When writing my dad's obituary, I leaned pretty heavily into his best qualities and my fondest memories of him. In his best moments, my dad cherished his children deeply and went through great lengths to help them or even get them out of hairy situations. I have more than a few of those such situations I can point to myself.
He expressed love in his own unique way: always making sure I had something to eat by randomly making me smoothies, sharing our favorite snacks—like mangos or artichokes with butter—and telling me wild stories from his youth. There were more than a few stories about being arrested, or his beloved souped-up dune buggy, or that time he and his friends dined and dashed and ran from the cops.
I remember the times he drove me to my basketball games, hoping the game would teach me to be more assertive (sorry, Dad—still working on that one). I remember flying kites together in the park near our home in Gardena, or him taking me to softball practice and trying to teach me to pitch (which didn’t quite stick either), or him helping me move into college. And so many more examples where my dad dropped everything or gave up everything he had to make sure I was okay.
But there were also times when my dad was the source of my greatest fears. I know many family members reading this have their own complicated, perhaps painful, memories of him. He was far from perfect—none of us are.
Still, I choose to remember the best in him. I choose to hold onto the image of him carrying me on his shoulders when my feet were too tired to keep walking. I remember his selflessness—how he would give me whatever little he had so I wouldn’t have to go without.
I make this choice because I have hope—hope in something greater and more perfect than this world. I believe in a reality where my dad exists as the fullest, truest version of himself—redeemed and whole with Jesus. I believe that’s where he is now. And with that hope, I remember him as the man he was at his best—the man I believe, through grace, he truly is.
If I have it in my own fallen heart to have compassion and forgiveness for my dad, how much more must God—who is compassion, who is love—offer him? So, I rest easy knowing that he is loved, he is forgiven, and he is with God.
May we all take a moment to remember the forgiveness which Jesus's redemptive sacrifice has given all of us. Even in our greatest transgressions, we are loved, and we are forgiven.
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