All of this reflection sparked by a book has me wishing, desperately, that my dad was still here. I miss him so much—especially in moments like this, when I feel so moved by his books. He loved them. I know where he stood on them, what he believed. But when he was alive, I just…I refused.
I was stubborn, as so many of us are, and set in this idea that I knew everything. You know how it is, especially when it comes to our parents and that familiar rebellion against our upbringings. For some reason, we think their wisdom doesn’t apply to us—that their life experience, their books, their stories, couldn’t possibly have the answers to what we’re facing.
Man, what a gift I had in my dad. I loved him dearly. He was my hero, and he knew that—I told him often. But looking back, I realize I never truly partook of his wisdom. Not when I had the chance.
And now, as I sit here with his library, I see it: That was the most heroic thing about him. His wisdom. His willingness to guide, to share, to shape—without ever forcing it. He let me come to it in my own time.
In fact, my dad—a devout teacher of the gospel and man of God—rather than judging my rebellion against dogma, used to quote a particular verse to me often. It rings loudly in my head and my heart today:
Therefore, my beloved, as you have always obeyed, so now, not only as in my presence but much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling. (Philippians 2:12)
In quoting this to me, especially in the context of not judging my rebellion against dogma, my father reflected his wisdom and understanding of grace. He recognized that faith is deeply personal and cannot be forced—it must come from within. That is unconditional love.
That kind of patience and love takes a strength I strive for and pray daily to embody. And this moment gives me at least the opportunity to embody it for myself, as I sit with the realization that, in its way, this verse feels much like a personal message from my earthly father, now in spirit: “Not only as much in my presence but much more in my absence.”
What a “spirit message!”
This reflection has been weighing even heavier on me today because my father-in-law is currently in emergency surgery. He’s having stents placed in his arteries, and while doctors assure us that heart surgery is as common as filling a cavity these days, it doesn’t feel that simple when it’s your family. You feel the fragility of it all, the weight of how easily life can shift.
It’s in these moments that I miss my dad even more. It’s because of this moment that I feel the need to share this with you: Don’t waste the time you’re given with your family—especially your parents, if you have even semi-healthy relationships with them. Time hasn’t run out until they’re gone. And then? Well, I’m one of countless millions who can tell you: that is one of the worst feelings in the world.
Encouragement for Those Grieving
Reflecting on all of this, I realize that my dad’s wisdom still influences me. It lives in the books he left behind, in the questions those books stir, and in the memories of the conversations we did have.
For those of you who feel the ache of not taking full advantage of the wisdom your loved ones had to offer, let me tell you this: it’s okay. It’s part of being human—especially when we’re younger—to think we know better, to push back, and to fail to see the gifts right in front of us.
But here’s the beauty: their wisdom doesn’t vanish. It lingers. It waits. If you can reflect, if you can seek, if you can grow, then you are partaking in it. Whether it’s through their books, their lessons, or simply the way their memory shapes you, you’re still connected.
That connection is a legacy. It transcends time and space. And while it may feel bittersweet, it’s also something to celebrate.
If you’re carrying the weight of what you didn’t share with someone you’ve lost, let yourself feel it. But don’t stop there. Celebrate the ways they still inspire and guide you. Find their presence in the quiet moments, in the habits they passed down, in the lessons you didn’t even realize they were teaching.
Turn your pain into reflection and wisdom. Turn it into something meaningful that can touch others. That’s no small thing. Never doubt the power of transmuting your pain to become a tool to help not only yourself, but someone else.
And most importantly, honor their wisdom by sharing it, living it, and embodying it. Because it counts, and that’s what I’m learning to do now.
So take the time. Pick up their books, revisit their lessons, reflect on their words. If your loved ones are still here, don’t wait to let them know how much you value them. Ask questions, listen, and cherish the moments you have.
Because it’s never too late to learn from a hero.
The Twin Tree Project 