For many, grief brings despair, anger, or fear. Yet, my father’s passing hasn’t stirred those emotions in me. He lived his life with nothing left unsaid or undone. My four brothers, sister, and mother—his wife of 66 years—feel the same. We didn’t face his death with regret or unfinished business. We shared the rare gift of a complete relationship without the “what-ifs” or “if-onlys.”

After four decades as a caregiver, I thought I understood grief. I’ve watched my wife, Gracie, battle relentless pain and loss since her devastating car accident in 1983—a crash that led to more than 80 operations, multiple amputations, and a struggle with chronic pain that would crush most people. I’ve grieved alongside her in stages, mourning the parts of her health and life that slipped away over time. Some call it incremental and continual grief.

But standing beside my father’s casket, I encountered something new—a grief that cuts to the bone and leaves a void, like a door slammed shut. This wasn’t the slow, grinding sorrow of caregiving, where you brace yourself daily for another blow. And even though not unexpected, it was swift and final—a full-stop in the story of a man who shaped me.

My father and I shared a bond built on respect, love, and a mutual commitment to our Christian faith. His unwavering support and wise counsel were anchors in my life, especially during the most challenging caregiving moments. When I was lost in the wilderness of Gracie’s suffering, his words guided me back to solid ground.

For many, grief brings despair, anger, or fear. Yet, my father’s passing hasn’t stirred those emotions in me. He lived his life with nothing left unsaid or undone. My four brothers, sister, and mother—his wife of 66 years—feel the same. We didn’t face his death with regret or unfinished business. We shared the rare gift of a complete relationship without the “what-ifs” or “if-onlys.”

Caregivers know the unique pain of “anticipatory grief”—mourning the losses you see coming while still wrestling with the ones at hand. I’ve lived in that space for decades, grieving bit by bit as I watched Gracie’s body and spirit endure the unimaginable. That kind of grief is a slow bleed, exhausting even the strongest spirit. But this grief for my father is different—blunt, piercing, and conclusive. I am no longer waiting for the inevitable but living in its aftermath.

As I sit with these feelings, I’m struck by how my sorrow is softened by the lessons my father imparted throughout his life. One such lesson came unexpectedly when I was asked to speak at the Huntington’s Disease Society of America (HDSA) conference some years ago. Huntington’s is a devastating genetic disease that haunted my father’s family for generations. It was a heavy legacy, and knowing this weighed on me as I accepted the invitation.

I arrived the evening before and met many wonderful people at a meet-and-greet. I listened to their stories and felt the weight of their suffering. Even though I’m no stranger to harsh realities, the depth of their pain overwhelmed me. Later that night, as I sat in my hotel room, mentally rehearsing my keynote address, I called my father and confessed, “Dad, I don’t feel worthy to talk with these people.”

He didn’t hesitate. “You have been uniquely prepared and equipped by God to minister to these people and more—and there’s no one in line behind you to do it. Now get down there and do your job!” His voice, honed by decades as a pastor and Navy Chaplain, was steady and unyielding. My only response was, “Yes, Sir!”

The next day, I spoke with passion and conviction, knowing I was fulfilling my father’s commission. I’d seen him walk into the most horrific circumstances with the confidence of the Gospel and the authority of God’s Word. With his words echoing in my ears, I felt his hand on my shoulder as I stepped into that same role.

As I navigate this different kind of grief, I find solace in reflecting on the countless lessons my father imparted—in both word and deed. His life was a gift, not just to me but to so many others. My gratitude tempers the sting of loss. Though the tears come, they are mixed with joy for a life well lived and a race well run.

Many people experience grief tangled up with unresolved issues. My father had a difficult relationship with his own father, and his life was marked by sadness over “what could have been.” Yet, he allowed that sorrow to be transformed by God’s grace. He became a father to not only his six children but to our spouses, cousins, and a host of others who found refuge at our home.

As I wrestle with this different kind of grief, I am determined to let it be shaped by God’s provision, principles, and purpose. The loss of a father is a unique, incalculable pain. Sometimes, that loss comes from abandonment—but death comes for us all, even the most loving of fathers.

Since my father’s charge to take the stage at that conference, I’ve spoken to tens of thousands of fellow caregivers who struggle with the same kind of incremental grief and heartache I’ve carried. Now, while shouldering this different kind of grief, I find new resonance in the scriptures that describe Jesus as “…a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53:3).

Reflecting on my father’s legacy of ministry to broken lives, I am reminded of his favorite hymn:

“There is a balm in Gilead, to make the wounded whole.
There is a balm in Gilead, to heal the sin-sick soul.”

My grief—a different kind of grief—is real and will last a lifetime until I am reunited with my father in Heaven. But I know what he would want me to do now: allow God to turn this grief into a balm for others. So, when my head hangs in sorrow, I still hear his voice echoing in my heart:

“Get out there and do your job.”

Peter Rosenberger hosts the nationally syndicated radio program, Hope for the Caregiver. His newest book is A Minute for Caregivers—When Every Day Feels Like Monday. www.HopeforTheCaregiver.com