Painful Exist: On This Day Seven Years Ago
In memory of my father, Billy Graham
On this day seven years ago, my father, Billy Graham, went home to Heaven. Even now, those words feel surreal to write. In many ways, it’s hard to believe he has been gone that long. Time is an odd thing—it moves forward relentlessly, yet somehow manages to pause in the heart, especially when loss is involved.
The pain of losing someone you love doesn’t vanish. It transforms. Some days it’s a sharp pang, unexpected and overwhelming. Other days it’s a dull ache, a quiet reminder of the absence that now lives beside your presence. But always, it’s there. And for me, the absence of my father has never stopped being painful.
He was more than a global evangelist, more than the man whose voice stirred millions across nations. To me, he was simply “Daddy.” He was the voice that comforted me in childhood, the presence that steadied me through adulthood, and the example that shaped how I see faith, family, and life itself.
I still remember his quiet strength. My father was never one to fill a room with noise—he didn’t have to. He carried with him a kind of peace that settled into the hearts of those around him. There was power in his silence, comfort in his words, and conviction in his faith. He had a way of listening that made you feel heard, truly heard. He didn’t rush to speak, and when he did, it mattered.
The house feels different without him. The world feels different. There are moments when I catch myself thinking, “I need to tell Daddy about this,” only to be met with the cruel reality that I can’t. Grief, in its own way, plays tricks on the heart—it lets you believe, for just a moment, that the one you love is still just a phone call or a car ride away.
I often revisit the day he passed, not because I want to dwell on the pain, but because I want to remember the moment he was truly free. Though my heart broke when he left this earth, I also knew that Heaven gained someone extraordinary. And my comfort—my only true comfort—is in knowing that he is with the One he loved most. That he has heard the words, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
He lived his life with eternity in mind. Everything he did—every sermon, every prayer, every private act of kindness—was done with a deep sense of purpose. And even now, seven years after his passing, his legacy continues to point others toward Christ. That was always his mission.
Still, I miss him. I miss his wisdom, his smile, the warmth of his presence. I miss the way he could sit in silence and say so much without saying a word. I miss the gentle way he held Scripture, not as a weapon but as a balm for wounded souls. He taught me that faith wasn’t about perfection, but about surrender. That love was the highest calling. And that hope was never in vain.
Seven years have passed, but it feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago, all at once. That’s the strange rhythm of grief—it plays a song only the bereaved can hear. And yet, in the midst of sorrow, there is gratitude. I am thankful for the years we shared, the lessons he imparted, and the memories that continue to carry me forward.
Today, I pause to honor him—not just for what he did, but for who he was. A father. A man of God. A humble servant whose life still echoes through eternity.
And even as the pain persists, so does the hope. Because I know this goodbye is not forever. One day, I will see him again. Until then, I carry his legacy not as a burden, but as a blessing.
Daddy, you are missed every day. Loved always. Remembered forever.
