Some men leave behind estates.
Others leave behind empires.
My father? He left behind legacy.
He was truly ahead of his time—a Renaissance man with a toolbelt, a camera strap, and paint-stained fingers. My dad could glide between painting strokes and shutter clicks, pencil sketches and home repairs, as effortlessly as most flip TV channels. He wasn’t just good at what he did—he was gifted. The kind of gifted that fills a room with purpose and makes even silence feel profound.
He was a lover of art—deep, soul-stirring, truth-telling art. His hands created it. His eyes captured it. His heart collected it.
Books lined our shelves like faithful companions, their spines worn from love and lessons. Each one a new window into a world he wanted us to know, to explore, to understand.
But it wasn’t just the arts. He was a jack of all trades and, quite honestly, a master of many. He served as an emergency service handyman for the New York City Housing Authority. Day in and day out, he rolled up his sleeves to fix what was broken—pipes, ceilings, maybe even a few hearts along the way. His work was practical, yet deeply spiritual. He saw value in what others discarded. He restored, renewed, rebuilt.
Even after he retired early, his spark never dimmed. In fact, it shined brighter. He shared his gifts freely—teaching, helping, laughing, loving—until his untimely passing, which left an echo that still sings softly through my days.
One of his greatest supporters, even after their marriage ended, was my mother. They remained close friends—kindred spirits who could read each other like well-worn books. She saw through his layers and loved him still, in a way that was deep, steady, and profoundly real.
I split my childhood between both sides of my family, finding grounding in each home, each heartbeat. But some of my fondest, most joy-filled memories come from time spent with my Jefferson first cousins. They weren’t just cousins. They were more like siblings—partners in every youthful adventure, co-authors of my earliest stories.
Today is Father’s Day, and I can’t help but feel a mix of gratitude and grief. Gratitude for all the things he passed down—his creativity, his curiosity, his relentless love. Grief for all the stories we didn’t get to write together. Still, I carry him with me. In the way I tell stories. In the way I parent. In the way I pause to capture life through a lens, or brush, or pen.
Scripture Reflection:
“A good man leaves an inheritance to his children’s children…”
— Proverbs 13:22a (KJV)
My father’s inheritance wasn’t just tangible—it was spiritual. A legacy of creativity, faith, service, and quiet brilliance.
Reflection Question:
What legacy are you building? What talents, truths, or values will those who love you carry forward?
Call to Action:
Take a moment today to honor the men—past or present—who’ve poured into you. Whether by blood, bond, or mentorship, their impact deserves to be remembered. If you’re blessed to still have them, tell them. If not, write them a love note anyway. Our stories carry power. Let’s tell them well.
© 2025, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.
