Richard John was born March 6, 1929. The fact his parents married in the weeks before his birth saved him from being labeled “illegitimate” at a time when such labels were a curse. It didn’t save him from the resentments of his father who viewed this son as the root cause of his many troubles.

Richard’s was a difficult childhood. Chronic asthma, made worse by the acute poverty of Depression times, meant he endured long summer days and longer summer nights sitting upright in a chair, gasping for breath.

When Richard was 10, his mother left; whether by choice or by request, he never knew. But he loved her. He found out where she was staying and secretly rode his bike to see her.

For her birthday, he bought a box of chocolates. But when he knocked at her apartment door, a neighbour told the boy his mom didn’t live there anymore. Richard never saw his mother again.

Psychiatrists today would describe his family as “dysfunctional.” But Richard never talked to a psychiatrist. He didn’t cling to how he was wronged. He didn’t point fingers or talk about his problems or ask, “Why?” He made a different choice. He had faith in God and focused on his blessings and tried to bless others in return. He developed a wonderful sense of humour and kept a positive attitude, no matter what came along.

Eventually, what came along was a gift in the form of a beautiful girl named Virginia. In Ginny, he found his soulmate. Also the product of a tragic upbringing, she was determined to be better, not bitter. She had long wavy hair, a cute figure and a vibrant smile.

She found Rick intelligent, well-mannered and interested in so many things. He taught her about the constellations.

They married. Four children followed in quick succession—two boys, two girls. “A millionaire’s family,” people would say, and Rick would agree. His factory job wasn’t what you’d call a career, but he felt like a millionaire and his family knew it. His greatest pleasure were his wife and kids. They knew that, too.

When the kids were grown and gone, he’d call and ask, “When you comin’ home?” They went home often. It felt good to be there, for it was a place of laughter, understanding and acceptance. As his children married and grandchildren came along, the laughter and good times increased. The small house stayed small, but it never felt that way. Only full of love.

After years of living on a shoestring and saving for the future, Rick retired. He and Ginny remained active in their church, nurtured their garden, took long hand-holding walks and played dominoes over coffee.

He took up woodworking and made beautiful things—a cradle for a grandchild, a toy box, a red wagon—each one handcrafted with love and care. He was happy. He was blessed and he knew it.

But at 70, a diagnosis: colon cancer. He met the diagnosis with courage and battled it in the hospital for almost five months: two surgeries, false hopes, plummeting weight loss. Finally came word the cancer had spread.

At that, Ginny said she was taking him home. The doctors didn’t argue.

Cared for by his family from a hospital bed in his living room, my father continued to focus on all the blessings God had bestowed upon his life. He showed me—by his powerful example—that joy is truly in the journey and it’s the love you give, not the love you get that matters most. It was, for me, his greatest legacy.

Two weeks later, Dad died. Mom was holding his hand.