It’s hard to believe it’s been nearly three years since my dad passed away.

As we honor and celebrate the incredible fathers in our lives this Father's Day, I find myself reflecting deeply on my own dad and the lasting impact he made — not only on me but on many others.

From the time I was a little girl, he taught me lessons that have shaped who I am today — lessons I carry with me and will pass on to my own children.

Like all of us, my dad was imperfect and faced his own struggles; he was flawed, as we all are in our humanity here on this side of heaven. Though I miss him deeply, I am profoundly grateful for the timeless truths he instilled in me and for the lasting wisdom he left behind.

Character and integrity over reputation

My father taught me that character and integrity matter more than reputation — that we are only as good as our word, a principle rooted in Matthew 5:37, “Let your ‘Yes’ be ‘Yes,’ and your ‘No,’ ‘No.’”

Growing up, I can remember several times when I’d commit to one party, only to later find out that a more exciting one was happening at the same time. Of course, I wanted to ditch the one I already said "yes" to for something better, but my dad would remind me that a person’s character is measured not by how popular or liked she is but by whether she can be trusted to follow through — even when it costs her something.

He showed me that faithfulness in the small things matters deeply because God has called us to work with our whole hearts.

That lesson was hard for me as a kid, and candidly, it’s still hard sometimes. But over time, I’ve come to see that being true to your word builds something reputation never can: real trust.

My dad was the kind of man who dealt fairly with everyone. He didn’t cut corners, didn’t shade the truth, and never made promises he didn’t intend to keep.

If he said he’d be there, he showed up. If he sold you a car, you’d walk away knowing everything about it — probably more than you wanted to. He wasn’t interested in getting the better end of a deal. He was interested in doing right by people.

That kind of consistency — honesty in the small things and integrity when no one’s watching — has deeply shaped how I want to live. His example has challenged me to keep my commitments, to speak truthfully, and to value being trustworthy more than being liked. Because in the end, character and integrity don’t just reflect who we are — they reflect the God we serve.

Work ethic and diligence matters

I don’t think I’ve ever met a harder worker than my dad.

His work ethic and perseverance were unwavering. There were very few things he didn’t master — either through natural ability or sheer determination. Though he was an engineer by trade, his work didn’t end when he clocked out. When he wasn’t solving complex problems at work, you’d find him under the hood of one of his kids’ cars changing the oil, fixing something broken in the house, working on a project, rebuilding a computer, or building a deck.

If something needed to be done, he either knew how to do it — or he figured it out. His capacity to take on responsibility and execute with excellence was unmatched.

With nine kids in the house, there wasn’t much time for rest or hobbies, especially given the amount of wear and tear we unleashed on everything. He simply kept going — oftentimes too much.

Through his consistency, he taught me that hard work — even in the most mundane of tasks — will outlast and outshine natural talent every time. He showed me that faithfulness in the small things matters deeply because God has called us to work with our whole hearts, as we are working for Him — not just for people, as Colossians 3:23 reminds us.

My dad lived that out. He modeled diligence not for recognition, but because it was the right thing to do.

One of the most lasting lessons he left me was the value of persistence over time. Proverbs 13:11 says, “Wealth gained hastily will dwindle, but whoever gathers little by little will increase it.” My dad believed in that “little by little” way of living — slow, steady, and faithful progress.

He saw potential in me that I hadn’t yet discovered, and he knew that sometimes, the only way to grow was to push past fear and just do the hard thing.

I remember one night in high school, feeling completely overwhelmed by the amount of schoolwork I had to finish. I walked into his office — slumped, dramatic, and hoping for sympathy. Without even needing to hear the full story, he gently asked, “What’s the matter?” I poured out my complaints about the impossible workload. He listened, smiled kindly, and asked a question I’d heard from him many times before: “How do you eat an elephant?”

I groaned, but I knew the answer (and that he was right): “One bite at a time.”

That simple phrase, shared in a moment of stress, has never left me. When life piles on, and responsibilities feel too heavy to manage, I still hear his voice reminding me that you don’t have to do it all at once — you just have to take the next bite. And keep going.

Overcome fear and take calculated risks

My dad encouraged me to face fear head-on — whether it was the fear of failing, trying something new and difficult, or simply the fear of what others might think. He reminded me often that courage isn’t the absence of fear but the choice to move forward despite it.

Ironically, he was a remarkably cautious man in many areas of life. He double-checked the house locks, read every instruction manual in great detail, and rarely took unnecessary risks. But when it came to things like dirt biking, he threw caution to the wind — full throttle ahead, dust flying behind him. It wasn’t recklessness; it was a certain kind of boldness that showed up when it mattered most.

He taught me that you can live with care and wisdom and still be brave when it counts.

I had never ridden a dirt bike before in my life, but my dad figured if I could drive a stick shift, I could handle a motocross bike. Same concept, right? So with only a few brief instructions, he tossed me on the bike and told me to go. I was terrified, but he wasn’t. He believed I could do it, and more importantly, he believed in what I could become on the other side of my fear.

The same thing happened when I had my learner’s permit.

One day, out of nowhere, he told me to get on the highway. “You’ll be fine,” he said casually. “You can do it,” he encouraged. I couldn’t believe he trusted me enough to merge into fast-moving traffic — but he did. And that trust taught me to trust myself. He saw potential in me that I hadn’t yet discovered, and he knew that sometimes, the only way to grow was to push past fear and just do the hard thing.

In college, that same fear crept in again, this time in the form of a tough class. I remember calling him, anxious that I might earn my first-ever C (clearly, grades were an idol for me). Despite studying hard, I was barely making low Bs, and the final exam was looming. I told him how overwhelmed I felt. He listened and then asked, “Did you study hard? Are you doing your best?” I said I was. He replied simply, “Then stop worrying. Trust that God will take care of the rest. Do your part — and let go of the fear.”

He reminded me that any strength we have is a gift from God — not something we create on our own.

I barely squeaked by with a B, but that wasn’t the point. And a C would’ve been good and humbling for me, no doubt. However, the point was learning to let go of the fear of failure and do my best, trusting God with the outcome.

That principle has carried me through far more than just school. My dad taught me that failing isn’t the enemy — fear is. And faith, courage, and a little bit of grit are often all we need to keep going.

Surrender over self-sufficiency

As my dad battled ALS — a terminal disease that gradually weakens the nerves controlling muscles, making it harder to move, speak, eat, and eventually breathe — he gave me some pivotal advice he knew I would especially need.

We share a strength that often masks a deep weakness: self-sufficiency. Every good trait carries its own Achilles’ heel, and this one is no exception. Because of his ability to tackle life’s hardest challenges and his relentless determination to figure things out, my dad could’ve earned gold medals for his self-sufficiency.

But he reminded me that any strength we have is a gift from God — not something we create on our own. He cautioned me that our talents and abilities are meant to be stewarded — to bless others and bring glory to God — not to fuel self-reliance or pride. It’s not about our own strength but His and His alone. He wished he had been more faithful to lean on God rather than himself.

That conversation was sobering, and it struck me exactly where it needed to. I can easily take pride in my abilities and the skills I’ve worked tirelessly to develop, but ultimately, God has given me the health, the drive, and the capacity to do what I do. Not me.

I’m thankful my dad saw this weakness in me enough to impart one last valuable lesson that I’m continuing to work on: A life surrendered is more valuable than a life of self-sufficiency. That’s all God wants from us, after all.