My dad, my hero.

“I have finished my race, I have fought the good fight.”

My dad’s passing was so sudden. It’s hard for me to grasp that he’s gone, that I won’t ever talk to him again. I’ve decided to publish the text I wrote and read at his funeral, as a tribute to him.

My dad, who carried me on his bike when I was little. My dad, who held my hand and teased me by pressing his keys into my palm, on purpose. My dad, who came and spoke sternly to the boy who was mean to me in elementary school, to protect me. My dad, who went to a young neighbor’s house when I was fifteen to forbid him from seeing me again. I told him I hated him.

My dad, who showed up on his motorcycle in the middle of my friends because he was afraid I’d fall into a cult. My dad, who slept in my bed the night I snuck out and stayed out all night, and who scared the living daylights out of me when I tiptoed in, turned on my bedroom light, and saw him wake up. My dad, a real father.

My dad, who, when I made bad decisions, would come talk to me one-on-one in my room to give me his opinion, which I was unable to follow, to my regret, though he never knew it.

My dad, who wrote on a piece of paper and taped it to my bedroom door: “This house is not a hotel.” Because I’d disappear for days without giving any news, simply because it never crossed my mind.

A normal teenager, a normal loving father.

But my dad was so much more than that. My dad, my hero. He was someone who listened when I told him about my worries, my sorrows, my sins, my mistakes. Someone who prayed and gave me counsel.

He’s the one who was able to pray for me for hours with my mom when I was twenty-two, so that I would be set free from everything that had defeated me because of my bad choices. And I discovered the peace that only Jesus gives. He’s the one who counseled me and corrected me with all the love he had and, at the same time, the truth he knew.

In 2007, when it was on my heart to start my language center in Clermont-Ferrand, I told him it probably wasn’t worth starting because Jesus was going to come back for us soon. He’s the one who said to me:

“And what if Jesus is delayed in coming back? Nathalie, you need to start your language center and keep your feet on the ground.”

I told him he lacked faith. That was nineteen years ago. Of course, he was right.

My dad was a hero because he was a man of faith. He’s one of those heroes of the faith that the Bible tells us about.

My dad, who, when the gifts of prophecy and knowledge started to show up in my spiritual life, encouraged me to practice them, and also knew how to correct me when I was wrong, or when it wasn’t the right time to share what God had told me. He taught me balance and sobriety in the prophetic, a balance that’s so lacking in the evangelical world today.

But what I find most beautiful and remarkable about my dad is that he allowed himself to be corrected, too.

When God spoke to me in dreams, during church services, or in my personal prayer time, to correct something he was doing or to give him an important direction, he listened to me too. He acknowledged it and put it into practice. So many people certainly received from him, but he was a man who could listen and then apply what he heard. A man full of humility before his God.

In July, when I decided to close my language center, nineteen years after I started it, and I was shaken emotionally, I asked him, “Do you think God is upset with me, or that I did something wrong and God is upset with me?” You know, the doubts that creep in when you make hard decisions and think about them a lot. He answered, “But Nathalie, what kind of God do you serve? What kind of God do you serve?”

My doubts vanished instantly. He always believed in the goodness of God, and he taught me about the grace of God. God is never against those who love Him and serve Him.

And finally, a little over two weeks ago, while we were spending the night in the ER together, we were put in a bay filled with the harsh glare of fluorescent lights and the nonstop beeping of medical machines. A man was sharing the bay with us. All night long, this man was shouting insults and saying the most horrible, vile things. After nine nonstop hours, my dad, even though he’d just received the worst news from the doctors and was weak, couldn’t take it anymore. Through the curtain that separated us, he prayed for the man to be quiet in the name of Jesus.

I went to see this man, and he told me he couldn’t stop, that he was suffering from what he was saying and from this constant bondage. I told him about Jesus and the freedom He promises. This man decided to give his life to Jesus and trust Him, and I prayed for the voices speaking through him, and the voices he was hearing, to leave. My dad, on the other side of the curtain, lying on his gurney, was glorifying God, and I could hear him backing up my prayers: “In the name of Jesus!”, “Glory to God!”, “Jesus is victorious!”

The man thanked us and finally fell asleep peacefully.

So yes, my dad, my hero, a hero of the faith above all, a man who loved his God. My faithful confidant, who encouraged me and corrected me with truth. The one I got to sing with every Sunday at church, the one I could sing in tongues with, the one I could pray with every time I needed to, and the one I got to pray for so many times too.

I never doubted that he loved me. He was always there for me, even when I interrupted him in the middle of something and could tell it wasn’t the right time.

My dad, whom I love and respect more than anyone, and whom I want to honor today.

I’ll leave you with a verse from the Bible, which I’m paraphrasing:

“Today, I beg you, if you hear His voice, the voice of Jesus, through this testimony, do not harden your hearts.” Give your life to Jesus. My dad did, I did, many have, and it is by far the most important choice you will ever make, for eternal life in peace with God.

We are grieving today, and we’re going to miss him so much, but I know we will see him again in joy. I’m going to miss him, and I’m going to miss the light of the Holy Spirit that I saw in his eyes. I often told him I could see the light of the Holy Spirit dancing in his eyes, and it amused him when I said that.

He was who he was because Jesus lived in him.