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It’s Tuesday June 13th 2017. To anyone else it may be just another day.  As for me, it’s another day and another week that goes by with the absence of my Derry. It’s one month, three weeks and one day  that my heart took the hardest hit and it’s five days away from the first Father’s Day I will be celebrating in front of his tombstone.  

My name is Brenda and I am the middle child of three. Growing up I was daddy’s little girl and at 29 I still felt the same way. He was my world, the number one dad and I love him dearly. Derry is the endearment for my father. It’s my version of Spanglish for daddy.

I always knew I was lucky, growing up in a pink bubble with both my parents, little sister and older brother. We did not grow up in a big home, expensive clothes or newest toys. However that modest home was full of love and we always had food on the table. My earliest memories are simply wonderful. My parents were the type to constantly remind us and show us their love.

That bubble was soon broken. At age 17, my father was sentence to prison. The day he went to court he kissed me on the forehead and reassured me with confidence that everything would be okay.  To my dismay he never returned home. He was sentence to serve time. This was the man who I knew was the kindest of hearts, the man who was always willing to help and was a hardworking family man. Until this day, I do not agree to his conviction. They took the best part of our lives. My family took the hardest blow. We cried for him as if he had passed. Every holiday turned into a painful event because we knew someone was missing.  Our milestones became moments of grief.  Every visit was full of joy to see him but it ended in heartbreak as I walked away knowing I could not take him back home. My heart found a little comfort as he began to find his faith.

In 2017 after serving ten years in prison he was released but deported to Mexico. His release was a mixture of emotions knowing he was free but he would now be 700 miles away. Our fears didn’t go away, they simply transformed.  I felt at ease knowing he was in his hometown and that he was content taking care of his parents. We visited him when we could, at times in a group and other time one person at a time. My favorite time, was when I went alone. I spent the days following him around, like when I was a little girl. Watching him as he completed his daily duties of running a farm and taking care of his aging parents. As I watched him, I imagined  one day I would be in his shoes. One day I would take care of my old man. 

Fate had other plans. On April 22nd I received the call that would change my life once more. My father was missing. An hour later there was news of a body found in the old road that leads to the town. A short time after, it was confirmed that the body found was my Derry. He was murdered in cold blood and his truck burned. I thought I had already felt the worst of pains but this took the throne. I fell to the ground and simply screamed in anger, God why him. I cursed God as my mother tried to keep the words from coming out of my mouth.  I was mad at God for not protecting him. My dad was at a point in his life where he was running on faith and believed in him. He wasn’t done with his work, to convert us to his faith. He couldn’t allow him to be gone because he wasn’t done. This broke my heart to pieces.

My brother and I went on a mission, to bring him home. We flew to Mexico, arranged his farewell from the land where he was born and we brought him home. Home, where he spent forty years of his fifty nine years of life. Where he built his home and raised his family. Where his family waited to say goodbye for the last time. Watching how many people, here and in Mexico, showed up to say goodbye simply reestablished the good man he was.  

Two years, that’s all we had to enjoy his life out after surviving through ten years hoping for the day he would be released. Here we are again continuing life without him. This time we won't be getting a call  or letter from him. This time we cannot visit him. This time we cannot hear his voice or hug him.  I have made peace with this sudden lost.  I am standing strong. I do not know how at times but I am still going. Maybe I am still in the shock face of grieving as some say. Maybe life has made me this tough and I am accustom to pain.  Yet  I think it is bigger than that, it’s God’s grace. After cursing him upon the news, I came to a realization. When I asked what else can be taken from me, Jobs story came to mind.  You see, I am by no means the most religious person but I have studied his word. I cannot unlearned what I have learned. This time my Derry is in a better place. This time God’s grace is keeping me from plunging into depression. This time I know that's what he would have wanted. This time I will not fall. 

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Thank you for sharing your amazing life story of life, love, and loss. Praying you continue on the path that God's grace has lights for you. - Shalom :wub:

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Bre,

I was 29 when my father died of a heart attack.  I don't think any of us feel we (or they) are "done", we had plans, things to accomplish, dreams, and it all halts abruptly in one moment as death changes everything.

It is good to have faith to hold onto.  It's God's responsibility to show Himself to us, so perhaps what your father began, He will continue in you.  I am so sorry for you loss, and for your father being taken from you when you were still a child.  This is what bothers me about deportation, it's not something hypothetical and vague we're talking about, it's real people, real families and the disruption and pain it brings with it are more genuine than tears can ever convey.

May God bring comfort to you in the days and years ahead.

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Thank  you for your kind words Kay! That is something that crosses my mind, maybe this event is what turns us to God like he wanted. Somehow he is still influencing us even beyond his passing. 

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I've found God is there for me at the moments in my life when I've needed Him most.  That is my hope and prayer for you

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