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| Photos credited to Ryan Cardone |
Life, I have learned, is much like swimming in the ocean. No matter how strong we think we are, no matter how prepared we feel to face the waves, there are moments when the tide takes us by surprise. One moment we are floating with ease, and the next we are pulled under—spinning, struggling, gasping for air. If we fight against the current, it only becomes harder to rise. But if we surrender, if we learn to float, the waters will carry us back to the surface.
Grief feels very much the same way. Losing someone we love comes like a wave—sudden, forceful, and overwhelming. It leaves us disoriented and aching, desperately asking questions we may never fully answer. Yet, just as in the ocean, the only way to endure grief is to hold on to trust, to let faith carry us, and to believe in the One who gave us life.
Last Saturday, I received one of the most painful calls of my life. My mother told me that my grandfather had passed away. In that moment, my heart broke. Questions flooded my mind: “Why him? Why now? Why us?” I longed for answers. I wanted to understand. But as I turned back to God’s word, I remembered His promises, and I was reminded that death is the one certainty we all face. It is not the end of the soul, but a passage from this life to the next.
The book of Ecclesiastes tells us: “He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end” (Ecclesiastes 3:11). This verse comforts me because it reminds me that while I may not understand why Tatay had to leave now, I can trust that God’s plan is always perfect, even when it feels painful.
Letting go is never easy. Dylan Thomas once wrote to his father, “Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Do not go gentle into that good night.” And isn’t that true? Deep inside, all of us want to resist death. We want to keep those we love close, to hold them just a little longer, to have one more day, one more conversation, one more moment. But as Ecclesiastes 3:1 reminds us, “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.” Life and death are not ours to control; they are in God’s hands.
What we can hold onto, however, is Tatay’s life—his love, his legacy, his example. Because what matters most is not how long we live, but how well we live. Not the number of our years, but the depth of the love we gave and received. The most important part of life is what happens in between—between birth and death, between the first breath and the last.
For me, Tatay was more than a grandfather. He was my second father. He gave me my first name. He raised me when my parents could not. He filled the empty spaces of my childhood with love, protection, and guidance. He was the man who made sure I felt cared for when life seemed uncertain. His love was not just spoken—it was shown, day by day, in the way he looked after me.
I will forever be grateful to him. He molded me into the person I am today. He showed me that even when life feels difficult, love is enough to carry us through. He gave me memories I will treasure for as long as I live—memories of his care, his strength, his quiet sacrifices.
And so today, as we lay him to rest, I hold on to two things: gratitude and hope. Gratitude for the life he lived, for the love he gave, for the role he played in shaping me. And hope—hope in the promise that this is not the end. Because we believe that the soul lives on, that death is not defeat but a doorway. One day, by God’s mercy, we will see him again.
Tatay, thank you—for everything. Thank you for stepping in when I was most vulnerable. Thank you for loving me as your own, when others could not. Thank you for being my protector, my guide, and my source of strength. You were God’s gift to me, and I will carry your love in my heart forever.
Goodbye, Tatay. Rest now in the peace of our Lord. You have fulfilled your purpose. You have run your race. And though we grieve your absence, we celebrate your life. Your legacy will live on in me, and in everyone here whose life you touched.