John, the Beloved

My grandmother chose my father’s name from the Bible—for he would be beloved by the Lord, just as the apostle was. And I would like to think that he was. That perhaps his being taken from this earth was a kind of divine intervention, that his test in life had been seen and counted finished. That maybe the Lord looked upon his shaking hands, the choreas that so often humiliated him, and decided that the comforts of glory were more fitting for such a man than the weight he bore here.

I wish I could preserve my dad in amber crystal—something I could look on with clarity whenever I need to. But I know that that’s not how memories work. And that he will, day by day, fade, until he is no more than the concept of a man, surrounded by a multitude of facts. A character in a novel that was never written.

There are moments, though, that I can recall perfectly. And I am grateful for them. Some I keep for myself—because they belong only to a father and a son, and sharing them would make them smaller. But others I do share, so that someone might hear and say, Surely you’re right. He was a man beloved by God.

And I will tell you one of them, that you might know my dad too.

You might stop midway and say, I’m sorry, James, but I don’t believe that happened. But I’ll assure you that it did. I have no reason to embellish it—it’s not what my dad deserved.

My dad deserves the truth—nothing more—because there was nothing in his life that called for embellishment. He wasn’t perfect. No man is. He was impatient with himself when his body began to betray him. He could be short when he was tired or frustrated, and quieter than I sometimes needed. There were days when he seemed to drift somewhere I couldn’t follow. But he was never unkind. He never stopped trying. And whatever he lacked in ease, he gave back in presence—he stayed, even when everything in him was slipping.

There was a day—not long before the end—when that presence felt like more than just habit or will. It felt like grace.

My daughter, Tessa, was playing softball that afternoon. It was only the second game of her first season. The other girls on her team had been playing together for years, and they were getting to the age where competitiveness begins to buck against empathy. While I would like to say—and would like Tessa to believe—that she was at their level, it was clear that she wasn’t. Their experience was evident, as was her inexperience.

That day, Tessa played three positions. She started at third, but the ball ran through her legs four times in the same inning. She was moved to first, but couldn’t catch the ball cleanly. The same was true when she was moved to left field. Wherever she played, the ball seemed to find her. Either that, or the girls on the other team possessed an unnerving amount of bat control. By the third inning, she was taken out. The game was already out of hand, a fact her teammates seemed eager to remind her of.

Seeing her cry in the backseat on the way home pulled at a part of me you only come to know through love, and I cried with her. Not for the same reasons—hers were humiliation and helplessness—but because that tempest inside her existed at all.

Now, I’ve already said that no man is perfect, and I don’t count myself as the exception. That imperfection touches every part of me—faith, spirit, marriage, fatherhood. One of the most glaring—at least to me—is the way I move so quickly toward solutions. I treat problems as puzzles to be fixed. That habit has served me well in my career, but poorly in my relationships. It has meant that I often lack the ability to just be present with someone. And it meant that on that afternoon, though I carried the full ache of a father who never wanted to see his daughter cry again, I acted less like a father and more like a coach.

Tessa didn’t say a word on the drive home. She pressed her forehead to the window, eyes fixed on nothing, her glove limp in her lap. Her cleats tapped softly against the floor mat. I kept glancing over, searching for something—anything—that might bring her back. But there are moments a child has to carry by themselves, and I was starting to think this was one of them.

As we pulled into the driveway, her voice broke the silence. “Can I go inside?”

“Of course,” I said. “But meet me in the backyard, would you? Bring your glove.”

She nodded without looking at me, picked the glove up like it was heavier than before, and went inside.

I stayed in the car for a moment, hands resting on the wheel. Not because I didn’t want to go in, but because I didn’t know what to do. I’d tried to comfort her. I’d said the usual things. But none of it had reached her. The failure wasn’t hers—it was mine. I was solving, not seeing.

Inside, Corinne was collecting her keys and shopping list. She mentioned we were low on groceries, and I told her I’d stay with my dad while she went. She gave me a quick nod, kissed my cheek, and left. My father was asleep in the den, his breathing steady beneath the thin blanket. Before I stepped out back, I opened the window beside his bed—just enough that I’d hear him if he stirred. It looked out over the lawn, and the afternoon light was beginning to soften.

Tessa was already waiting. She stood near the hedgerow, holding the ball loosely in one hand, her glove dangling in the other. Her stance was all shoulders and silence. I told her to back up a few steps, and we began tossing the ball. Gentle throws. Easy arcs. A few pop flies, a few grounders. She caught most. Missed a few. But the weight never left her—she still held herself like she was expecting judgment. I kept going, thinking if we could get her enough clean catches, we could chalk today up to the yips.

Then the door opened behind us.

I turned, expecting Corinne.

But it was my father.

He stepped barefoot onto the grass, one hand briefly touching the frame before he let it go. No walker. No cane. No bracing himself against the wall. Just him, thin and unsteady—but upright.

I rushed toward him, panic tightening in my chest.

“What are you doing?” I asked, slipping a hand beneath his arm.

He let me guide him to the chair near the patio. His steps were slow but sure. When I touched his shoulder, I expected to feel fragility—but instead, I felt warmth. Stability. He looked healthier than he had in months.

“I’m fine,” he said softly, settling in. Then he looked at me. His voice was steady. “What are you doing?”

I hesitated. “Just playing catch.”

He turned his gaze to Tessa. “She’s not comforted.”

I looked. She stood exactly as before—still, small, glove slack in her hand. Her eyes were still red. She wasn’t playing. She was enduring.

“I thought… if I could show her she could do it… that maybe it would help.”

“Do you really think that’s what she needs right now?” he asked.

I didn’t know how to answer.

“She needs to know there are more important things in life,” he said. “That there are greater mistakes than dropping a ball. The kind you don’t see until it’s too late. The kind that happen when we miss what’s in front of us.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He looked at me like it was the simplest thing in the world. “I mean she doesn’t need softball right now.”

If I had to name the beginning of it—of what that moment became—I’d imagine it started in the silence of his sleep. In a space I’ll never see. I imagine a messenger leaned down and whispered, Get thee up, and go unto thy son. Teach him in the ways of the Lord.

So he did.

He called to her.

“Tessa,” he said, his voice carrying just enough to reach her.

She looked up, startled—not scared, just uncertain. She held the ball close to her chest and walked over slowly. Her steps were cautious, and when she reached him, she hesitated.

“Hi, Papa,” she said. Her voice was soft, unsure.

And I couldn’t blame her. None of us had seen him that lively in a long time.

He opened his arms, and she leaned in. He kissed the top of her head and held her there for a long moment, his hand steady between her shoulder blades.

Then he pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes.

“Want to go get some ice cream?” he asked.

She smiled—hesitant at first, then wide. Her cheeks were blotched from crying, and fresh tears started to well again, but this time they looked different. Lighter.

“Yes,” she said, nodding.

I didn’t say a word. Just turned, walked inside, and grabbed my keys. And the three of us—my daughter, my father, and me—got in the car and went.

We didn’t talk much on the drive. The air was warm and golden through the windshield. At the shop, Tessa asked for a swirl with rainbow sprinkles, and my dad got butter pecan in a cup—his favorite. We sat outside on a low brick wall while the cones softened in our hands, the sun easing toward the horizon. My dad didn’t say much, but he smiled when Tessa pointed at a drip running down his arm and told him he was making a mess. There was a quiet between us—not the kind that fills a silence, but the kind that honors it.

We got home just as the light turned gray. Each of us moved a little easier than we had that afternoon. Tessa’s cheeks were stained pink from crying and sugar, but she was humming under her breath, licking the last of her cone. My dad walked behind her, still without a cane, and I found myself watching his feet—half-expecting the illusion to break. But it didn’t. He moved slow, yes, but sure. Like someone who hadn’t forgotten himself after all.

When we reached the door, he climbed the porch steps on his own. I reached a hand out instinctively, but he waved it off.

“I’m going to go lie down,” he said, and I nodded.

Tessa lingered beside me in the doorway, now holding just the sugar-coated napkin that remained. I knelt and opened my arms, and she stepped into them without a word.

“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice low in her ear.

She didn’t ask for what.

“I should’ve held you when you cried. That’s all I should’ve done. Not drills. Not throws. Just that. I’m sorry.”

She nodded, her cheek warm against my shoulder. Her arms wrapped around my neck—not loose or hesitant, but sure, like she’d been waiting for this part all along.

We stayed like that for a while—long enough for my knees to ache, for the quiet to settle again.

“Go play a while,” I said softly. “I’ll start dinner.”

I had just pulled out a frying pan and a chub of beef when I heard the sound. A clatter followed by a heavy thump and a pained grunt.

Then, faintly, my dad’s voice. "James?”

I was already moving, rushing down the hall when I found him in the bathroom.

He was lying on his side near the toilet, pants around his ankles, his shirt bunched beneath his back. The floor beneath him was streaked and wet. His hands were trembling so badly they slapped against the tile when he tried to push himself up. One leg kicked involuntarily, a sharp, jerking motion that sent his heel scraping against the wall. His eyes were wide, unfocused. There was nothing of the man from earlier in his posture. Just frailty, and confusion, and the quiet, pitiful fear of being seen like this.

He looked up at me.

"I’m sorry," he said, voice hoarse and small.

"It’s alright, Dad," I said, kneeling down beside him. "Let’s get you cleaned up."

He started to cry then—not loud, just the kind of crying you do when you’re too tired to be embarrassed but still are anyway. His arms moved clumsily, trying to cover his eyes, his groin—anything that felt vulnerable.

"I’m sorry" he whispered. "I’m sorry. I just…"

"You don’t have to explain," I said. "Just let me help."

I knelt beside him and slipped a hand beneath his back.

“Let’s get you upright,” I said.

He didn’t resist. Just let me lift him, his weight folding against mine like he no longer trusted his own body. I helped him onto the closed toilet lid. His arms hung slack at his sides. His shoulders sagged. He let his head fall.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice thin, eyes glassy with confusion and shame.

I filled the sink with warm water and soaked a towel. The air was sharp with the smell, but it didn’t matter. I crouched beside him and began to clean—gently, slowly, starting at his legs. I wiped around his ankles, behind his knees. Then the floor beneath him. His legs spasmed—short, involuntary kicks—and I placed a hand on his knee to steady him.

“I’ve got you,” I said. “You’re alright.”

He didn’t answer. Just kept crying softly.

When the floor was clean, I grabbed a fresh towel and helped him out of the rest of his clothes. I found his pajamas in the cabinet and began to dress him, one piece at a time. Buttoned his top with quiet care, like I used to do for Tessa when her fingers were still too small to manage them.

Only when he was covered and clean did he meet my eyes.

"Thank you," he whispered.

I couldn’t speak. My throat had gone tight.

I crouched in front of him and rested my hand on his.

That was when the tears came—mine this time.

Not for the indignity.

Not even for the loss.

But for the love. The kind you don’t earn or measure. The kind that just is. That endures long after bodies fail and names get harder to say.

“I love you, Dad,” I said, my voice hitching where it caught.

He looked at me tenderly, a smile curling at his lips. “I love you, my James.”

Why my dad was given such a torturous tribulation, I will never know—though, believe me, I have asked. Either God has no plan, or His plan is too divine to understand. I choose to believe the latter. I think that’s called faith.

And torturous it was. I saw it in his hands when they wouldn’t hold still. In his speech, when words abandoned him. In the way he sometimes looked at a fork like it was a stranger. In the fear that flickered behind his eyes when he knew his body was doing something he hadn’t asked it to do.

But I also saw something else.

I saw the way he stayed. The way he showed up—quietly, faithfully—in every way he knew how, and even in those he didn’t. The way he taught, without ceremony. The way he cried and let me see it. The way he loved me.

None of it was loud. None of it was easy. But it was constant, and it was real. And I have come to believe that such love—steady, imperfect, unshakable—is the surest mark of a life beloved.

My dad was beloved.

And I loved him.