My beloved dad, Frank Sawatzky, passed away on May 31, 2025, at the age of 100 years and 8 months. Here’s the tribute I read at his funeral.

My dad was a remarkable man who I knew on this earthly life for 64 years. The relationship we have to our parents is often a complicated one, and I feel so grateful that I had so long with him, to work out all the twists in the road we had. In the month before he passed, I told him he’d been a perfect dad. I didn’t mean flawless. He had his shortcomings. He could be gruff. He had a temper. That’s probably what he thought I meant, and he protested. “No,” he said and shook his head. “Yes you were dad,” I said, “You were the perfect dad for me, the one I needed; the one God used to help me grow.” 

My memories of dad as a kid were of playing. And he was good at it. For Easter, he wouldn’t just hide Easter eggs in the obvious places. He’s undo the curtain hem and place them inside, or unscrew the furnace duct. I don’t know how we found them all. He once made me into a snow person. I stood on an upside down garbage can while he  transformed me. One year at a rented cabin in the Whiteshell, he taught me to how to dive by getting me to dive over and over again. He rated each dive with a nickel, or 10 cents or maybe even a quarter. When I reached $5, I learned to dive and I was $5 richer. It was a joyful and creative collaboration. 

Coming home from work, I’d comb his hair as he read the Free Press in the tan Lazy Boy recliner on Arby Bay, being careful to avoid the mole on one side. I was a talkative kid, and I’d start chattering right after the Amen of “Segne Vater” prayer at supper. He said I should wait a moment. “How long is a moment?” I asked, and he counted 3 taps on the table. Seemed clear enough to me. He enjoyed my questions, and often told me through my life about the questions I asked him during church, such as why the preachers were yelling.  

I appreciated all the pets mom and dad allowed. When our budgie Dandy accidentally flew away, we went out looking and found him. When our cat Jello was run over, he got a spade and we went to bury him. I took those events for granted but the older I get, the more I treasure them. Even as a teenager, I still felt proud of him. He was the conductor in the church choir that I sang in. He once asked everyone whether we were on pitch. No one seemed to know. “Well,” he said, “if no one notices, then it probably doesn’t matter.” Everyone burst out laughing. Dad once told me he’d secretly wanted to become an actor, and you could see his charisma at times like this. He loved to recite poems or sayings or sing to people. He loved to quote his Italian barber, who said, “That’s the way it goes.” 

While camping, we would go blueberry picking and, ever the adventurer, dad would wander ahead. Suddenly way in the distance we would hear, “Ooo ooo!”, and we answered back in kind to help him find his way. At night, he would tell us war stories in the tent. It was only in my 50s when I realized how much war had affected him, how much trauma he’d had to live through before the age of 25. The gruff side of our dad became more clear to me as I realized the PTSD he lived with. 

As you all know, a shadow fell over our family when their oldest, Hildi, died in 1968. Even though the experience had drawn him closer to God, he also lost his faith for a while too. The war years had seen so much loss, and here was another death so soon after entering the peaceful land of Canada. Dad’s gruff side came to the surface more often then. As a teen, I helped him build the cottage at Lester Beach. He was a perfectionist, also grieving, and I was a teen – a difficult combination. If dad said hupps, you had to hupps and if dad asked for a tool, you better bring him that tool. But to this day I am proud of that cottage. He was fair to me too when he paid me for helping, which I later used to go to Israel and Egypt. Another treasured memory of dad was his response when I had my first heartbreak at age 19. After church, he noticed I was down and I told him. He said that sometimes when we’re sad, it helps to move, and suggested we take a drive. He was right, it helped. All the way to Lockport and back, he just listened with compassion. No advice, just acceptance and love. I never forgot that loving attention that only a father can give. Thank you dad. 

In adulthood, we entered a difficult time. He and mom didn’t agree with a life choice of mine. These were difficult years for us all, as I pushed back against their pushback. Once some dust had settled, about 10 years later, dad asked to go for coffee at McDonalds and surprised me by asking my forgiveness. We had a good talk that day that did a lot to clear the air.

Of all the gifts dad gave me, it was singing together in the last years which became the biggest source of healing. He had given me my first guitar when I was 18, and now music became a bridge between us. At Bethania, his diminishing cognition made conversations challenging, but singing together became a bonding glue. Soon others joined us, and whether german or english, we all went away more joyful as we forgot our troubles, including me. Music healed our spirits. Dad would conduct and sing along. I took pleasure knowing that the conducting was giving him exercise, and the words and music were placing both he and I in the faith that was such a part of his life. He forgot a lot of things, but not the words to songs.

When we sang “Gott ist die Liebe”, (God is Love) he would sometimes shake his head disbelievingly when we sang “Er liebt auch mich.” (“He also loves me”). “Nooo,” he would say, “It can’t be.” Deep down I think he felt, like many of us do, that he was unlovable. Especially now in the years where diminishment robbed him of his strength and dignity and he had no choice but to become dependent. Surely this grace didn’t apply to him. But we kept on singing anyway.

It was just this past February, the day after my birthday, that he unexpectedly gave me the biggest gift of all. We were singing in the front room at Bethania when a health care aid stopped by. “Frank, is this your daughter?” she asked. “What is her name?” When dad finally understood the question, with a laugh he answered quickly. “Her name is Loving Kindness”.

I have pondered this new name ever since. What does it mean? I know myself, and what a mixed bag of saint and sinner I am. I know how often I fail to show loving kindness, especially to those closest to me. I know what an imperfect daughter I’ve been. Like dad, I am disbelieving. Like dad, I’ve thought, “No, it can’t be.” Yet, every time I shared this story, I would tear up at the generous and beautiful name, miraculously gifted despite the cloud of dementia. Sometimes I wondered whether I’d heard right, but I know the health care aide heard it too. 

In the months since, I’ve begun to understand why it has felt so powerful. It’s the name God gave me first. I didn’t earn it through good behavior or being a perfect daughter. It is my birthright. Just as it is for all of us, just as it was for Frank. I’m not just the daughter of Frank and Kaethe, I’m God’s daughter. Beloved. Forgiven (even before I know I need forgiveness). My name is Loving Kindness. It’s rude to reject a birthday gift, so I need to accept it. 

Dad, dear Dad, thank you for all the gifts you gave me, especially that last one. You too were Loving Kindness to me. Our singing together was such a gift to me. In your liminal time of surrendering your strength and having no choice but to depend on God, you were able to open up to the gift of your true identity. This helped me do the same. I love you Dad. I’ll cherish your legacy always, and if I live to be 100, I pray a joyful spirit will still shine through, like yours did.