My dad died 22 years ago, and while time has softened some aspects of grief, memories of him still stir tender emotions. My dad was a steady man—dependable, joyful, and utterly confident in his faith in Jesus.
Every time I hear the hymn “Jesus, What a Friend for Sinners,” I think of him. It was his favorite, and he’d belt out the chorus:
“Hallelujah, what a Savior! Hallelujah, what a friend!”
I knew those weren’t just words to him. He drank deeply from the truths of Scripture—Jesus was his Savior, and Jesus was his friend.
Dad battled a rare form of liver cancer for three years. His doctors were puzzled—one even speculated the cancer might have come from a parasite he picked up while doing missions work in Uganda. Nothing was conclusive, but one thing was clear: aggressive treatment was necessary. And if he survived, he made clear that he would return to Africa.
One month before Christmas, he was declared cancer-free. I still remember getting the call. I dropped my phone, cupped my hands over my mouth, and screamed for joy. It felt like a miracle. But just a few weeks later, he began to experience severe back pain. At first, he saw a chiropractor, but as the pain worsened, he went back to the doctor. Two days after Christmas, scans revealed the cancer had spread to his spine. Two months later, he was gone.
I was in my early twenties, and much of that season is etched into my memory. About a week before he died, a kind ICU nurse allowed me to bring my baby daughter into his room. Dad reached past the tangle of cords and tubes to hold her. She sat calmly in his lap while he whispered, “You’re going to have so much fun with her this spring.” I choked back tears. I didn’t respond. We just sat quietly as he soaked in the coos of his only grandchild. When I left the room, I said, “I’ll see ya again, Dad.” I meant it with all my heart.
Three days before he died, my husband called to tell me something strange—Dad was trying desperately to get out of bed. He told my husband, “There are people on the sixth floor who need to hear about Jesus.” I rushed to the hospital, not entirely sure this wasn’t just typical Dad behavior; he was a true evangelist, after all. Two days before his death, he became nearly unconscious, but he stirred when my younger sisters arrived home from college and held his hand. The day before he died, we gathered around his bed and sang hymns, and on Sunday, he went to be with Jesus. I watched the heart monitor slow, then stop, and I heard my mom whisper in his ear, “Do you see Jesus?”
These memories remain vivid and dear. But more than the way he died, it’s the way he lived that shaped me most. Like all of us, Dad had weaknesses. He struggled with sin. But when I close my eyes and remember him, it’s not his imperfections I see. I remember the lessons he taught me—lessons that continue to echo in my heart.
He taught me to enjoy life.
Dad constantly reminded us that life was short—and to enjoy it while we had it. For him, life was a gift, and he delighted in its simple pleasures. Every afternoon, he’d eat a bowl of vanilla ice cream—not one or two, but always three heaping scoops, drenched in chocolate syrup. He often stood while eating, chatting with us about our day.
He couldn’t hide his enthusiasm for the St. Louis Cardinals. If he couldn’t attend a game, he listened on the radio, and you’d hear him cheering from outside the house when someone hit a home run. He loved sunsets on the beach and filming us as kids running through the waves. As we got older, he kept filming—our awkward tween phases, teenage eye rolls, and all. He’d just smile when I put my hand in front of the camera.
He even filmed the pets—hours of riveting footage of our cat… sitting, or our dog… walking. And every summer, Dad did handstands in the ocean, defying the waves as long as his body allowed. He even insisted we videotape them. After all, life was too short not to celebrate joy.
He taught me to cherish worship.
This was perhaps the most profound thing I learned from him—not through lectures or lessons, but by his example. Dad loved worship. He approached Sunday mornings with the excitement of a kid heading to Disneyland, and afterward, he’d relive every detail—talking about the music, the moment when the congregation sang with gusto, or how a certain lyric gave him goosebumps.
If I said, “Good sermon, Dad,” he’d always respond, “Thanks. Why?”—eager to talk about it more. He sang with conviction. He preached with passion. The Word of God lived deep in his soul, and he longed for others to experience the joy of knowing Jesus. Even in his final days, he took joy in planning his own funeral. “Make it joyful!” he said.
He taught me to love Jesus.
He loved Jesus fiercely, and he talked about Him freely. But more than that, he showed me what it meant to walk closely with Christ. It wasn’t through his sermons or public prayers—it was in the quiet places.
I saw it when I peeked through a cracked door and found him kneeling in prayer. I heard it when he whispered a prayer after a hard phone call. I felt it in his joy when he shared how he had prayed with an unbeliever.
Even in his last weeks, his love for Jesus shone.
I’m grateful beyond words for dad’s example—for how he lived, how he struggled, how he rejoiced, and how he died. Most of all, I’m thankful he pointed me to my heavenly Father. And because of that, I can say with confidence and joy:
I’ll see you again, Dad.
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Katie, Most of the notes in my Bible were gleaned from your Dad’s sermons. He was a great role model to so many and a great Dad to his girls.