My heart still pauses every time the calendar turns to this season, just as it did exactly four years ago when the news arrived like a thunderclap in a clear sky. One moment you were among us, pouring out your life in service, laughter, prayer, and powerful declarations of faith; the next, heaven called you home, and the earth felt instantly quieter, emptier, colder. We stood in stunned silence then, just as many of us do today, whispering the same words that escape our lips even now: "Daddy, how can it be four whole years?"
It feels like only yesterday that your voice rang through the sanctuary, steady and sure, calling us higher, deeper, closer to the heart of God. The way you would pause mid-sermon, eyes scanning the crowd as if searching each soul individually, then speak directly to our hidden struggles—it was never just preaching; it was fatherly counsel wrapped in divine authority. You didn't merely teach the Bible; you lived it so vividly that we could see Jesus walking among us through your example. And when you left us in the body, the physical absence hit like a wave that never fully recedes. We still reach for you instinctively in moments of doubt, crisis, or celebration, half-expecting to hear that familiar, warm greeting: "My child, come, let's talk to Papa about this."
Four years. Three hundred and sixty-five days multiplied by four, each one marked by your absence yet illuminated by your legacy. Time has not dulled the sharpness of the pain; if anything, it has sharpened our appreciation for who you were and what you poured into us. We can never erase or forget the countless ways you invested in our destinies. You saw potential where we saw only brokenness, purpose where we felt aimless, and God's calling where we heard only silence. Your commitment wasn't casual or occasional—it was relentless, sacrificial, and deeply personal. You prayed for us when we couldn't pray for ourselves, fasted on our behalf during seasons we didn't even know were battles, and stood in the gap when the enemy tried to derail the plans God had ordained for our lives.
Remember how you would gather us after services, not rushing off to rest but lingering to listen? You'd sit with the young people, the weary parents, the struggling professionals, asking questions that cut straight to the root: "What is God saying to you right now? What dream has He placed in your heart that fear is trying to bury?" You never dismissed our small beginnings. Instead, you fanned the flame, reminding us that God specializes in using the foolish things of this world to confound the wise, the weak to shame the strong. Your belief in us became the mirror through which we began to see ourselves as God sees us—chosen, equipped, and destined for greatness in His kingdom.
Your teachings remain etched in our spirits like scriptures written on tablets of flesh rather than stone. They weren't abstract doctrines or dry theology; they were living truths, practical and powerful, designed to transform everyday lives. You taught us about the authority of the believer—not as a formula for personal gain, but as a responsibility to advance God's kingdom, to heal the sick, bind the brokenhearted, and proclaim liberty to captives. You walked us through the promises of God with such clarity that even the most skeptical among us began to dare to believe again. "If God said it," you'd declare with that gentle yet unshakeable conviction, "then heaven and earth will pass away before one jot or tittle fails." Those words still echo in our quiet moments, steadying us when storms rage.
And oh, the messages! Each one felt tailor-made, as though the Holy Spirit had whispered our names to you before you stepped to the pulpit. You'd speak on grace when we were drowning in guilt, on forgiveness when bitterness had taken root, on perseverance when we were ready to quit. Your sermons weren't performances; they were encounters—with truth, with love, with the living God. We'd leave the service lighter, freer, fired up to live differently. Even now, four years later, when life presses hard, we replay those messages in our minds. We pull out old notes, dusty journals filled with your bullet points and underlined scriptures, and they speak afresh. It's as if your voice refuses to be silenced by the grave; it continues to minister through memory and the written word.
Your words of encouragement were like balm to wounded souls. In a world quick to criticize and condemn, you chose to build up. You had a way of speaking life into dead places. When someone shared a failure, you didn't pile on shame; you pointed to redemption. "The righteous falls seven times and rises again," you'd remind us, then add softly, "and God is right there to lift you the eighth time too." To the single mother juggling work, kids, and ministry, you'd say, "Your labor in the Lord is not in vain. He sees every tear, every late-night prayer." To the young man battling addiction or identity, you'd affirm, "You are not defined by your past mistakes; you are defined by Christ's finished work." Those affirmations weren't empty platitudes—they carried weight because they came from a man who had walked through his own valleys and emerged victorious by grace.
Your ministrations were moments of pure heaven touching earth. Whether in private counseling sessions or corporate altar calls, the anointing upon you was unmistakable. Hands laid, prayers offered, demons fleeing, bodies healed, hearts mended—miracles became ordinary in your presence because you carried the extraordinary presence of God. People would come bound by chains of fear, depression, sickness, or generational curses, and leave free, leaping, praising, testifying. You never took credit; it was always "Jesus, only Jesus." Yet we knew the price you paid in the secret place—the hours of intercession, the tears shed on behalf of others, the obedience that cost comfort. Your ministry wasn't flashy or self-promoting; it was authentic, humble, and eternally fruitful.
Then there were your songs. Oh, Daddy, how those melodies still carry us! You didn't just sing; you worshipped, and in doing so, you invited us into the throne room. Whether leading spontaneous choruses during service or recording tracks that became anthems in many homes, your voice had a unique quality—raw yet refined, tender yet triumphant. Songs of surrender, songs of victory, songs that declared God's faithfulness in the midnight hour. We'd sing along, tears streaming, because the lyrics weren't mere words; they were declarations birthed from your intimate walk with God. Even today, when a particular line comes on the radio or in our personal playlists—"You are Alpha and Omega," or "I will trust in You alone"—our hearts immediately turn heavenward. Those songs have become part of our spiritual DNA, reminding us of your passion for pure, undiluted worship.
Four years on, we see the fruit of your labor multiplying. Lives you touched have gone on to touch others. Ministries birthed under your covering are flourishing. Young men and women you mentored are now pastoring churches, leading worship teams, planting outreaches in unreached areas. Families you counseled are intact and thriving. The seeds you sowed in tears are yielding harvests of joy. We fulfill God's purpose not because we are mighty in ourselves, but because you showed us how to lean wholly on the One who is mighty. You modeled dependence on the Holy Spirit, humility before God, and boldness in proclaiming truth. Because of you, we dare to dream bigger, pray harder, love deeper.
Yet the missing never fades. There are days when the ache feels fresh, as though the wound reopened. Birthdays, anniversaries, church milestones—we long for your presence, your smile, your wise word. We imagine what you'd say about the current state of the world, the church, our personal journeys. Would you laugh at our growth? Gently correct our missteps? Cheer us on with that proud paternal gaze? We miss the late-night calls where you'd check in, the impromptu visits filled with laughter and prayer, the way you'd hug us like we were your own flesh and blood.
In the quiet moments, we find comfort in the promise you so often preached: "Absent from the body, present with the Lord." You are not gone in the ultimate sense; you are simply relocated to the place you longed for most—face to face with Jesus. You finished your race, kept the faith, guarded the deposit entrusted to you. Now you rest in perfect peace, free from pain, weariness, or battle. Your legacy lives vibrantly in us, urging us forward.
We promise to honor you by living fully for the God you loved so fiercely. We will teach what you taught, encourage as you encouraged, minister as you ministered, worship as you worshipped. We will raise the next generation to know the same Jesus you introduced to us. And one day—oh glorious day—we will meet again. No more goodbyes, no more tears, only endless joy in the presence of our Savior.
Until then, sleep on, dear Daddy. Rest in the bosom of the Father who called you home. Your work on earth is done, but its echoes resound eternally. We love you beyond words, miss you with every heartbeat, and thank God every day for the gift of your life among us.
Rest well, faithful servant. We will carry the torch until we see you again.
With all our love, gratitude, and unbroken affection,
Your Familys, sons and daughters in the faith
💔🕊️
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