When I was on my way to the hospital after having started contractions with my first child, I was so excited. We had made the 40-minute drive from our house to the hospital with my bag in hand only to be told I wasn’t far enough along for them to admit me. I had zero desire to spend another 40 minutes in the car only to turn back around and do it all over again. They had given me the option to instead, walk around the hospital for 45 minutes, lay down for 45 minutes and then walk for another 45. That seemed like the better option as I would at least still be at the hospital.

Fortunately, that got things moving and I was admitted. Once I got settled in the room and was hooked up to all the monitors, my parents joined my husband and I in the room. There were a few chairs down at the foot of the bed that my parents sat in as we settled in for the next few hours of labor. At one point, my dad got up and walked into the bathroom and emerged a few seconds later with some wet paper towels. He walked to the foot of my bed and began to quietly wipe the bottom of my feet.

What I hadn’t said earlier was that I hadn’t been prepared to do all the walking and didn’t bring socks, which left me to do an hour and a half worth of walking barefoot up and down the halls of the hospital. Being large and pregnant, I couldn’t see my feet and how dirty they were. But my dad, without being prompted or mentioning a word, quietly wiped down the feet of his baby girl.

That is the kind of man my dad was. That was the kind of father he was. It’s been one month exactly since I held his hand as he passed from this life to the next. The pain of watching him draw his last breath was something I had hope to never experience, but something I wouldn’t have wanted to miss. The last words we spoke to each other were when I bent down to kiss him on the cheek the night before to say goodnight. He whispered in my ear, “You know how much I love you right?” I didn’t have to think about how to answer that question. “Yes. You know how much I love you right?” was my question back to him.

The last words we exchanged felt like a beautiful summary of the 36 years I got with him. Because the truth is, he constantly reaffirmed his love for me. There was not a day that I ever doubted how much my daddy loved me. The story above is just one small example of his love. Whether he said the words out loud or showed me with actions, I knew he loved me. From being exhausted and still doing Indian princess with me, to showing up at every single volleyball game no matter where they were, to crying and refusing to leave when I moved 45 minutes away, to saying “her mother and her” when asked who gives this woman at my wedding rehearsal, to wiping my feet when I was in labor, to constantly watching all 3 of my children so I could go play with my mom and the list could go on and on.

The night before my dad’s last doctor appointment, I had felt God prompting me to look up what my dad’s name meant. His first name means, “crowned” while his middle name means, “humility”. When God says “Before I formed you in your mother’s womb; I knew you”…I imagine this is what He meant. I picture God whispering his name in my grandmother’s ears while my dad was in the womb as he was a certainly a man crowned with humility. He honored God, cherished his wife, led his children, and enjoyed his grandchildren. By no means was he perfect, but as a friend referred to her dad after his passing, “he was perfect for me”.