Remembering My Father — One Year Later

One Year Later — A Reflection of Love, Loss, and Legacy❤️❤️

A year ago today, I was on the road to Ohio with my two sons — unaware that life was about to change in a way I could never have imagined. What began as a simple trip soon became one of the most profound journeys of my life.

Losing my father was one of the hardest moments I’ve ever faced. He wasn’t just my dad — he was my guide, my protector, and the person who always made everything feel steady no matter how uncertain life became. During those final days, though, something unexpected happened. Amid the tears and heartache, I found pieces of healing I didn’t even know I needed.

Those days brought me closer to people I had lost so much with — family and memories I hadn’t fully faced. We cried together, laughed through stories, fell asleep in the comfort of shared grief, and found thankfulness in simply being there for one another. In those moments, I realized how love doesn’t end when life does — it just changes form.

As I look back on this past year, I realize I never stopped moving. After my dad’s death, I kept going — maybe because stopping meant facing the finality of it all. I got married, my oldest son found his path, and my husband and I bought a church to make into our home. Each of these moments kept me busy, and maybe that was my way of holding on to him.

I still remember the day the pods arrived from Dad’s house to North Carolina. I opened them, sat there, and cried. Then, almost instinctively, I wiped my tears and got back to work. From that moment on, it was a blur — from unpacking those memories to holding our first church service at St. Frances, and then diving straight into renovations. I think, in my own way, I’ve stayed busy so I didn’t have to close that chapter with my dad.

Now, as it gets closer to November 1st, I can feel the weight of it more. I know what this is — what we call grieving — and trust me, I don’t like it. I never thought my dad’s death would affect me the way it has. But I’ve come to see that every part of St. Frances carries a piece of him. I feel him in every wall we’ve painted, in every beam we’ve restored, in every quiet corner that holds a memory.

There are moments when I still wonder — would he approve of what I’ve done? I know he wouldn’t have imagined me buying a church with what he left behind. I can almost hear him questioning it, but part of me smiles, because I also know he’d be proud. Still, I wonder what he would think of the color patterns, the kitchen — oh, that kitchen — and the peacefulness that fills the place. I know he’d love its simplicity. It’s ridiculous, I know, but I can’t help wondering.

I talk to my mom often — and I’m so grateful she’s still here. I tell her about the strangeness of it all, the confusion, and the ache of just wishing he was still here. I may not have talked to Dad every day — maybe I should have — but I know he knew I loved him. What I do know is that I treasure those last days with him, even though they were hard. I treasure that he gave me back something I didn’t realize I was missing — my family.

I just wish he could see it now. I wish he could see what was lost was also something given at the end — love, connection, and the kind of peace that only comes from understanding that even through loss, something beautiful can still grow.

For him, I will always be grateful. St. Frances is grateful too — because without him, she wouldn’t have this new jumpstart into the next hundred years.

If I could say anything to my dad, I would say: Thank you for what you did for me. Thank you for having a heart of gold. And thank you for what you continue to do for me through the choices Rick and I make for our future.

I love you, Dad. Always.

🕊 For my father — whose love built more than a home. His legacy lives within the walls of St. Frances and the hearts he continues to guide.