Who would you like to talk to soon?

“Grief is learning to hold love and pain at the same time.”

It’s Father’s Day.

For many, this is a day of celebration—cards exchanged, phone calls made, backyard barbecues enjoyed. Social media overflows with smiling photos of fathers and children, laughter echoing across timelines. But for some of us, Father’s Day feels much different. It’s quieter. Heavier. For us, our fathers aren’t here to celebrate with us anymore.

My daddy is in heaven.

And on days like this, a simple wish presses against my heart:
If only I had one more hour with him.

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The Ache of Longing

I dream of one more hour to sit beside him, hear his voice, and feel his strong arms wrap me in a hug — though I was never one to enjoy hugs much, a tender irony that adds weight to my longing. I yearn simply to exist in his presence once more.

This isn’t a passing sadness. It’s a physical ache that sits tightly in my chest. The ache is always near: when I see fathers with their children, when family milestones pass without him, when I glance at the box of his ashes resting quietly on my dresser. That little box is both a reminder of his absence and proof of his enduring presence in my life.

Even in the day-to-day, his absence echoes. My eldest child’s graduation, my 8th grader’s prom, my niece twirling in princess dresses—all these moments carry his absence. But perhaps the most vivid reminder is my youngest son, who is my father’s spitting image: his face, his gait, his quiet wisdom that seems far older than his years. Every time I see my son, it’s like seeing my daddy once more—and that beauty makes the pain even sharper.

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The Weight of What Was Left Unsaid and Undone

Grief is rarely about what happened. Often, it’s about what didn’t happen—the conversations never had, the lessons left untaught, the wisdom left unshared.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to love working with my hands, much like my father—a skilled carpenter who took pride in building and fixing. So many times I’ve wished he were here to guide me—whether through home repairs, car issues, or simply knowing who to trust. This isn’t about traditional roles or being “ladylike.” It’s about the practical wisdom only a father could share, and that now feels forever out of reach.

His life was complicated, layered with both growth and imperfection. My daddy wasn’t a perfect man, but he grew in profound ways—especially in how he treated women after having daughters. I watched him grow, even as I watched him endure a toxic marriage to his third ex-wife.

I’ll never forget the day she shut off his phone service because he questioned her late-night behavior, cutting him off from us when he needed us most. After his passing, I stumbled upon scriptures that seemed to describe her manipulations, and family members confirmed much of what I feared. She was a traumatized soul who used his kindness for her own gain. And though I wish I had intervened more, I was fighting my own battles at the time—trapped in a toxic relationship that stole much of my own strength.

But nothing weighs on me like the health regrets.

I had a small inkling that something was wrong with his health—a nudge, a quiet unease. But I allowed others to talk me out of it, choosing to believe everything was fine. When he was hospitalized, I didn’t call—not because I didn’t care, but because I truly believed he was coming home. I was preparing my house for his recovery, never imagining he wouldn’t make it home. That missed call now lives with me, a painful wound I revisit often. One more conversation, one more “I love you”—it slips further out of reach with each passing day.

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The Frustration and Anger: Grappling with “Madness”

Grief is never tidy. Love and frustration can exist in the same breath.

After his death, I found myself drowning not only in grief but also in frustration. His affairs weren’t in order. His vulnerability to scams left us with unexpected messes to clean up. The administrative burden he left behind was overwhelming—adding financial stress to our already heavy hearts.

And then there was COVID. My father refused the vaccine, choosing blind faith over science. His unwavering belief that God alone would protect him collided painfully with my fear for his health. This wasn’t about politics. It was about wanting him safe. Watching him make that choice — a choice that ultimately cost him his life — filled me with helpless anger that still rises uninvited.

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Holding the Complexity: Love, Loss, and Imperfection

Time has taught me to sit with all the complexities.

I love my father deeply, even while acknowledging his flaws.
I honor his legacy, while recognizing his mistakes.
Furthermore, I carry sadness, frustration, regret, and deep gratitude—all at once.

His legacy lives on in countless ways:

• The foundation of faith he instilled in us.
• A strong family culture that values education and lifelong learning.
• Hard-learned lessons on how to prepare well for those you leave behind.
• The unity my siblings and I displayed in honoring his final wishes.
• His reflection in my children — both in appearance and spirit.

I honor him daily—through the businesses I’m building, the law degree I am pursuing (a promise I made to him), and my walk with Christ that remains the center of my life.

And perhaps the most healing shift has been learning to let myself feel. I no longer bottle up my grief. When it rises, I sit with it, cry if I need to, and release it. I allow every emotion to pass through me—knowing that feeling my grief is also feeling my love.

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A Heartfelt Plea: Cherish Your Dad

As Father’s Day arrives, I have one plea for anyone reading this:

• Cherish your father.
• Ask him for his story. Remember, your parents lived entire lives before you came into existence.
• Value the time you have.
• Understand that time is borrowed, and tomorrow is not promised.

If I had one more hour, I would hold his hand, listen to his voice, and say everything I wish I had said. Since I no longer have that hour, I carry him within me—in my heart, in my children, and in the life I continue to build.

This Father’s Day, may we all hold our fathers a little closer—whether in our arms or in our hearts.