It’s Father’s Day, and I woke up thinking about my dad. Do you ever have mornings like that?
A single memory came to me with the clarity of a photograph.
I was a junior in high school, standing behind the large stainless-steel grill at the Tastee Hut. I’d worked there through summers and after school for years, and my bosses felt like an extended family.
“How did your dad’s doctor’s appointment go?” the owner’s wife asked one morning.
Tears filled my eyes so quickly that I could not stop them. I was embarrassed, but the question opened a new chapter for me.
“He has Parkinson’s disease,” I finally managed to say.
Her gentle, comforting response remains one of those moments I’ve never forgotten. In that instant I began to understand grief in a deeper way—how sudden news forces you to face change, loss, and uncertainty.
My rarely-ill, strong, dependable father was changing before our eyes. The certainty that he would “always be there” was gone.
I’m grateful we had him for eleven more years after that diagnosis. He passed away at 64; I was 28. Over the years I’ve learned to accept the tears that come—unexpected, honest, and no longer something to be ashamed of.
Those moments of sorrow are part of the journey. They help me honor how precious the people I loved were and remain in my memory. I’m thankful for my family and for the legacy of faith my parents gave me. If you’ve lost someone, know my heart goes out to you today—sending a big hug.
Below is a story about my dad I originally wrote on October 20, 2010.
How a Hymn Reminded Me of Heaven and Home
During a recent church service my mind wandered when we sang “How Great Thou Art.” As the hymn lifted, I pictured both my Heavenly Father and my earthly one. The lines about Christ returning and the joy of being taken home stirred a familiar ache and comfort at the same time.
I have a mountain of memories of my Dad:
- Every morning he “sang” a line from “When It’s Springtime in the Rockies” at the breakfast table. Dad was completely tone-deaf, but that odd little ritual always brightened the start of our day.
- He taught me what “the fear of the Lord” meant. Calm and patient by nature, he had a small, unmistakable sign—chewing the side of his tongue—when he wanted me to straighten up.
- Dad spoke few words, but they were usually wise. He could sum up a complex situation in a single, memorable phrase.
- When he laughed at a story, he laughed so fully he could hardly get the words out.
- He tuned in to the local radio’s “Farm Report” each morning, but what truly amused him were the goofy lyrics of country songs.
Fifteen years ago this November, my parents were planning a trip to visit us in Canada. Instead of catching a plane that day, my father went by ambulance to the nearest hospital. He’d lived with a neurological disease for eleven years, and a diagnosis of pneumonia was especially dangerous for him.
We exchanged calls with siblings and wondered whether to travel. He’d had other close calls and recovered before, so the decision felt heavy and uncertain. One evening the reports were hopeful; we went to bed relieved, thinking he might recover.
When the phone rang in the dead of night, none of us wanted to answer but we did. The doctor described Dad’s last breaths with such tenderness: his heart stopped, they restarted it, then it stopped again. It seemed as though he’d visited a better place and chose to stay.
Heaven. I thought of Heaven, and my heart found a strange comfort in that image.
I wish I could have been at the hospital in time to say everything I wanted: thank you, I love you, and one more kiss on his weather-worn cheek. I know it wouldn’t have changed the outcome, but honoring him in that way mattered to me.
Family, Faith, and Farewell
The days surrounding the funeral are filled with vivid, precious memories. At the viewing, after we’d each said our private goodbyes, a moment of quiet settled over the room. Then my brother began to sing:
“When peace like a river attendeth my way…”
One by one we joined, voices trembling and steadying together, singing the familiar words of “It Is Well With My Soul.” The greatest gift my dad gave me was a heritage of faith: parents and grandparents who lived a close relationship with Jesus. That faith allowed us to sing through deep sorrow and to cling to the hope of Heaven.
How Grief Changes You (and Why That’s Okay)
Over the years I’ve noticed something curious: as an anniversary of his death approaches, the grief resurfaces with fresh intensity. At first it surprised me, but a friend explained, “The body never forgets.” That simple truth helped me accept these waves of feeling as a normal part of living with loss.
I’ve learned to welcome the memories and to be grateful for them. Sitting in church, singing about Heaven, watching grandfathers with their grandchildren—I still tear up. If the worship leader sings “It Is Well With My Soul,” I may cry buckets. I joke with friends that they have two choices: I’ll either cry, or I’ll make them laugh so hard they’ll suffer with me. They usually pick the tears.
Here’s a picture of my dad at about 18 on his Navy ship during the Korean War. And another of him holding our oldest son—our boy was two when Grandpa Jim passed away. I asked our son recently if he remembered him. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I don’t remember much. Just that he loved kids!”
On Father’s Day I remember the lessons, the songs, the humor, and the faith. I remember the way grief and gratitude can sit side by side in a heart. If you’re remembering someone today, may those memories bring comfort, and may you find peace in the legacy they left behind.
