The worlds I’m building have helped me through my grief. Bears that are empathetic. Squirrels that are bullies. Porcupines that are musically talented. All imagined from a place of healing. All born from the question: “What if?” I chose not to dismiss the silliness. I embraced it.
Because every time I’d come to my dad with an idea — no matter how strange, how impossible — he would look me in the eye and ask, “Why not?” And I’d sit there with no answer. No excuse. No reason to say no.
Then he’d say it, like he always did: “God can use anyone — and everything you do matters.” So I kept the ideas. I didn’t throw them away.
And when he passed, I poured them out in the only way I knew how — through the words, the stories, the worlds I built quietly in the background. But the grief wasn’t simple. It came with guilt. Because there’s foundation work to do. And I haven’t done it in the way I imagined — not yet.
I know the people who loved my father are watching, waiting, needing to see the next step. But how do you take the next step when registering his name means accepting he’s no longer here? My father was a genius. Not just to me — to anyone who paid attention.
He could see connections long before others noticed them. He spotted patterns no one else saw. He made predictions that are now unfolding before my eyes. And here’s what else made him different: He never believed things just because he was told to. He didn’t fall for appearances. He observed, he waited, he saw beyond the surface — and then he acted.
He was a missionary to the world. But to us, his children, he was steady. Strong. Unmoved by worldly things. He believed in the quiet kind of power. The kind that doesn’t chase the spotlight but still shifts the atmosphere. He believed in mine. He reminded me that my thoughts carried weight, that my words mattered — Which is why he always said: “My child, write it down.”
So I am. Every emotion. Every idea. Every moment that might be used to light someone else’s path — I’m writing it down. I didn’t realize how far I’d come. Even when I began giving out care packages, I didn’t see their size or scale. But when I told him, he smiled.
“Praise God,” he said. “His hand is all over this. Keep going.” And I have.
The world lost a brilliant medical missionary. But me? I lost my daddy. And now, I choose to step up for him. To keep writing. To keep building. To keep carrying what he placed in my hands.
Because when a genius tells you your words matter — You believe him.
