He Was a Really, Really Good Dad

My dad died early in the morning on Wednesday July 16.

Even as I write that, it still doesn’t feel entirely real. I’ve cried — there have definitely been tears — but beneath the sorrow, there’s a surprising and steady peace. His suffering is over now. He is free, held in the presence of God the Father. And because of our shared faith, I believe with every fiber of my being that he’s in heaven… and that one day, I’ll see him again.

Shortly after I got the call — it was twenty after one in the morning — I came out to the kitchen, to the little workstation where I so often sit and write. The world was still and quiet. I lit a candle. I lit some incense. And I opened the Book of Common Prayer to the section titled Ministration at the Time of Death. Then in the stillness of the night — just me, God, and the memory of my dad — I went through the entire liturgy, piece by piece. I let the tears fall as they wanted to fall, praying for his soul, for his journey home, for his union with our Father in heaven.

When the prayers were done, I stayed there in the silence, holding space for my grief.

Later that day, I attended a healing Eucharist service at our church. I spent time meditating on my father’s life and how much he meant to me. I received a blessing and anointing, and I prayed that the Lord would ease my grief and comfort me in the knowledge that my father is at peace and in glory. After the service, I sat quietly and prayed a rosary for him.

Before I left church, I was blessed with the unexpected grace of time with our reverend. During that time, I was able to tell her about my dad. I shared stories, feelings, the heartbreak and the hope. She offered compassion and peace, and I left feeling a sense of fullness from my faith community.

Then, not even 24 hours after he passed, I found myself in attendance at a performance of Les Misérables. It was magical — the way the Lord used that performance to speak to me, to speak straight to my heart. It brought to mind so many things about my dad: his sacrifices, his upright character, his flaws, and his unwavering dedication.

He wasn’t perfect, but he was good. He loved me unconditionally. He was the first — and one of only two men — who ever did.

And at the end of the show, when the hero passes peacefully and is greeted by angels, I wept again — picturing my father being carried home in just that way. Welcomed. Rested. Free.

In those first 24 hours, I was given space to grieve, to remember, to pray, and to say goodbye.

And I am so grateful.

Since then, my mind has been filled with memories — the big, life-shaping ones, and the small, tender ones. One of the stories I always tell is from when I was a little girl. He’d pick me up from dance class and take me to the toy store, and then to McDonald’s. One time, I fell in love with this big Raggedy Ann doll. It was more than he usually spent, and he said, “If you get the doll, we can’t do McDonald’s.” I said I wanted the doll — and he bought it for me. And then… we went to McDonald’s anyway.

That was just who he was. I still have that doll.

There were so many moments like that, even later in life. He once took me to a Star Trek convention when I was in high school. He didn’t know anything about Star Trek, but he came along just to be with me. We even had lunch at the fancy restaurant in the convention center — just the two of us. Mom joked that she was jealous when we got home because he never took her there!

And I’ll never forget the years we went to that Christian music festival together. It started because I didn’t have anyone to go with one year, and when Dad found out I was planning to go alone, he said, “Nope. I’m coming with you.” And he did — not just that year, but for four years after. Some of my favorite memories are from those trips: camping, concerts, long drives, and quiet moments together.

Through it all, I never missed a chance to tell him I loved him. I said it in person, in cards, in hugs and words and every possible way I knew how. I told him he was the best dad in the world. And I know — with complete certainty — that he knew how deeply I loved and cherished him.

That’s part of why I can feel peace now. Yes, there is grief. But there is peace, too.

He was a good dad.

A really, really good dad.

And I was so lucky to be his daughter.

“Well done, good and faithful servant… enter into the joy of your Lord.” — Matthew 25:23