It is with heavy hearts that we announce the passing of Kingsley Yeung. Born in 1938 in China, Kingsley lived a life of humility and fortitude, setting an example for all who had the honor of crossing his path.

Kingsley's stoic and calm demeanor was a comfort to those around him. His kindness knew no bounds, and his generosity was evident in all aspects of his life. A quiet, strong, and silently dedicated man, Kingsley’s life was a testament to his moral compass and his unwavering dedication to those he loved.

His love for his family was unwavering, and his dedication to providing for them was second to none. He was a successful entrepreneur, having built several businesses from the ground up, demonstrating his resilience, determination, and work ethic. His greatest accomplishment, however, was the love and respect he garnered from family and friends.

Surviving Kingsley is his wife Doris Yeung, son Winston Yeung, daughter Vivian Yeung, granddaughter Rebecca Yeung, granddaughter Kimberly Yeung, grandson Kingsley Yuan, and granddaughter Simone Yuan. Kingsley's legacy of kindness and generosity will continue to live on through his children and grandchildren.

A memorial service to honor and celebrate Kingsley's life will be held on Friday November 28, 2025, at 10:00 AM at Ocean View Funeral Home & Burial Park. The funeral service will follow at 11:30am, with a luncheon reception to be held at Golden Swan Restaurant at 1:00pm. We invite all who knew and loved Kingsley to join us in commemorating the life of this extraordinary man.  A viewing will be available the evening before, on Thursday November 27, 2025, from 7:00pm to 9:00pm.

Kingsley will be sorely missed by his family and friends from all over the world from Vancouver to Seattle to Hong Kong, Australia and beyond. His life was a testament to the power of kindness and love, and his memory will continue to shine brightly in the hearts of those who loved him.

EULOGY

Ladies and gentlemen,

Thank you all for being here today. Some of you have come from great distances to be here and we very much appreciate your presence. My sister Vivian will further express our thanks in her remarks later.

We gather today in the shadow of loss, but also in the light of a life that radiated far beyond its own years.

We honor a man who lived quietly, loved deeply, and carried his family through decades of storms and triumphs with a gentleness that was its own kind of miracle. His life was proof that greatness doesn’t always come in grand gestures or dramatic speeches; it often comes wrapped in patience, humility, humor, and an unwavering devotion to family.

Dad came from very little. Born in China, raised in Hong Kong, he and his siblings grew up with hardships that many of us will never fully understand. Poverty and hunger were common throughout his formative years.

But he had something priceless: a mother who taught him and his brother and sisters an important lesson. She believed this mattered above all else:

Be kind.

Not when it is easy.

Not when it is convenient.

But as a way of being, a way of walking through the world.

And he did.

His kindness was not a performance.

It was a quiet, unshakeable principle that lived in his bones.

She sent Dad from the rice patties in China to live in the rubber shoe factory with his older brother, Bak Fu, in Hong Kong. He ate and slept in the factory after the workers were done, studied hard, and eventually finished High School.

From the shoe factory, he ventured all the way to Australia to study, armed with little more than just £50, determination, and a dream of education. For ten years, he waited tables to survive, studied late at night, dealt with racism regularly, earned an accounting degree at the University of Sydney, held onto hope with both hands… and somewhere along the way, he met Mom.

Perhaps she fell for his smile. Perhaps his steadiness. Perhaps the fact that he could beat almost anyone at mahjong.

Whatever it was, it worked. And 55 years later, their marriage stood as proof that love doesn’t always need grand gestures. Sometimes love sounds like Mom talking… and Dad silently understanding he didn’t need to say anything back.

Together, they crossed oceans again in 1970, this time to Canada, where they built a life not from wealth or connections, but from perseverance. Dad started an accounting business with Uncle Roger. He and Mom bought properties when most were too afraid to. He put Vivian and me in private school. And he worked, hard.

Not for status.

Not for praise.

But so that Vivian and I could have choices he never had.

So that our futures would be wider than his past.

But the true beauty of my father’s life is not measured in what he built—it is measured in how he lived.

Dad spent his lifetime helping others. He helped relatives immigrate from Hong Kong and China to Canada, and got them settled. He provided guidance on how to navigate the challenges of life in a new country. He helped friends with business opportunities when they asked for a hand. He helped clients get their businesses off the ground. There are so many stories to share about Dad's kindness and generosity.

To many, his clients, his staff, his business partners, his relatives, he was a revered mentor, a trusted advisor, a wise counselor, and a loyal friend. The ripple effect of the years of his generosity can be evidenced by all the people sitting here in this room right now.

One moment crystallizes his character for me:

I was helping him deal with a particularly difficult tenant, someone who was insulting and provoking. This tenant… let’s just say… was not applying the “be kind” rule.

But my father, steady, serene, listened with compassion. He didn’t react. He didn’t strike back. He offered grace to someone who was offering none in return.

Afterward, he simply said,

“He must be having a very hard day.”

I realized then that his kindness wasn't a weakness.

It was mastery.

It was strength. Quiet, unadvertised, unwavering. I remember watching him and thinking: This is who he is. This is who I want to be.

Dad carried that strength into every relationship—including with his grandchildren.

He radiated pride watching them:

Cheering as Rebecca and Kimberly sent their science project soaring into the sky,

Clapping as Simone and Kingsley battled on the squash court,

Smiling at piano recitals,

Beaming at wushu tournaments,

Finding joy in every leap forward their lives took.

In them, he saw the future, and he cherished it.

Supporting my sports career however was… a little different.

After one of my rec‑league hockey games in Seattle, I asked him, “So, Dad, what did you think?”

He looked at me and delivered a line I’ll remember forever:

“You guys skate so slowly. I fell asleep.”

In that single sentence, he managed to be honest, hilarious, and devastating all at once.

That was his gift.

But if hockey was comic relief, tennis was another story.

When we first played when I was a little kid, he let me win.

Then I grew stronger, quicker, hungrier,

and he beat me, soundly, just to remind me the world doesn’t give out victories cheaply.

Then I improved again and started beating him, and yes,

I tried my best to do it.

Eventually we reached the most tender stage of all:

I was winning, but trying—awkwardly, unconvincingly—to let him win.

And he knew.

Of course he knew.

After one match, he looked at me with a small smile and said,

“Now I know you have grown up.”

It was never about tennis.

It was about a father pouring his strength into his son

until the day came when the son could carry the weight.

A passing of the torch wrapped in humility and love.

And then there is the image I will carry with me all my life:

When we lived in North Vancouver, Dad used to commute from downtown on the SeaBus, then two buses, to reach home.

And he carried me—in a cardboard box.

A cardboard box.

Not a stroller.

Not a carrier.

A box. UPS style.

That is my father.

Using whatever he had, doing whatever it took,

carrying the weight of responsibility

to bring his family home safely.

His love was not elegant.

It was not polished.

But it was fierce.

And it was complete.

Even in the final chapter, after his stroke in February this year, when his body slowed but his spirit did not, he continued teaching us.

His eyes still brightened when he saw us.

His hands still reached for ours.

His love stayed constant, entire, unbroken.

And now we say goodbye.

But we don’t actually lose him.

Because a life like his doesn’t vanish, it echoes.

It ripples forward through generations.

It lives in every act of patience,

every choice to forgive,

every moment we choose kindness over anger,

generosity over pride.

My father did not live loudly.

But he lived profoundly.

He was the quiet force that held our family together,

the lighthouse standing tall against the storms,

the steady light guiding us back when we wandered.

We will carry that light forward.

In our patience and kindness.

In the way we raise our children.

In the way we treat strangers.

In the way we choose grace over fury.

In the way we persevere, quietly and courageously,

just as he did.

Every hockey game I watch with my kids, I’ll hear his dry voice saying, “You guys skate so slowly.”

Every time I’m about to lose my temper, I’ll remember that tenant.

Every time I see my children succeed, I’ll feel his pride echoing through generations.

Dad, thank you,

for the sacrifices spoken and unspoken,

for the gentleness that steadied us,

for the humor that humbled us,

for the love that shaped us.

You were our father, our teacher, our anchor, our compass, our hero.

And though we feel the weight of your absence today,

we also feel the strength of your presence

in every good thing we do,

and every good person we try to become.

Rest now, Dad.

You won the match.

You brought us home safely.

Your work is done and your legacy is safe.

And we will carry you forward

every step of the way.

Thank you.

Send to someone

Share this obituary with others

https://everloved.com/life-of/kingsley-yeung/obituary/

Copy