Dear Dad,

I have so much I want to say. So much is going through my mind. Did I do enough? Did you know how much I truly loved you and wanted to be by your side every chance I could get? I hope you always knew that you were loved more than anything. I still love you. That will never change. I will love you for eternity.

That’s why I tried so hard. I tried to protect you from the evil that lurks in this world. There’s so much evil, Dad. I never wanted to fuss at you. Ever! I hope you did not feel like I was fussing. It’s like I explained over the last few months. When I am afraid, I sound frustrated.

I wasn’t ever angry. You always said, “I know you better than anyone. I know how you are.” We always joked about who was the most stubborn: you or me. The fear in my voice told you that I wasn’t angry. I was scared. I was afraid for you, for me, and for my kids. I saw what was happening. Maybe you did as well, but sometimes we are tricked into believing things are different from what they appear.

I can’t dwell on it now. I fought for you to the very end. I walked through things I never imagined I would have to and was braver than I ever thought I could be. I am still being brave for you.

The same day I found you lying helpless in your chair, with every ounce of life gone from your body, I had sat in church that morning making a plan to get you away from the mess that surrounded you. I knew you deserved to be away from the people who had found and invaded your quiet sanctuary on the hill. It broke my heart to see you being taken advantage of in your weakness. I missed the privacy of your life and your home—my home. I wanted to protect the peace that had once existed, but I soon learned it was too late.

Heather and I were not the only ones who roamed those fields and ran in and out of that old white farmhouse. Jamie grew to love that place long before you bought the property from his parents. He sat on that old porch swing years before I ever did. Neither of us could have imagined that just over ten years after you bought the farm, Jamie and I would fall in love, get married, and one day dream of restoring that old farmhouse together.

We always believed we would bring it back to life, preserving the history and memories that filled every room. But in the months leading up to your death, the place no longer felt like home. It felt unfamiliar, almost unrecognizable. Little by little, Jamie and I were shut out—not by you, but by the people who had inserted themselves into your life. They didn’t protect you or care for your well-being. Instead, they took advantage of your kindness, your declining health, and your inability to stop them.

We can call them squatters, moochers, or even thieves. None of those words fully capture what they took from you. They didn’t just take your belongings. They stole your peace, your privacy, and the dignity you deserved in the final chapter of your life.

That’s why you were on my mind as I sat in church Easter Sunday. While others celebrated Jesus’ resurrection, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. As I prayed, I made up my mind that I could not leave you to suffer one more second. I prayed for you and for others trapped in similar circumstances. 

My plan was simple. I was going to ask my preacher to come with me to visit you. I wanted us to pray with you, and I was going to make sure your doctor came as well. I was determined to help you reclaim the peace and dignity you deserved.

The doctor came that very day.

But not in the way I had imagined.

He pronounced you dead only minutes after his arrival. 

By the time we reached you, my plans to save you transformed into a devastating goodbye.

I was too late.

The people who had taken advantage of you still surrounded me, breathing the same air you had breathed only hours before. You left your house that day, but not the way I had prayed you would. Instead of walking out with the chance to heal, you were carried out in a body bag.

Your opportunity to receive help was gone.

A few days later, Heather and I hung a sunflower from your casket on the gate at the entrance to your farm. We both knew how much you loved planting sunflowers. It seemed only fitting that one hang there. That sunflower is a reminder to everyone who passes by that this was your home, your sanctuary, and the place where your roots ran deep. I hope they recognize that your life was defined not by the way it ended, but by the love you poured into this land and the people fortunate enough to call you Dad, Papaw, brother, uncle, and friend.

You and I both know I had tried for months to remove these strangers from your property. They were ruthless. Addiction often is. It had consumed them, convincing them to care only about their next high while stripping away compassion, reason, and any sense of responsibility. They preyed on a kindhearted man living on disability, taking advantage of your generosity and your declining health.

They did not care that you lay there for hours after you died while they hid and buried your valuables. One by one, they carried the things they wanted out of your white farmhouse on the hill. Every item they took had been earned through more than forty years of hard work. You spent your life providing through honest labor. You never took advantage of anyone. Ever.

I cannot dwell on those moments for too long. If I do, they pull me into a place of anger and darkness that I cannot afford to live in. Instead, I have to keep my eyes fixed on the Lord. I have to remind myself that I did everything I could with the strength and wisdom He gave me. The outcome was never mine to control.

So I pray—not only for peace in my own heart, but also for the people who left you there. You didn’t really know them, but God does. He knows every wound that led them to addiction, every choice they made, and every opportunity they still have to repent and change. I refuse to let what they did harden my heart. Justice belongs to God, and so does mercy.

Over the years, I hope you saw how much I wanted to see you healed. I pray you saw that I only encouraged you to make certain decisions because I hurt to the deepest part of my inner being watching you suffer. I do not blame you for my hurt. God created me this way. He created a persistent girl who never gives up on those I love.

My hope was for you to find peace on this earth. Since I feel that probably did not happen in the latter part of your adult life, I find peace in the fact that you got to see Jesus’s face on Easter Sunday. Not everyone gets to do that!

I turn my focus to how, a few years ago when you were in the hospital, and I asked if you were saved, you said you were. I have to trust that you understood. Many years ago, Grandma Yvonne told me stories of how you loved to quote Bible verses. Sometimes strongholds take over at certain times in our lives, and we do not fully live out the Lord’s best laid out plans. The Lord’s blessings are like none other, but certain choices in life have horrible consequences attached to them. 💔

Regardless of all of the poor choices that cannot be taken back, I am determined to focus on the good times. Simple acts of bringing you food or making a million phone calls to get your disability and insurance set up were worth it. The littlest things meant so much because it meant I got to spend time with you, or I was able to hear your voice. Hearing your voice helped me know you were still here! It made me recognize that hope still existed.

On April 9th, 2023, that hope of an earthly healing abruptly came to a close. The last year or so, I begged you time and time again to go to the doctor or hospital. However, every time you refused, I respected your decision even though it broke me completely in two. Only a few days before your death, you finally agreed to allow me to make you an appointment, but that day didn’t come soon enough.

It is going to be okay though. It really is. Over the last week, I have been reminded of all of the good times we had before things got really difficult for you. I will cherish all of those memories as long as I live.

I will always remember how you took me to the beach and taught me how to swim. You taught me not only to swim in the pool but also in the ocean. Going out into those waves past the point of where I could touch the bottom took a lot of trust. I trusted you to be there if I needed you. I still need you. Every minute of every day.

I will never forget you showing me how to fish and the time you took me out on the little boat on your friend’s pond. You were the first person to fry up a big mess of fish for me. My boys and girls love to fish just like you. About a year ago, Jacob called you for advice when he fried up his own mess of fish Jayce had caught. He brought you some, too.

Just a few days ago, Jayce’s face lit up when he got to check his minnow trap at your ponds. He had been wanting to check it for several months, but unfortunately, those who didn’t really care about you or us had taken over his little fishing hole.

He is glad to finally have that fishing hole back, but he wishes you could be there with him. He loved you just like all of the rest of your grandkids. They have all been talking about memories they had with you. Alayla has talked about how special she felt when you told her she was one of the prettiest little girls you had ever seen. Carrying in the wood for your woodstove brought her joy. She smiled from ear to ear when she remembered your words. They have all smiled, but they have also cried. Grief is complicated.

I can almost taste your deer roast you cooked on that old wood stove every Sunday morning. And nothing was better than sitting on the steps chewing on freshly cooked tenderloin. I told someone not long ago about how you loved to cook for us. You were an avid outdoorsman who made sure we never lacked for food.

Your ripe garden watermelons were a big highlight in the fall. Jayla always bragged about you giving us watermelon each year. You also gave us pumpkins, peppers, corn, and so much more. The list is endless.

When Jaden sprinkled salt on her watermelon just a couple of days ago at that quaint little resturant in Disney World, it took me back to you and me adding just a pinch of salt to each bite while watching television together at that 70s yellow-colored bar on those baby blue stools. Every time I see a hot pepper, I think about how you told me to eat the ones you canned. If I listen closely enough, I still hear you say, “If you don’t want to be sick, eat you some of those hot peppers.” I should probably listen.

The camping trips we took year after year were the best. I will definitely never forget the time you took Heather and me up on the mountain to your hunting cabin and a chipmunk chased her out of the outhouse with her pants around her ankles. How could I forget that? We laughed so hard as she squealed and almost fell face first.

The hiking trips through the woods and visiting “Wayne’s World” made life worth living. You truly knew how to live off the grid. You were so smart.

I’ll never forget the day you brought home my first horse and then a few years later when Heather left for college, you got me a Mountain Feist puppy named Belle. Jaden loves horses now all because you let me fall in love with that jet black Quarter horse all those years ago. She now has one who looks just like Midnight. She calls her Dakota. She also has several more in various colors as does her brothers and sisters.

Don’t worry about not being able to get Jaden that truck to pull her horse trailer like you wanted to. She wants to fix up your old truck, and it suits her just fine. She smiles when she talks about it. It brings comfort knowing you were thinking about her to the very end. You are helping her chase her dreams.

I wrote a book about Midnight, probably 13 years ago. The story also includes you, but the ending I penned has proven to be very different from reality. That’s how life goes sometimes. The beginning and middle are the parts that I plan to dwell on. Those are the parts I want ingrained in my mind forever. Too often, circumstances come about that remind us that we are not in control of other’s choices no matter how much we feel we need to be.

Your love for animals has absolutely been one of the biggest traits the kids and I got from you. When Jaden rescued a baby opossum, I could not wait to tell you. She even snuck it to church in her purse. You probably remember me telling you all about it. Her little Bonnie made me think of the tiny guy who hid in the pocket of your bibs. Let’s also not forget about the time the dog carried a not so small opossum in the house. You just smiled and watched it play dead. It wasn’t so funny when it woke up and caused quite a bit of chaos.

Over the years, you cared for far more than opossums. There were skunks, rabbits, owls, snakes, turtles, farm animals, and countless other creatures whose lives crossed your path. I am sure there were many more over your lifetime that I didn’t even knew about. To you, every living thing was worthy of care.

James begs me to teach him how to rehabilitate wildlife. Lessons we learn as children rarely end with us. They quietly find their way into the next generation.

All of your grandkids bring me every kind of creature imaginable, expecting that together we can learn more about it. Those moments always take me back to my own childhood, when I was the one bringing animals to you. Just as you patiently taught me, I now teach them.

I fear my love for Dobermans actually rubbed off on you. Tyson, Axel, and Thunder were all very special to you as was my Rambo and Toby. I am certain you named Rambo after the nickname all the boys in my 4th grade class had given me. Maybe a little meanness lurked in the background that year.

Ten years later, you helped me build my first house. Just before construction began, you walked me down the aisle on my wedding day on that same riverbank where so many of our memories had been made.

A few years later, an enormous smile came across your face the first time you held your first grandson, Jacob, in your arms. He’s all grown up now, and not long ago, he caught his first shark. The minute he reeled it in, I was instantly transported back to my childhood, standing beside you on the shores of Myrtle Beach as you caught a shark of your own. Time stood still for a moment.

I know you would have loved every minute of that adventure with him. I can almost picture you standing beside him, offering advice, celebrating each catch, and smiling with the same quiet pride you always showed me. Although you weren’t there in person, a part of you was. The love you had for the outdoors and the joy you found in sharing those moments with others continue to live on through your grandchildren, just as they first lived on through me.

Jacob is so much like you—not only in the way he looks, but in his passion for searching for relics. Every time I watch him walking through a field with his eyes fixed on the ground, hoping to uncover a piece of history, I catch glimpses of you.

He also treasures the Camaro you gave him. You promised him that car when he was just a little boy, and true to your word, you made sure that promise was fulfilled. That was the kind of man you were. Your word meant something. I know he thinks of you every time he slides behind the wheel and turns the key.

I can’t help but think about all the times I wrecked when I was around his age. The first wreck I ever had, you were laying block at a house in Applewood and before you even heard the news, you already knew what had happened. Daddies just have a way of knowing.

Thanks for coming to the ER a few wrecks later when I needed stitches across my forehead. As the nurses scraped out the glass, you held my hand and told me, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger and reminds you that you are still alive.”

A few years later, you rubbed my feet during all those hospital stays, especially after Jaden was born when I was so desperately sick. You always found a way to comfort me, even when there wasn’t much anyone else could do.

I am so thankful that, just a few weeks before you died, I was able to return that same act of love. On Jayla’s birthday, I rubbed your feet as you had once rubbed mine. I could tell you were in an immense amount of pain that day, and I wanted, if only for a little while, to ease some of your suffering.

When I told Jayla I was going over to check on you, she begged to come with me. That was her birthday wish. I am so grateful she came, even though what she witnessed broke her heart. Like me, she has a tender heart and cannot stand to see someone being taken advantage of. She recognized the situation for exactly what it was. She possesses a wisdom far beyond her years.

As I sit and ponder what might have been, allow the vacations, RC cars, holidays, and trips to Dollywood come rushing back to me. When I think of my childhood, I remember your smile. You smiled so much back then, and I will never forget the way that smile lit up your face. Your smile made me smile. You were one of the humblest, kindest men I have ever known.

I am so sorry that, over the last twenty years or so, I watched that smile slowly fade with each tip of the bottle.

Addiction is a thief, and alcoholism is no exception. Because alcohol is legal, many people underestimate the destruction causes. What begins as something a person believes they can control slowly becomes the very thing that controls them. Alcohol steals time, health, relationships, and pieces of a person’s identity until they scarcely resemble the person they once were.

It isolates people from the family and friends who love them most. It clouds judgment, weakens discernment, and leaves people vulnerable to those who seek to exploit them. I watched that happen to you, and just like Jayla, it broke my heart. Beneath the addiction, I never stopped seeing the man who taught me to love the outdoors, care for animals, keep my word, and love my family. That man was still there, even when the alcohol tried its hardest to hide him.

I still recognized you even in the most difficult days, but I also longed for my original daddy, too. The one who labored every day to provide for his family. The one who went fishing and hunting and came to sporting events to support us. The one who competed in archery tournaments or skinned that big buck in the building out back. The one who whittled chains out of wood. You even whittled my name. I always sat beside you and whittled little boats. You were such a hard worker and lover of life for many years. You were not a deadbeat dad who did not care about his children. You showed your love for us in so many ways over the years. You continue to show your love for us even after your death. Thank you!

It’s all going to be okay. It really will. I understand why alcohol got a hold on you. You let life’s disappointments get the best of you. When we don’t focus on the goodness of the Lord, that can happen quickly. Despite the struggles you had, I will always want more time. More time to tell you I love you. More time to hear you say it back. More time to check on you. More time to open your door and yell, “Hey, Dad!” and you yell back, “Come on in.”

I am thankful I found the strength to keep checking on you and coming to see you, even though I had to muster every ounce of courage each time I pulled into your driveway. Those last visits left me in tears and often in a state of panic, but I would not trade them for anything. They gave me precious moments with you that I will always treasure.

I am grateful you taught me how to protect myself. I pray I never have to use those lessons, but we live in a world where we cannot always predict what tomorrow will bring. At your funeral, Jamie had everyone laughing as he told the story about the pistol you gave me as a wedding gift. That was so like you. You were truly one of a kind. You were also one of the best shooters in this county, maybe even the entire state. Hearing your lifelong friends share stories about your remarkable accuracy brought smiles to our faces in the middle of our grief. But we all know you wouldn’t have hurt anyone unless it was absolutely necessary.

It is difficult to imagine those memories, considering the frail man I watched during your final months. The strong, capable man who had spent a lifetime protecting others became the one who needed protecting himself. Your health declined so quickly after the predators entered your life. No one should spend the final chapter of their life surrounded by people looking to take rather than give.

You were different in your last days. I watched you struggle not only physically, but mentally as well. The weight of everything around you had become too much to carry. Just a few weeks before you died, you told me you were not going to change for me or anyone else. You insisted you didn’t need help.

I think, deep down, you knew exactly what you needed. I also think a part of you believed it was too late. You never wanted to be a burden to anyone, and I respected that, even though every part of me wanted to believe otherwise.

The truth is, I wasn’t asking you to change for me. I would never ask that of you. I wanted you to accept help because I wanted your pain to end. I wanted you to have peace again. I didn’t want to lose you.

I wanted to see that big smile that filled my childhood. I wanted you to laugh again. I wanted you to rediscover the joy that had once come so naturally to you. More than anything, I wanted my children to know the man I knew growing up. I wanted them to experience your hugs, your stories, your laughter, and your gentle spirit the way I had been blessed to experience them.

And if I’m being completely honest…

I needed those hugs, too.

You always told me not to do anything that didn’t make me happy. I don’t think you realized that what would have brought true joy was seeing you thrive while surrounded by the Lord’s blessings. I never wanted your happiness or better yet unconditional joy to be for me. I wanted it to be for you.

Over the years, I have learned that the Lord is the only One who can bring lasting joy. The bottle promises comfort, but it only leaves a person emptier than before, always craving more and never truly satisfied.

Since April 9th, I have cried more tears than I could ever count. Losing you was something I never wanted to face. It wasn’t a road I chose, and it certainly wasn’t one that brought happiness. But it was the path the Lord allowed me to walk, and I had no choice but to keep putting one foot in front of the other, trusting that He would carry me through the grief when I no longer had the strength to carry it myself.

Sometimes, for reasons we may never understand, we do not get what we want in this life. I will hold on to the belief that I will see you again one day. I believe that with all my heart, because I still need you. I want to see you whole again. I want to see you walking without pain. I want to see the smile that alcohol stole slowly from you over the years.

I need at least one more hug. And I know myself well enough to know that if I got that one hug, I would want a thousand more.

If I could pour every drop back into those bottles and undo it all in an instant, I would. Without hesitation. I want more time with you. I want so much more time.

But I know that is not possible.

So for now, I must say goodbye.

But until I see you again, always remember this: I love you. I always will. Don’t ever forget that.

And so will your grandkids, your family, and the many friends who truly loved you during your 65 years. They are the ones who mattered. I hope you knew, truly knew, how deeply you were cared for.

Love Always,

Amanda ❤️

I’ll love you forever, Daddy!

John 8:32 – And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.