I’ve always been a daddy’s girl—the kind who would sit by the door at our home in Houston, Texas, waiting for my daddy to come home from work. Daddy protected me while Mommy trained me. Daddy taught me while Mommy, at times, stood up for me. Never did I ever think my daddy would become ill.
When he first started to get sick, he came up to the school where I was with my husband and told me the news right behind the bleachers. That was hard to swallow. I choked on those words, and it took me a month to even begin to process what I didn’t want to accept. Daddy’s brain had started being a little disobedient—not quite doing what it was supposed to do—and I searched for every possible remedy to fix it. I rushed around gathering papers to place his assets in a trust, feeling like I was losing everything—most of all, him.
I went to see a Christian counselor who shared her story about caring for her own father. She told me the prayer she had prayed through her journey:
“Lord, be merciful.”
That became my prayer too.
It was the prayer I whispered when Mommy called me, asking me to come help her get Daddy into the shower. It was the prayer I held onto as I watched him decline, even as I smiled and said, “Dad, you still look like a young buck—just like you did in that Army picture you showed me.”
People say that when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. But there are days when that lemonade is hard to swallow. Those days stretched into hours and hours of heartbreak and hope intertwined.
Daddy taught me how to drive—behind Old Washington High School. He’d let me take the wheel, never nervous like Mom was. Daddy was tough and bold, capable of anything he set his mind to. In my eyes, he was unstoppable—and that’s all that mattered.
I miss him so much. Before he left, he wrote me a check for $25.00 that I’ve never cashed. It sits as a small, sacred reminder of his love.
Daddy was there when I fostered children, but he had already crossed over when God brought my son into our lives through adoption. The night we got the call that Daddy had passed, I was lying on the sofa with my little foster daughter sleeping on my stomach. I swear I heard his footsteps and felt a breeze wash over me—a gentle reassurance that he was okay. It was as if he whispered, “April, Daddy is good now. Daddy is all better.”
About an hour later, the phone rang. It was the nursing home. Daddy was gone.
That night felt surreal—like I was alive but numb. How was I supposed to go on after seeing my daddy meet Jesus? I remember it so vividly. He wore a white gown, so pure and bright it seemed platinum. He lay there, peaceful—an angel. I wanted to climb into that bed just to hold him, to breathe in his scent one more time. His smell was uniquely his, something I search for every time I hug his brothers, but I can never quite find it.
I had no idea that when I started blogging, it would be so healing. Writing helps me breathe again. I can take a shower, do my hair, wash my face, and move forward.
There’s a line from Gladiator that has always stayed with me. Djimon Hounsou’s character, Juba, says to Maximus:
“I will see you again… but not yet. Not yet.”
Daddy, I will see you again—but not yet. Not yet.
Author’s Note:
I know this may be difficult for some of my family to read, but please understand—it’s part of my healing journey. Writing this has helped me find peace and remember the love, strength, and lessons Daddy left behind.