Andrew G. Stanton - Sept. 28, 2025

Sunday morning came warm and clear. Heather and I left Kukui Plaza just after nine and walked toward Kawaiahaʻo Church, the bells already echoing through downtown Honolulu. The trade winds carried the scent of plumeria and asphalt — the everyday mingled with the eternal.

The service began at 9:30 a.m. Coral-stone walls held the sound of hymns sung in Hawaiian and English, voices rising through open windows into a bright sky. The rhythm was unhurried, reverent. It felt like a language the island still remembered by heart.

The night before, after we returned from clearing out Dad’s office, I had written a prayer with Dr. C — our conversation had turned to Hawaiian words for peace and release. Line by line, English and Hawaiian took shape together until the pule felt complete, simple, and true. I saved it on my iPhone, not knowing exactly when I would share it.

After the benediction, I approached the Kahu near the front steps. “I wrote a prayer for my father,” I said. He smiled, waiting. I opened my phone and showed him the screen. He read it slowly, lips moving softly with the Hawaiian lines. When he finished, he looked up and said, ʻĀmene. That was all — but it felt like heaven itself had answered.

Pule no James Stanton

E ka Haku aloha, Ke hoʻāla nei mākou i ko mākou leo no James Stanton. Ua pau ka hele ʻana ma kēia ao, a ua mākaukau kona naʻau e hoʻi i kou alo.

E lawe mālie ʻO ʻIesū i kona lima, E alakaʻi i kona ʻuhane i kou hale mau loa. E hoʻomaha ʻo ia i loko o kou aloha, A e loaʻa ka maluhia e ao pau ʻole.

Hoʻomaikaʻi mākou iā ʻoe no ke ola i hā‘awi ʻia mai, A hā‘awi mākou iā ia i kou mālama mau loa.

Ma ka inoa o Iesu Kristo mākou e pule aku ai, ʻĀmene.

Prayer for James Stanton

Beloved Lord, We lift our voices for James Stanton. His journey in this world is complete, and his heart is ready to return to Your presence.

Take him gently by the hand, O Jesus, and guide his spirit into Your eternal home. May he rest in Your love, and find peace without end.

We thank You for the life that was given, and we entrust him now into Your everlasting care.

In the name of Jesus Christ we pray, Amen.

We left the church around eleven and stopped at a small chocolate-and-coffee shop nearby — local cacao grown right here on Oʻahu. The bars were nine dollars each: passion fruit, guava, sea-salted caramel. Their flavor was distinctly semi-sweet — not as sugary as Ghirardelli or See’s, but still rich and satisfying, more like the island itself — honest, layered, alive. I remember thinking that Dad would have liked them for that reason alone.

By early afternoon we were back at the Queen Street apartment. Shirling sat beside Dad, the oxygen tank hissing softly. We exchanged it for a larger one and began administering morphine through the feeding tube. He had gone eight days without food, ten without dialysis. Each breath felt like grace measured in seconds.

The hours passed slowly. In the evenings, Dad was often more awake — eyes opening, sometimes smiling faintly when he recognized a voice or a face. That night was no different. He seemed peaceful, breathing evenly, aware in the quiet way that becomes its own form of communication.

Around 10:30 p.m., Fred left with Duke after a small tiff with Shirling. The apartment felt tender and fragile — love and fatigue brushing up against one another. Liz offered to drive me back to Kukui Plaza using Shirling’s car, and I accepted. Fred was planning to take me to the airport the next morning.

Before leaving, I said goodbye to Dad. He was resting, eyes half-open, and I told him softly that I loved him. I knew, almost certainly, that it would be the last time I saw him alive. Yet the moment wasn’t filled with despair; it was filled with stillness — the kind of quiet that only comes when every word has already been said in other ways.

As we drove through the city, the lights reflected on the windows of high-rises and cars, and I felt an odd calm. The line from the prayer echoed again: E lawe mālie ʻO ʻIesū i kona lima — Take him gently by the hand, O Jesus.

He was still breathing when I left, and he would linger almost another full day — until 5:30 p.m. the next evening. But in my heart, I had already released him into that gentle hand.