Five years ago today, on July 30, 2020, my father died of COVID-19. Sometimes it feels like it just happened, and sometimes it feels like a lifetime ago. Time does strange things with grief. It bends and blurs our memories. But what has remained constant for me is how deeply I miss him—and how grateful I am for the life he lived. 

In the months following his death, my pastoral counselor encouraged me to keep a gratitude journal. That simple but powerful practice of recording things I was thankful for—memories, traits, small joys—helped redirect the rawness of grief into moments of healing. To this day, when I think of Dad, I try to remain present in that moment and give thanks. It doesn’t remove the ache, but it reframes it. It’s a spiritual practice that helps me remember with more gratitude than sorrow. Another ritual is that I start each day with Isaiah 40:31, which I wrote on the white board in his hospice room: 

[But] those who hope in the Lord 
    will renew their strength. 
They will soar on wings like eagles; 
    they will run and not grow weary, 
    they will walk and not be faint. 

Isaiah 40:31, NIV 

I’ve also leaned heavily on a short prayer written by Dr. Peter James Flamming in his book Healing the Heartbreak of Grief. I offer it now for anyone else walking through the valley of loss: 

“O Lord, my times are in your hands. Help me give myself to the duties of the present moment. In the name and strength of Jesus. Amen.” 

This prayer has helped anchor me to today—because grief so often pulls us into the past or leaves us adrift in what could have been. 

My father, Robert Emmett Lee III, was many things: an Army veteran, an entrepreneur, an optician, a faithful Christian, a husband, a father, a grandfather, and a loyal friend. He lived with humility, integrity, and quiet strength. He persevered through more than his share of adversity—three bouts of cancer, career transitions, family losses, and the challenges of aging. But in each chapter, he got up, found a way forward, and pressed on. 

He taught me a lot of things, but perhaps most of all, he modeled what it meant to love consistently. He loved his family deeply and made time for us. He fixed things. He remembered birthdays. He showed up. He sacrificed. He forgave. He was the kind of dad who rescued our family dog (Rebel) at the bus stop—even if it meant getting bitten—and who built birdhouses with the grandkids in retirement. 

At his funeral, I shared the story of how he died: after a courageous fight against COVID-19, after coming off the ventilator and showing signs of progress, his body just couldn’t recover. But I also shared that his death did not mark defeat. “The victory does not belong to a pandemic,” I said that day. “The victory belongs to Jesus Christ our Lord, Dad’s Savior, Redeemer, Comforter and Friend.” 

In his final hours, I played him a playlist of songs he loved—folk tunes, hymns, even Adele. And I remember listening to “Michael Row the Boat Ashore” with him at the hospice house. He used to sing it to us as he played his guitar. The old spiritual speaks of crossing Jordan to the other side—green pastures, milk and honey. It took on new meaning as I sat at his bedside, knowing that he was about to cross that river into God’s presence. 

There’s not enough space here to retell every memory or reflection. But I will say this: I wear the clergy robe he gave me when I was ordained—a tangible reminder of his support and his pride. And every time I put it on, I remember him. I remember his faith. I remember his love. 

If you’re walking your own path of grief, I encourage you to try keeping a gratitude journal. Name the things that still bring gratitude. Turn your heart to the present moment. And pray for strength in Jesus’ name. As the Serenity Prayer reminds us: 

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, 
courage to change the things I can, 
and the wisdom to know the difference.” 

Five years later, I give thanks. I give thanks for my dad’s life, for his legacy, and for the promise that, in Christ, we do not grieve as those who have no hope. We grieve with resurrection in view. 

Love in Christ,