To Padre, with Love

You may have noticed my name suspiciously absent from the paper these past few editions. No, I have not resigned, nor have I been let go. I have been out of state under unfortunate circumstances.

My father passed away, sending our family into a flurry of funeral planning, and a spiral of grief. 

It has been the hardest thing I have ever gone through and I would give anything to have my dad back. 

In honor, I would love to share the words I spoke at his celebration of life ceremony. 

Please pray for comfort and peace in this difficult time.

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Hi, everyone. To preface, I am not a public speaker.

So naturally, here I am. But my dad always encouraged me to face my fears.  And if I skipped this, I know exactly what he’d say: probably something a little sarcastic, followed by a smirk. So, this is me facing that fear.

I kept asking myself, “What could I possibly say about my dad that hasn’t already been said a hundred times this week?” And the truth is, I can only tell you what stood out most to me. Growing up, what I always knew, without question, was how much my dad loved us.

In 2001, we packed up our family, drove north, and landed in Grand Junction, Colorado. We sacrificed. Our car was unreliable.

My brother and I shared a bedroom with the washer and dryer, which teaches you patience, humility, and how to sleep through loud noises. I cried when we had to cancel the cable subscription because I couldn’t watch SpongeBob anymore.

Dad would bring home leftovers from his job at Golden Corral so we could eat dinner. Yes, that means I grew up thinking Golden Corral was a luxury experience. Things weren’t easy. A lesser man might’ve thrown in the towel. My dad didn’t, even when he probably deserved to.

Dad was el capitán. He had this quiet bravado about him. He didn’t need attention, he didn’t show off. He just showed up.

Consistently, reliably and always himself. My dad was Hispanic, so obviously, I called him Padre.

That came with perks, especially the food. My dad was an amazing cook.  But absolutely no sour cream. He hated it. And I loved it, which meant every enchilada I ate felt a little bit rebellious.

But what he was really proud of was his Ronco Showtime Rotisserie. He made so many roast chickens he gave Sam’s Club a run for its money.

My dad was a bright spot in so many people’s lives, including mine. And no, it wasn’t just from the glare coming off his bald head, although that thing had range.

That light came straight from his heart. He cared deeply about people, even if he didn’t always say it out loud. Now, It’s no surprise my dad was a huge sci-fi fan, especially Star Trek.

He loved reminding me that I was born after the Star Trek: The Next Generation’s series finale. I had missed that episode by seven minutes, which I was informed of frequently.

He loved the original series, too. Spock once said, “Live long and prosper.” And my dad really did that.

Seventy-five years is a long time. We weren’t a wealthy family, but my dad was rich in experience, wisdom, and opinions. And he definitely prospered.

I love you, Dad.

Please tell Grandma—and Leonard Nimoy—I say hi. I’m going to miss you while I’m still on this Earth.

But while I’m here, I’ll never forget you.