I was up at 4:30 in the morning.

I do not know why. I do not remember planning it. But that morning, I got up early and ate breakfast with my dad before he left for work.

I had never done that before.

I did not know it then, but God gave me one more morning with my father. And something in me knew to get up and take it.

That is something I still think about all these years later. One more morning. One more breakfast. One more moment, I did not even know I would need for the rest of my life.

It was 10:32 am Tuesday, November 8, 1983. I was twelve years old.

I was sitting in the study hall when the principal came to get me and told me I had a doctor’s appointment.

Something felt wrong immediately.

I always knew when I had an appointment. That was not something that usually came as a surprise in the middle of a school day. And my dad always took me to the doctor after he got off work. Not during his work hours. Not like this.

But when the principal told me, something came over me that I still cannot fully explain. Before anyone said the words, before I got in the car, before I saw the cars lined up on our road, something inside me knew.

My dad was gone.

I did not want it to be true. I did not have proof. Nobody had told me yet. But I knew. And that scared me in a way I did not understand at twelve years old.

But I went.

My mom’s best friend picked me up. I got in the car and asked her why my dad was not taking me to my appointment. I do not remember her answering me. If she did, I do not remember what she said.

What I remember is the silence.

I already had that awful feeling inside me, but the silence made it worse. I asked her if my dad was okay.

That was a long ride home.

The Ride Home

When we turned down our road, I saw cars lining both sides of the street.

I recognized them immediately. My uncle’s car. My brother’s car. My mom’s friends. Car after car after car of people I knew.

But I did not see my dad’s car.

There was a spot in the driveway for us to park. I got out and headed for the front door. I do not remember who was holding it open for me.

What I remember is looking through that door and seeing my mom sitting in the living room. She was upset. Broken. Tears in her eyes. I had never seen her look like that before.

She had not said a word yet.

But I already knew.

It hit me like a ton of bricks before she ever opened her mouth. My dad was gone.

I started tearing up as I stepped through that door. Then she told me, and I lost it. I lost it badly. I went straight to my room crying.

That is some of the most devastating news a twelve-year-old boy can receive. His father is gone.

I cried for hours. I hyperventilated more than once. My brother and my mom came into my room to try to console me. They talked to me. They sat with me.

But nothing was fixing it. Nothing was going to fix it.

I just wanted him back.

The Funeral

The next few days were a blur of grief and people.

The funeral was hard. So hard. And the people who came, I could not believe how many there were.

For two or three days, I stood there at twelve years old, meeting people I had never seen in my life. Strangers walked up to me and told me how sorry they were. Some stopped and told me little stories about my dad and what kind of man he was.

I already knew who my dad was.

But hearing it from all those people, watching them pour in one after another, confirmed what I had always felt.

My dad was somebody.

Not because he was famous. Not because he had money. Not because the world would write his name in history books.

He was somebody because of the life he lived. He mattered to people. He worked hard. He helped people. He showed up. He left a mark on more lives than I understood at twelve years old.

I lost my father that day.

But I also saw just how much of a man he had been.

I Could Not Walk Through That Door

After that, we went to Arkansas to be with family and friends there.

That was even harder, because the finalization was coming. The cemetery was waiting. And I could not sleep at night.

I remember giving my mom a hard time one night. She wanted me to go to bed and get some rest. I refused. She pushed. I refused again.

It got to the point where she spanked me out of frustration and asked why I would not just go to bed.

I told her, “Because my dad used to sleep in that room.”

We were staying at my grandmother’s house, and I was not about to walk through the door of the room my dad used to stay in. I do not fully know why. I just knew I could not do it.

I was willing to take whatever came at me before I walked through that door.

I ended up sleeping in an extra bed in my grandmother’s room. That is where I felt safe.

The Years After

The next two or three years after November 8, 1983, were some of the hardest of my life.

I felt alone. I was angry. I was depressed.

My grades sank, and I did not care. I did not care about much of anything. All I could think about was my dad and wanting him back.

They sent me to counseling. It did not help. At least not for me.

People from the church came to visit. Some took me out to lunch. Some spent time with me. Other men tried to step in and mentor me.

I was not having any of it.

Not because those people were bad. Not because they did not care. Not because they were not trying.

But because none of them was him.

A twelve-year-old boy who just lost his father does not want a substitute. He wants his dad.

And my dad was not coming back.

I had a very hard time accepting that, and my life went downhill for a long time because of it.

When Grief Went Somewhere It Shouldn’t

The grief had to go somewhere.

One day, it went somewhere it should not have.

There was a place down the road, a shop that had worked on my dad’s car once. They claimed they fixed it. They did not. I remembered how mad that made him. I remembered how upset he was with them.

And one day, out of anger, depression, and grief I could not contain anymore, I went to that place and tore it up.

Vandalism. A lot of it.

At the time, I thought I was doing it for Dad. A little payback for doing him wrong. I thought I was standing up for him because he could not stand up for himself anymore.

But that is what grief can do when it has nowhere to go. It can convince you that destruction is loyalty. It can make pain feel like purpose. It can make a hurting boy do things that only create more hurt.

It cost my mom a lot of money. My brother thought he was going to kill me that day. I had to go to court. I had to pay for damages. I had to walk a very thin line for a long time.

But at the time, I did not care.

That was just the first downturn in my life without my father.

I Still Carry It

I still carry that pain today at 55 years old.

I just deal with it differently now. But it has never fully left.

So many times through the years, I have wanted my dad. I have needed his advice. I have wanted to ask him questions. I have wanted him to just be there.

For the big moments. For the small ones. For the days when life got hard and I did not know which way to turn.

I wanted him to see my children: Cameron, Brittany, Brandon, Courtney, and McKenzie. I wanted him to hold my grandchildren. I wanted him to know the man I became, even with all the mistakes, scars, and lessons along the way.

But more than almost anything, I wanted him to meet Annita.

My dad would have loved her. I know it without a doubt.

Annita is the kind of woman who walks into a room and makes people feel seen. Humble to her core. Never seeking the spotlight, but lighting up everything around her.

Her faith is not something she only talks about. It is something she lives. In the kitchen. In the quiet moments. On her knees in prayer when nobody is watching.

She is one of the greatest gifts God ever gave me.

He would have seen it immediately. The same way I see it every single day.

Dad, you would have loved her.

And I think about you more than people know. Because you were 55 when I lost you. I just turned 55. I know exactly how old you were now. And that sits with me in a way I do not have words for.

It is part of why I take care of my heart when you did not take care of yours. I want to stay. For them. The way you could not stay for me.

That never stops hurting either.

It just changes shape.

God Was There

Here is what I know now that I could not see at twelve years old, sitting in that room crying, hyperventilating, and wanting my father back.

God was there.

I could not feel Him. I was not looking for Him. I was too deep in the grief to see anything past it.

But he was there in that house on November 8, 1983. He was there when the principal came to get me from the study hall. He was there in that strange feeling I could not explain. He was there on that long ride home. He was there when I walked through that door and saw my mom’s face. He was there in Arkansas when I refused to sleep in the room my dad used to sleep in. He was there through every downturn that followed.

He never left, even when I had no idea He was staying.

“Even when I walk through the darkest valley, I will not be afraid, for you are close beside me.”
— Psalm 23:4 NLT

I walked through the darkest valley of my life at twelve years old.

I did not walk through it alone.

I just did not know it yet.

Grief Did Not Get the Final Word

Grief changed me. Losing my father changed me.

But it did not get the final word over me.

For a long time, I thought that day had taken something from me. And it did. It took more than a twelve-year-old boy should ever have to lose.

But looking back now, I can also see that God was still writing, even in the parts of my story I would have never chosen.

That does not mean the pain disappeared. It does not mean I stopped missing my dad. It does not mean I understand everything God allowed.

It means I can finally look back and see that even in the worst moment of my young life, I was not abandoned.

My father was gone.

But my Heavenly Father was still there.

And He has been there ever since.

I have written before about how God keeps putting broken people back together, even when they do not understand what He is doing. That has been true in my life more times than I can count.

A Prayer for the One Who Knows This Pain

Lord, some people reading this know exactly what it feels like to lose a parent too soon.

They know what it feels like to be young and have the bottom fall out of life. They know what it feels like to look for a car that is not there, to walk through a door and know something is wrong before anyone says a word, and to carry a pain that follows them for years.

For the one who still misses their father or mother, remind them that grief is not weakness.

For the angry one, meet them with mercy.

For the one who feels alone, remind them that You are near.

For the one who cannot understand why it happened, give them the strength to keep walking even without all the answers.

And for the one who feels like loss has shaped too much of their life, remind them that You are still writing their story.

You were there then. You are here now. And you will not leave.

Amen.