I thought about my dad this morning while listening to Jeffrey Rickman’s podcast. Rickman referenced this quote attributed to Francis Asbury (a pioneer in American Methodism) – thoughts about the holy and sacred privilege of preaching. On limited occasions when Asbury’s name is referenced, my mind always trails back to my dad. He wrote a play about Asbury’s life and presented it at Asbury Seminary and other locations on multiple occasions; the play was the outgrowth of one of dad’s sabbatical seasons while teaching at the seminary.

Fast forward a few years to 2002 when I was 7 ½ months pregnant with Amelia. Dad and mom took me, Nick and Colton, on a trip to Washington D.C. It was June, and it was hot. We did a lot of walking on that trip, saw a lot of historical markers, and collected treasured memories. One of those memories included my father’s relentless quest to find Francis Asbury’s statue in the heart of D.C. Dad had few details about its location, only that it was somewhere in the Mount Pleasant neighborhood near 16th Street. The only saving grace about that quest (did I mention we had done a lot of walking in high heat) is that dad rented an air-conditioned taxi. The five of us crammed into the taxi, and our driver began the search. After several unsuccessful pass-throughs of the neighborhood, we had almost given up when Colton looked out the window and said, “Is that it?” He pointed to an obscure, easy to miss, statue that was shrouded in tall grass across the street from our vehicle. Francis had been found!

We piled out of the taxi to take a picture and to survey Henry Augustus Lukeman’s work from 1921. Our visit was brief (the taxi meter was running), far shorter than our quest to get there. The box was checked. Dad was happy, and two little boys (along with their very pregnant mom) were thrilled that this historical pilgrimage had finally come to an end.

The “finding” of the statue, no doubt, fueled dad’s celebration of the life and witness of Francis Asbury, a preacher who, over the course of 45 years, traveled 275,000 miles over wilderness terrain to bring the good news of heaven down to the ground. Asbury’s faith and his passion rooted his mission. He had “seen heaven” as well as the “bottomless pit” and was determined to preach the truth therein.

As it goes with Asbury, so it goes with my dad, Chuck – a man who has spent his life traveling the wilderness road in search of lost pilgrims who have yet to catch a glimpse of heaven. Dad has seen both – the bottomless despair of the pit and the glorious hope of heaven. He knows the difference between the two. For 87 years, he has lived this difference.

These are hard days for those of us who’ve traveled with him along the way. His words, once so eloquently delivered, have turned into an occasional hum. Every now and again, we hear a chuckle. When we do, we smile because we know the man behind the laughter. Wherever dad was, there was always laughter. And honest conversations. Listening in and leaning in for more. Tears and prayers and generosity. Abundant generosity. If you know Chuck, you are nodding your head right about now. He is all this and so much more.

And so, another Father’s Day is in the record book. It’s been a glorious 59 years of being Chuck Killian’s daughter. I thank him for pointing me to heaven, especially in those seasons of my life when I was determined to wallow in the pit. Because of daddy’s love, I know what it is to be loved by Jesus. He is the tie that binds our hearts together forever – an everlasting future where, together, our mouths will be freed to praise, our feet unshackled to dance, and our lips loosened to laugh.

I love you, daddy. Happy Father’s Day. And remember… the best is yet to be.