Remembering Love That Lives On

April 23

Today is a sacred day for me.

One year ago today, on April 23, my father, William Heath Henry, died. I did not begin that day knowing it would end in farewell. But early that morning, I received the call that he had been rushed to the hospital. What followed were conversations with doctors, decisions to be made, and the slow realization that the time had come.

I remember that day vividly.

And yet, even more than that day, I remember my father.

In many Christian traditions, when we remember the saints, we do not mark their birthdays as much as we mark the day of their death—the day they passed from this life. It is a way of honoring a life fully lived, a life given. Other traditions hold similar rhythms. Our Jewish sisters and brothers, for example, light a candle on the anniversary of a loved one’s passing.

So today, I have lit a candle.

It rests in a blue holder—chosen intentionally because my father had very blue eyes. As I look at the flame, I remember the light of his life and how it shone into mine.

My father was not a man of many words. But when he spoke, his words mattered. They carried weight. They carried wisdom. Over the course of my life—especially in the last ten or twenty years—his voice was one that steadied me, encouraged me, and helped carry me forward.

He was always interested in who I was becoming.

In the months leading up to his death, we spoke often. Linda and I were preparing to move to a new pastoral appointment, and he would ask thoughtful questions:
How were things ending where I was?
What did I know about where I was going?
How did I imagine leading there?

He listened. And when he offered insight, it was always given with care.

Today, I also sit near flowers—flowers that were placed in memory of my father in worship this past Sunday. I brought them home. Their colors are vibrant. Some of the buds are still opening. There is life in them still.

They remind me of him.

They remind me of the way he lived—quietly, faithfully, attentively. He worked hard. He made time. He showed up. He cared deeply for his family. He was willing to sacrifice. He was present in the moments that mattered.

He lived a full life—ninety-six years.

And near the end, one of the greatest gifts he gave me was the peace with which he faced death.

We had the opportunity to speak about it more than once. There were moments when it seemed he was near death, then he recovered, then declined again. In those conversations, he spoke of a kind of peace. He felt he had lived his life. He felt he and God were on good terms.

There was no fear—only a quiet readiness.

I hope, when my time comes—whenever that may be—that I will carry that same peace.

So today, I remember him.

I light a candle.
I sit with flowers.
I speak to him aloud.

Sometimes it is simple:
“Daddy, I miss you.”
“Daddy, I love you.”
“Thank you for helping me become who I am.”

What might it look like for you to remember those you love?

Perhaps you light a candle.
Perhaps you keep flowers nearby.
Perhaps you hold an object that reminds you of them.
Perhaps you walk somewhere they loved.
Perhaps you speak their name out loud.

Grief does not need to be avoided.

Grief can be entered—intentionally, gently—as a way of honoring love.

As I sit here, I notice what I miss.

I miss his strong hugs.
I miss hearing him say, “James, I’m proud of you.”
I miss our conversations—about technology, about the world, about the changes we saw unfolding around us.
I miss his careful way of living, his attentiveness, his presence.

And in that missing, I recognize something deeper.

Grief is love.

Grief is love as it lives into the absence of the one we cherish.
Grief is love continuing, even when the form of that relationship has changed.

We carry those who have shaped us. Their lives are woven into ours. Their voices echo in our decisions, our values, our ways of being in the world.

I am, in part, my father’s legacy.

And so today, I remember William Heath Henry.

I honor his life.
I give thanks for his love.
And I continue to carry him with me.

If you are grieving today, I invite you—gently—to remember.

Not to force anything. Not to rush anything. But to allow space for memory, for love, for whatever rises.

And in the midst of that, remember this:

You are infinitely precious.
You are unconditionally loved for the gift you already are.

Just as my father was.
Just as you are.
Just as we all are.