Every year, when April 15th—the anniversary of my Dad’s death—comes around, I find myself reaching for something—a memory, a story, a feeling that connects heaven and earth; me and my dad. 

This year, instead of starting with what I miss, I asked my wife and kids: “If Grandpa John were here today…what would you want to do with him?”

The answers were beautifully simple.  

My son, August John, didn’t hesitate—he’d want to watch him play basketball.  I’ve told him that Grandpa John played basketball and loved the Celtics. I guess that stuck with him. 

Abel James had a full plan mapped out. Chick-fil-A for a kids meal, time to play,  and then ice cream at Hayward’s (the best Ice Cream in the world) to finish it off.  Grandpa John loved Haywards. He would have had a black raspberry ice cream cone for sure. 

Sammy Clive kept it close to home. He’d want Grandpa John to come over to our house, sit on the floor,  play with him, and see his toys. There’s something sacred about that. Not going somewhere impressive— just being known in your own world. 

My wife, Steph, went a different direction. She wanted to go on a family walk—slow enough to talk, long enough to remember. And then she’d sit down with Grandpa John and ask questions. Real ones. About Jesus, and my dad’s radical transformation from party boy into a family man who loved God more than anything.

And me? Honestly… I’d keep it simple, too.

Maybe it’s a cliché, but I’d want to play catch. Stand thirty feet apart, glove to glove, ball moving back and forth— the kind of rhythm that makes space for conversation. I’d ask him about everything. Faith. Marriage. Parenting. I’d probably ask too many questions and talk too much.

What’s strange is how ordinary all of this is.

No one asked for a big moment. No one asked for a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

Just basketball.  

Fast food.  

Ice cream.  

Toys.

A walk.  

A conversation.  

A game of catch.

Just… time.

And maybe that’s what loss does. It clarifies.

It strips away the noise and reminds you that the deepest longings you carry aren’t for more stuff, or bigger moments, or louder lives— they’re for presence.

To be with someone we love. To hold them close enough to feel their heartbeat. To know them and be known by them. To talk with them face-to-face and not have to rush.

There’s a part of me that still aches when I think about it. Not just that my Dad’s gone— but that these moments never got to happen.

Grandpa John never met my sons. My dad never bear-hugged my wife. And my family, whom I love so much, never got to know him.

That gap… It’s real. And it’s something I grieve often. 

But, I trust that in Jesus, even this—especially this—will not be the end.

Because the resurrection doesn’t just promise life after death. It promises the undoing of death itself. “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?” Or, in the words of Julian of Norwich, “All shall be well, All shall be well, all manner of things shall be well.” 

I believe that truth in the deepest part of my being.

So when I think about my boys—and their answers—I don’t just hear playful imagination. I hear echoes. Echoes of a world that was supposed to be. Echoes of a future that’s still coming. 

A future that is…

Not rushed.
Not cut short .
Not interrupted by loss.

Just…whole.

And maybe that’s the quiet grace in all of this. That even in grief, even in absence, even in the ache of what never was—God is still giving me glimpses of what will be. Little windows of longing that open up into something bigger than simply memory or fantasy. Something sturdier than just wishful thinking: promise.

So this year, instead of just grieving what we missed, I’m choosing to hold onto what we’re promised. 

Not perfectly. Not without tears. But with hope. 

One day, by the grace of Jesus, there will be a reunion that doesn’t end. A conversation that doesn’t get cut off. A game of catch where the ball never drops for the last time. And all the small things we longed for— the ordinary, beautiful, unnoticed moments—will finally be what they always were meant to be: forever.

Until then, we remember. We hope. We wait. And we trust that the God who raised Jesus from the dead is not done writing this story.