Have you ever missed someone so deeply that it felt like a part of you was missing? Someone whose voice you can no longer hear, whose presence you can no longer feel, no matter how much you wish for it?
December 4th was his birthday. I tried to keep myself busy that day—burying myself in tasks, distracting my heart with anything I could find—just so I wouldn’t think of him. But today, as I was scrolling through old photos, there it was: a picture of our last coffee date. It stopped me in my tracks. I could feel the memories rushing back like a wave.
That day was grey and somber, almost as if the sky itself knew. It was after a prayer meeting, and the weather seemed heavy, melancholic. We decided to celebrate his birthday early, over a simple cup of coffee. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was warm. I never imagined that it would be the last Christmas we’d share together.
He was truly one of a kind. The kind of person who always showed up—not just physically, but emotionally, wholeheartedly. His love wasn’t loud or grand, but it was steady and real. He had this way of making you feel seen, heard, and valued. A single knock on his office door was all it took—he’d open it with that familiar presence, ready to listen, to offer comfort.
With him, there was no such thing as being lost. No matter how messy life became, finding him felt like finding home.
But love, even selfless love, isn’t always perfect. Sometimes his way of loving was tough, even disappointing. His weaknesses could frustrate me, and his imperfections reminded me that he was human, just like the rest of us. Yet, in all that, his presence had this unexplainable power—a comforting warmth that could quiet the chaos within me.
Now, as I sit here with his memory, I realize how much I miss that. The love that wasn’t flawless but was real. The person who wasn’t perfect but was present. And perhaps that’s what we hold on to—the moments they gave us, the pieces of them that stay with us long after they’re gone.
The one who taught me to be courageous when all I wanted was to retreat into my cave, to hide from the world and its weight. The one who pushed me to pray louder at heaven’s gate, reminding me that even the faintest whispers of my heart reach the ears of God. The one who picked me up on the street when I was stranded offered a hand that felt like grace. The one who reminded me that I am loved and gently pursued by the King of kings. The one who appointed me to keep the minutes and write faithfully, planting seeds of purpose in my heart. The one who joined me on mission trips, opening my eyes to a world beyond my comfort zone, showing me there is so much more to life when I let Him work through me. The one who was bold enough to hurt me with truth—like telling me not to date an unbeliever, even if he’s smart and smells good (hahahah) —and to rebuke me with love so I would stay grounded in His Word.
The one who made me fall in love with Friday nights—a sacred pause filled with warmth, stories, and lessons that lingered in my heart.
Some lessons stung, but they were the kind of wounds that heal with wisdom. Through it all, he reminded me that God’s plans for me are far greater than fleeting desires.
Though being apart from you aches, especially when I remember how patient you were with the immature, overly sensitive, and complaining younger version of me. You saw all of that, yet you still welcomed me and met me where I was—with arms wide open and a heart full of grace.
I’m still a work in progress, still under construction, but His grace is enough to carry me through. And perhaps, the patience and kindness you showed me were glimpses of that same grace—a reminder that I am loved, even in my messiest, and most unpolished state.
It’s been years since we’ve been apart, but I know you’re closer to Him now more than ever. So much has changed over time, yet I can’t help but miss the simple joys of being around you—watching you brew coffee with that familiar calm, sipping it slowly until it went cold, and listening to your stories, even when I’d heard them a hundred times before.
Until the next brew, Pastor Lando. Your stories live on in my heart, and your legacy continues to inspire.
