a trach valve. And during the last couple weeks before he passed, I was able to read to my father from the King James Bible.

August 1, 2021, my family (husband and youngest kiddo) moved to Florida while our other two daughters were in college. It was the first time in 50 years living in a different city than my parents. But it wasn’t my mom or dad who chased us away, but city living at large.

In Florida, I began work at a chiropractic clinic as a licensed clinical massage therapist. My employer and lead chiropractor was Christian, and we attended to the patients as ambient worship music played in the background. My daughter was enrolled at a Christian school, and we started attending its sister church, which held on-campus services every weekend. My bible study group experienced revival as well, leading biblical analysis — something I had never done before. A new friend invited me to her bible study group, and I found myself engaged in fascinating conversations about Jesus and biblical nuance. Not only did my devotion grow, but that of my daughter and husband as well. We consumed YouTube videos from Christian scientists, medical doctors, archeologists, scholars, philosophers, mathematicians, inventors, and fluvial geomorphologists, who gave evidence of not only God, but an historically, scientifically, and chronologically accurate Bible that documented the birth, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. What they presented was an intentional Creator who made the universe and who also made each of us with a divine PURPOSE. A truine Maker who fashioned our mind, body, and spirit in His image, and was the source of the most important revelation of my life.

In the midst of all of this discovery, my father received the diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. I spent over 2.5 months back in Chicago nursing him to relative health. At the time of his diagnosis, my father had been admitted to the ER for a blocked biliary duct, total renal failure, and an enlarged prostate. It took 75 days of procedures and recovery before he was discharged from the hospital. The social worker gave us a walker and a wheel chair, and we purchased a folding bed for the front room which would be Dad’s interim sleeping arrangement until he could climb the three flights of stairs to the master bedroom. Baskets were placed in the half-bath and stocked with wipes, lotion, and adult diapers. And we hired overnight caregivers for when my father needed assistance to the toilet, which could be up to 12 times in one evening until he healed from the TURP procedure.

The OT and PT came twice a week and I filled in with 20 minutes of exercise 3x/day the remaining 5 days. I created daily, weekly, and monthly charts so we could track Dad’s water intake, protein shakes, exercise, and glucose/insulin. We purchased a new pill box to track his meds and new supplements. It was definitely a trial by fire for all of us. But I had no clue how much worse things would get.

My parents finally joined us in Florida, May, 2023. I helped sell their home and one of their cars, and moved them into the gated area of our community. There were chemo appointments and new doctors with transferred records, new meds, new lifestyle, and new life. We installed an accessible closet system, grab bars, baskets with necessities in the bathroom and toilet areas. Schedules were created and probiotics and protein shakes were delivered on subscription. Things looked promising as Christmas approached. But then my father had a massive bleeding incident, and unlike his other ER episodes in Florida, this one would be the last time he would see the outside of a hospital.

When my parents first moved down south, I necessarily left my job. My father’s care absorbed so much unscheduled time that working regular hours was impossible. This marked the beginning of my e-commerce exploration. It seemed to require the least up-front funding with the potential for a greater rate of return. And if I planned things right, it would not require a set schedule.

As expected, finances became tight. And fortunately for me, my parents could supplement. But our intention was financial independence. From a previous failed Amazon attempt, I learned that reselling was not the best fit for me. But one thing I learned was that differentiation was the key. And that is when everything came together.

As a graphic designer, a dream of mine was to design my own textiles and apparel. The focus on a Christian niche was the most meaningful choice. But there were definite boundaries, focusing on mainly US manufacturers. This was harder than I could have imagined. Most all over print (AOL) garments came from China. And print on demand (POD) manufacturers in the US had very limited and nearly identical options for blank apparel. Of course, there was an endless array of t-shirts, sweats, polos, fitness, and swim clothing, loads of home goods, and even some furniture. But no single manufacturer completely satisfied my vision. Even so, curating collections was satisfying, finding select pieces from around 85–90% US-based companies. Eventually, designing a fully custom line exclusively from the USA is my dream, but creating a successful business foundation was my priority.

My first patterns were disastrous in every possible way — cliché, flat, and and just unappealing. So I returned to the Bible and started sketching, making a list of historic events and themes. My first breakthrough was Rejoining Dove.

Sketching images for my first pattern, Rejoining Dove.

This pattern was based on the 2nd bird that Noah released, symbolizing hope and marking the end of the Flood. Next was the Ichthys series, which was inspired by the earliest Christian symbol and the carp that was abundant in the sea of Galilee — caught by the first “fishers of men,” the original cohorts of Jesus. Then there was the Virtues and Lamb infant series, the Purpose home goods pattern, and finally, the Ziziphus series, which was based off of the flowering tree thought to be the source of Jesus’ crown of thorns. Finally, there is the Mugs Series with colors based on the 12 jewels of the new Jerusalem in the Book of Revelation. About half a dozen more patterns are also in the works.

There is a certain smell that permeates an ICU room — it is metallic, sort of like what you would imagine as the smell of blood — mixed with something acidic. I would search for the origin of the odor but could never find it. The ventilator with its mechanical, rhythmic, labored sound, and the constant blipping and beeping of the heart rate machine and various bags of fluid needing replenishment, created a relentless discord that no one should ever have to endure. It was not a restful place. Nurses taking blood samples, switching out fluid bags, cleaning the trach, changing dressings, wiping down, flipping, turning, bolstering, checking, tapping, suctioning, poking, prodding — 24 hours a day without a break. Watching them was exhausting — I couldn’t imagine what this environment was doing to my father’s mental health. It made sense why he was perpetually tired. Every visit was watching my father wax in and out of superficial sleep.

In the beginning, my Dad would wake when my mother spoke, “Open your eyes, Ed, can you open your eyes?” His responses always made her so happy. She would lean over the bed so they could be face to face, nearly touching. And she would stroke his head — even though she knew he disliked how cold her hands inevitably were. She stroked his head with as much tenderness as her crooked fingers would allow, and asked him if he felt any discomfort, fully knowing that the the hospital bed could be nothing but uncomfortable.

Dad’s wrists would sometimes be bound to the bed frame when we arrived. “He was pulling at his tubes” the nurses would tell us. But we were allowed to release him when we were visiting so he could have a few hours untethered. And sometimes Dad’s legs were bound as well to prevent his attempts at climbing out of bed. I think he knew that if he didn’t walk out, he would never be able to leave. The hardest part was the fact that my father was still lucid. He slept most of the time, but he was very aware. He would turn to you when you spoke, and look you in the eye, nod and shake his head at simple questions. Mouth words. But it was his eyes that were bright and alive.

My father’s face betrayed the weight he had lost. For his last two months, he subsisted on a TPN — essentially vitamin water — as fluids from the feeding tube were vomited up in short order, undigested. As skeletal as his face had become, my father’s body had bloated, retaining fluid but leaving his catheter dry. Liquid came out through his pores because the normal pathway was blocked with metastasis. Absorbent pads were wrapped around his arms and hands to address the leakage. His paracentesis (process of draining fluid from his abdomen) went from 1x/biweekly to 2x/week, draining 4–6 liters at a time. The day before he passed, the ultrasound indicated 8 liters of fluid in his abdomen. The insidious aspect of cancer is not just the disease, but the complications it creates. In my father’s case, the tumor had spread to his liver, causing total hepatic failure in the end.

The hay on my father’s plot is likely grown over with grass now, and my endeavor has taken on new meaning. Purpose: A Christ-Centered Brand not only glorifies the Lord, but honors my father — a man who was passionate about his work, encouraged my artistic endeavors, and who lovingly and with the utmost of dedication, supported our family for over 60 years.

Dad, I know you would be happy that I returned to the church. Returned because you and mom created a strong foundation, just as the parable of The Wiseman. You are missed and you are loved. But knowing you are wholly at peace with my brother and surrounded by the light of Christ, fills me with joy and a newfound greater purpose — now, and yet to come.