“I’ll See Ya Again:” A Tribute to My Dad For Father’s Day

With Father’s Day approaching, I have been thinking about my dad a little more than usual. My Father died seventeen years ago, and while time heals some aspects of loss, memories of him still bring to the surface very tender emotions. He was a stable man, trustworthy, and utterly confident in His faith in Jesus. I think of my dad every time we sing the hymn, “Jesus What a Friend for Sinners,” because it was his favorite to sing. He would belt out the chorus: “Hallelujah, what a Savior, Hallelujah, what a friend.” I knew he drank deeply from the words of Scripture which taught Him these life-giving truths that Jesus was his Savior, and Jesus was his friend.  

Dad battled liver cancer for three years. The doctors were a bit dumbfounded by his kind of liver cancer because of its rarity. One doctor even hypothesized that the tumor originated from a parasite he likely contracted while doing mission’s work in Uganda. Nothing was determined in this regard; it was only clear that aggressive treatment was necessary, and if he survived cancer, he planned to keep doing missions work.

One month before Christmas, Dad was declared free of cancer. The liver was clear of disease, and it appeared that the radiation and chemotherapy had worked. I remember when I received the news of the “all-clear,” I dropped my phone, cupped my hands over my mouth, and I screamed. It was one of the most joyous moments I can remember. But within a few weeks, his back began to hurt. After a few visits to the chiropractor, he relented and visited his doctor because of the increasing pain. Two days after Christmas the doctors discovered multiple tumors that had spread to his spine. Dad passed away two months later.

I was in my early twenties, and there is a lot that I remember about his death. About a week before he died, I remember a kind nurse allowing me to bring my baby into the ICU room so he could see his granddaughter. Dad ignored the many cords that connected his body to machines, and he reached to hold her. She sat calmly in his lap and he said, “You’re going to have so much fun with her this spring.” I choked back tears and said nothing; words didn’t seem necessary. We just sat quietly while he enjoyed the coos of his only grandchild until it was time for me to go. I remember leaving the room saying, “I’ll see ya again dad,” and I sincerely hoped that would be true.

Three days before he died my husband called to say that Dad was not in his right mind. He was frantically trying to get out of his bed because, as dad told my husband, “There are people on the sixth floor who need to hear about Jesus.” I got in my car and rushed to the hospital, admittedly unsure if what my husband was describing wasn’t my dad acting somewhat normal. He was a true evangelist, after all. Two days before he died dad became nearly unconscious, but he reacted when my youngest sister made it home from college and held his hand. A day before he died, we sang hymns in his room, and then on a Sunday, dad went to be with Jesus. I remember watching the heart beats on the monitor slowly become more sporadic until they were gone, I remember touching his leg and wondering if he was flying in heaven, and I remember my mom whispering in his ear, “Do you see Jesus?”

These details are ingrained in my heart, and while they’re significant, it’s the memories of the way he lived that truly left an imprint. Like all of us, my father had weaknesses, and he struggled with sin, but when I close my eyes and think of my dad, it’s not the imperfections that come to mind; rather, I am immediately drawn to three life lessons I learned from my father.

Dad taught me to enjoy life. He would regularly remind us that life was short, so we should enjoy what we have while we have it. Life, for my dad, was a gift, and he was always looking for ways to find pleasure in the details. He enjoyed eating an afternoon bowl of ice cream that consistent of never one or two, but always three heaping scoops of vanilla ice cream covered with chocolate syrup. He often stood while he enjoyed it and would simultaneously ask us about our day. Dad couldn’t contain his zeal for the St. Louis Cardinals. If he wasn’t able to physically attend a game, he was sure to tun it on the radio. You could hear his cheers from outside the house when a homerun was hit. He loved watching sunsets on the beach, and he enjoyed video-taping his girls while we ran in and out of the waves. As we grew older, he even enjoyed capturing our pre-teen idiosyncrasies and adolescent attitudes. He would just smile when I would put my hand in front of the camera. Dad also enjoyed videotaping his beloved pets (maybe even more so based on the hours of exciting footage we have of our cat…sitting and our dog…walking). And for as long as his body allowed him to do it, he did handstands in the ocean, always trying to defy the waves that would inevitably lift his hands off the ocean floor and bring him back to the surface. Even as a grown man, he wanted to be sure that we video-taped a few of these handstands. After all, life was too short to not make note of its simple pleasures.

Dad taught me to relish worship. This is probably one of the most profound things my father taught me. It was never anything he said, it wasn’t something he sat down to instruct me on, but it was just the way He loved worship with the body of Christ that made such an impact. Dad talked about a Sunday worship service like we were headed to Disney land. And afterward, he never missed an opportunity to recap the details. He talked about which songs he enjoyed singing most, or he would point out how cool it was when a particular piece of music would explode with energy and volume. If I said, “good sermon, dad,” my father-pastor would immediately respond with, “Thanks. Why?” eager to continue to engage on the details. He sang boisterously, and he preached passionately. What he studied in the Bible sat deep in his heart, and he longed for all who came into the house of God to experience the joy that comes from Jesus. Even in his last days on earth, he found pleasure in planning the details of his own funeral about which he exclaimed, “Make it joyful!”

Dad taught me to love Jesus. He loved his Savior fiercely, and he talked about Him fervently. This lesson wasn’t learned from his eloquent prayers or recitation of Scripture. It wasn’t even learned so much from the pulpit on Sunday mornings. I learned from my father what it looks like to love Jesus through his quiet, unnoticed actions. It was seeing him praying on his knees through a cracked door, listening to him quietly ask God for help when he hung up the phone, and sensing his excitement when he told us about praying with an unbeliever. And he taught me of this deep love for Jesus even weeks before his death. On a Sunday morning, dad pulled me into his office and asked that I help him put on the body brace that temporarily relieved the pain from the tumors and allowed him to stand just long enough to preach. I began crying as I pulled the straps as tight as they would go, so dad turned and smiled and then he whispered, “Jesus is in control, and I trust Jesus.”

I’m grateful beyond measure for my father and for the example he set both in his life and in his death, both through his struggles and in his joy. But mostly, I’m grateful he pointed me to my heavenly Father, and because of that I can say with confidence, “I’ll see ya again, Dad.”