Dad’s humility and love surpassed most.

He had a keen sense of making sure everyone was taken care of. At our parish Fiesta each year Dad was never on a committee. He had his own unannounced agenda. Whenever I looked for him I would find him cleaning up after everyone’s mess on the lunch tables, or I would listen for his name being called over the loud speaker to fix this or repair that or unclog a bathroom toilet (And he’d pick up all the garbage from the floor while he was in there.) That’s just the way Dad was.

 He was always there when you needed him, never needing thanks or praise or recognition.

Dad’s hand’s told a story.  The story of sacrificing eight hours a day in 115 degree heat in attics or on scorching rooftops in the summer to feed his family.  The story of building things, chopping wood, repairing cars, or lawnmowers or tools. Hands that were thick as leather, scared with callouses and cuts and sometimes stained with grease.  An autograph of enduring love.

He raised three handicap children and took care of one of them 24/7 for months at a time before his son passed, while overlooking his own pain he dealt with.

Dad was patient and always kind.  He was never jealous nor envied anyone.  Dad was never proud or boastful.  He never held a grudge or thought he was better than anyone else.  I never once saw my Dad get angry with anybody.  That’s what God calls love.  

 We’re meant to do good with our lives.

Try little by little to become your best.

Examples are all around us.

Find people to emulate and stitch together your own tapestry of love to be ready for Heaven.