One Year
One year ago, my dad went to heaven. January 16, 2025. A day that I’ll never forget.
It was another day for me to head to the office, and as I was heading to the office that day, I had a bunch of meetings lined up. Around lunchtime, we had a leadership lunch, then we had a leadership meeting to follow.
I remember going to grab my food; I’ll never forget what I ate. There was some salmon, there was some chicken, there was a makeshift Caesar salad. And as I ate my food, I just felt this interesting feeling rising in my spirit that just for some reason, as soon as we started our leadership meeting following lunch, that I might get a call.
So after I ate lunch, put away my trash, came back and sat down, began to enter in the meeting, and we were no longer than fifteen minutes into the meeting when the text came through: Hey Matthew, can you talk?
I called my cousin, who’s kinda like an uncle to me, and asked what was going on. And they said that overnight, my dad had not woken up. Had not woken up, and that he was not responding. And the hospice kind of felt like it was probably gonna be time.
Just the night before, me, my wife, my children—we were at his house. He was sitting up in his chair, and we were just loving on him, sharing stories. It was actually the first night of a new caregiver. She was so gracious.
That night as we left, I hugged my dad for what would be the final time. My boys had rushed out to the car; my wife and I were driving in separate vehicles. I asked my boys, “Hey, did you get Papa hugged? Tell him bye.” They said, “No, I forgot to.” And I asked them to go back inside, make sure you give Papa a hug, make sure you tell him you love him. They both walked back inside, told him they loved him, gave him a big hug, came back out to the truck, and off we were back home.
When I think about that moment and how they were able to say goodbye one last time—they didn’t know that that would be the last time. And even I didn’t know it was the last time.
Other things I would have said to him. It wasn’t like he didn’t know I loved him. He knew that through and through. It’s just some of the things I might have shared at the end.
We had talked a lot about death. He had been battling cancer for a while. We shared a lot of good moments. He was someone I could call at any moment, and boy did I ever. Oftentimes we’d talk in the morning, we’d talk at lunch, we’d talk in the evening—especially in those last years as he entered into retirement to take care of my mom, as he began to flourish as a grandpa. All these things were pretty awesome for me to see.
Also, I just knew that I wanted him to be in my life more. I wanted to be closer. Even though we didn’t live near each other, it always felt like he was close. ‘Cause anytime I would call, whether I was traveling for work or just in my normal routine, he would answer. Midnight, 3 a.m., 4 a.m. If I was in Singapore, and it was time for him to be in bed, somehow he would answer. He would always be there for me.
We all raced to his home. I was the last one to get there out of my sisters and I. I had to stop and charge on the way, which wasn’t that big of a deal, but like I said, it kinda gave me a chance to call friends, family, loved ones, and just try to process what was ahead. After my charge, I still had about forty-five minutes to drive, and then I got to his home.
Upon arrival, there was a sea of people: loved ones, my mom’s family, my dad’s family, our immediate family. I remember walking into his bedroom, grateful to God that He had given us this moment. Just sad that we are walking through this.
I stepped out. As they stepped out, I knelt over his bed, gave him a big hug, kissed him on his forehead. And I asked if he would want to worship together one last time.
So as I knelt by his bed one last time, he and I worshipped. I played “The Lamb’s Book of Life” by Passion. I think he had heard it, but even if he didn’t, I knew in his heart he would know it. And then and there, before God, together one last time, my dad—we worshipped.
Around seven o’clock, it felt like something was shifting in the room. It’s hard to put it into words, but new things were changing. Maybe things looked different.
What looked different is things were changing. His breathing had slowed. It was almost time. We could all feel it. We all gathered in his room around his bed to just worship and tell him that we loved him.
I leaned over to adjust his pillow to get him situated just the way he liked it. As I lifted up his shoulders, I whispered into his ear, let him know that it was me, and I was just getting him comfortable. As I pulled away, I noticed one sly smile out the corner of his mouth and one single tear flowing down his eye.
I told the room. He had been dry all day—no water, no nourishment. Just in those last hours, things were slipping away. But there, a single tear. A single smile.
And with that, he entered eternity. At 7:07, my dad’s faith was made sight.
I couldn’t believe it. Felt like it happened all so quick, all so soon. But there, his suffering ended. A bittersweet ending to the day.
And ultimately, until next time—I’m so grateful for all the memories that I have with my dad, the impression he left upon me and my children, our entire family. He truly was my best friend and my hero, and I can’t wait to be together again one day soon.
Love you forever, Dad.
— Matthew