When my dad passed away, I didn’t want to hear about how journaling could help me grieve. I didn’t want to be told to write, to pray, or to sit still with my feelings.
I didn’t want to know anything about healing—
Not for a body that felt too broken to bend, And not for a mind weighed down by the silence he left behind.
What I wanted was peace.
What I needed was rest.
But grief doesn’t hand you either.
And to be honest, I was angry.
Angry at God.
Angry at people who speak of compassion but live without it. Angry that my father—a man of deep faith who gave away everything he had because he believed God would take care of him—didn’t seem to be taken care of at all.
If you knew him, you’d know:
• He gave his last coat to someone else on the coldest day.
• He shared his food even when there wasn’t enough.
• He welcomed strangers to our table and prayed for them like they were family.
And yet I stood in my grief asking, “God, why didn’t You take care of him?”
In the quiet of that season, something shifted.
God had placed this in my hands.
Why hadn’t I seen it before?
It was suddenly so clear.
I fight for others.
I speak when others fall silent.
And I don’t run from responsibility—I rise toward it.
But still, I didn’t feel ready.
I wasn’t doing what he did.
His legacy felt too big, too selfless, too sacred.
And I had a list of reasons why I couldn’t do it his way.
But that was never the calling.
I wasn’t meant to do it his way.
I was meant to do it mine—the way I was built to.
All I had were a few care packages.
That didn’t feel like a ministry.
I ran out of Bibles too quickly, and it didn’t feel like enough.
But slowly, I came to see: this was my inheritance.
Not measured in wealth, but in service.
Not in applause, but in obedience.
I wasn’t being asked to become him.
I was being asked to carry something forward—
To write, to serve, to build, to speak—in my way.
I didn’t expect the stories to pour out the way they have.
I didn’t expect the words to feel like medicine—not just for others, but for me too.
But now I write.
I write because grief reshaped me.
I write because silence can be heavy, and words can carry others.
I write to heal. To teach. To reach. To serve.
And though I once felt unqualified to continue his work, I now know the truth:
Legacy isn’t about perfection—it’s about willingness.
So I’m writing.
Not because it’s easy.
But because when God called my father by name—he answered.
And now, it’s my turn.
