I am writing again, not just for myself, but for those who will carry forward the legacy of faith in our family.
One of the sweetest gifts in recent years has been hearing the great-grandchildren who never knew my dad ask questions about him, share stories they have heard, and speak his name with a sense of familiarity and love. Each time they do, I am reminded that a life faithfully lived continues to shape generations yet to come.
I want them to know not only how he lived, but also how he died. I want them to understand the faith that sustained him, the peace that anchored him, and the confidence he carried into his final days.
So tonight, I am sharing this story again. Perhaps one day, one of those little people will read these words all grown up and gain a glimpse of the man we loved so dearly and the God he trusted so completely.
We knew our time was limited, but we thought we had more.
We all wanted more time.
Just another month.
Another week.
Another day.
Another conversation.
Another chance to hear his voice, receive his counsel, watch him laugh with his grandchildren, or sit quietly together in the ordinary moments that suddenly become precious when they are gone.
But time was not ours to keep.
And in the end, we have peace, even in our sorrow, because we know and embrace the same God and the same faith. The God who held my Dad’s days also holds ours.
May we never lose sight that every day contains more than our sadness. God is still on His throne. The birds still sing in the morning. Grace still meets us in each new day.
And now I leave you with words my Dad shared in the final days of his life, just before his unexpected death:
“But we wanted you all to know that we are grateful for each day, and rest in the assurance that all of our days are in God’s hands. Blessed be the Name of the Lord.”
Eight years later, I continue to find comfort in that assurance.