It’s Father’s Day, and my first thought this morning was of my dad. Maybe you’re thinking of your father, too.
One memory returned so clearly it felt like yesterday. I was a junior in high school, standing behind the big stainless-steel grill at the Tastee Hut. I’d worked there for years, and my managers had become like a second family.
“How did your dad’s doctor’s appointment go?” the owner’s wife asked one day.
My eyes filled with tears before I could stop them. I managed to tell her, “He has Parkinson’s disease.” Her gentle, comforting response helped me in a moment I’ll never forget.
That was the moment grief first began to feel real for me. I had to accept a new reality—my strong, rarely-ill father was changing before our eyes. The sense that he would always be there for me was gone. We were blessed to have him with us for eleven more years after his diagnosis, but the world had shifted.
He passed away at 64 when I was 28. Over time I learned to accept the tears that still come unexpectedly. They no longer embarrass me. They are part of the journey of remembering the precious people I loved and the legacy they left me—especially the faith my parents passed down. If you have lost someone you love, my heart goes out to you today. Big hugs from me to you.
Below is a story about my dad that I first wrote on October 20, 2010.
I’ll confess—I let my mind wander during this morning’s church service. The hymn “How Great Thou Art” started my thoughts. As I sang about Heaven, I pictured my Heavenly Father and my earthly one, too.
I have a mountain of memories of my Dad:
- Each morning he’d come to the breakfast table “singing” one line of “When It’s Springtime in the Rockies.” He was completely tone-deaf, but that odd tradition always brightened the start of the day.
- Dad taught me what “the fear of the Lord” meant. Though calm and patient, a certain small gesture—chewing the side of his tongue—let you know you needed to shape up.
- He was a man of few but wise words, able to sum up complex situations in a single, memorable phrase.
- His laughter was contagious. When he told a funny story, he’d laugh so hard he could hardly finish the lines.
- Every morning he tuned in to the local radio farm report, but what he really enjoyed were the quirky lyrics of country songs.
Fifteen years ago this November, my parents were planning a trip to visit us in Canada. Instead of a ride to the airport, my dad went by ambulance to the nearest hospital. He had lived with a neurological disease for eleven years; a pneumonia diagnosis was suddenly life-threatening.
We debated whether to travel. He’d had near-misses before and always pulled through. One evening we were relieved when his condition seemed to improve. But late that night a phone call changed everything. The doctor described his final breaths, saying, “Jim’s heart stopped. We’d get it started and it would stop again. It was as if he had been to a better place and wanted to stay there.”
Heaven felt close in that description.
If there were do-overs, I would have arrived at the hospital sooner to tell him thank you and I love you, and to kiss his weather-worn cheek. I know the outcome wouldn’t have changed, but I wish I could have honored him that way.
Family
Some of my most vivid memories are of the time we shared before and after Dad’s funeral. The most precious was the moment at the viewing when, after a few silent, awkward minutes, my brother began to sing:
“When peace like a river…
attendeth my way.”
One by one we joined in until the whole room sang, “It is well with my soul.” The greatest gift my dad gave me was a heritage of faith. My parents and grandparents had a close relationship with Jesus, and that faith allowed us to face loss with hope. The promise of Heaven is indescribable.
Grief Changes You (Don’t fight it!)
Over the years I’ve noticed something curious: as the anniversary of my dad’s death approaches, my grief feels fresh again. At first I didn’t understand, but a friend explained that the body never forgets—that anniversaries can stir memory and emotion anew. I’ve learned to accept this as part of who I am and to cherish the many memories I can hold.
So when I’m in church and singing about Heaven, thinking of my Heavenly Father, or watching grandfathers with their grandchildren, I often tear up. If the worship leader sings “It Is Well With My Soul,” I’ll likely cry—tears that feel both natural and healing.
I joke with those around me that they have two options: I’ll either cry or make them laugh so hard they might wish I hadn’t. They always pick the tears.
Here’s my dad at about 18 on his Navy ship during the Korean War, and later holding our oldest son when he was two, not long before my dad passed away. When I asked our son recently if he remembered Grandpa Jim, he said, “Oh yes—I remember that he loved kids.”
Memories like these keep him alive in my heart. On Father’s Day I remember his voice, his laughter, the small rituals that made him who he was, and the faith he passed on. If you’re remembering your dad today, I hope those memories bring you comfort and a quiet sense of gratitude for the time you shared.