My father went home to the Lord at the age of fifty-eight.
For many years, I wondered why his life seemed so short. Yet as time has passed, I have come to believe that God simply called him home when his earthly work was complete.
The day after he died, I dreamed we were sitting together in a beautiful garden. It was peaceful beyond words. I did not want to leave. Before I awoke, he spoke gently:
“Tell your mom it was not the doctors. It was my time.”
That dream has never left me.
When I think of my father today, I do not first remember his accomplishments. I remember the kind of man he was.
Whenever I visited, I would often find him quietly reading his Chinese Bible. It was such a familiar sight that I hardly thought about it at the time. Looking back now, I realize I was watching a man whose life was being shaped day by day by the Word of God.
He loved God.
He loved people.
He lived the Gospel.
Although he worked hard and was financially comfortable, he dressed in the simplest clothes, often sewing extra pockets into them himself. More than once, strangers assumed he was poor. I still remember the expression on a sales clerk’s face when this “old man dressed like a bum” reached into his pocket and paid with a handful of crisp bills. My father never explained himself. Somehow, the moment itself became the lesson.
Our home was rarely quiet. Prayer meetings, choir rehearsals, women’s fellowship, church elders’ meetings, and Sunday meals with overseas Chinese students were simply part of everyday life. Holidays were no different. Our home was always open, and those students—far from their own families—became our older brothers and sisters.
He knelt on the grass to play with children during church picnics.
He cooked for the congregation.
Every Christmas he baked fruitcakes to give away.
He helped establish churches, advocated for Chinese-language books in our public libraries, and worked to create one of Toronto’s first Chinese community centres for seniors—a place where Chinese culture, music, opera, dance, and traditions could continue to flourish for future generations.
Looking back, I realize that he was never seeking recognition. He simply believed that faith should be lived and that every person should have a place to belong.
He rarely spoke about his own hardships. Instead, he told stories.
Stories of the 駱 Lok family.
Stories of China.
Stories of migration, history, and faith.
Only later did I realize that he was handing me something far more valuable than information. He was giving me a sense of belonging.
Red Thread Reclaimed was written because of him.
Not to preserve a famous family name.
Not to prove a lineage.
But to honour a father who believed that our stories mattered because God had been faithfully weaving through them all along.
Looking back now, I realize that the greatest inheritance my father left me was not wealth, but a faith quietly lived.
He taught me that humility is more beautiful than status.
That generosity is richer than possessions.
That history matters because people matter.
Most of all, he showed me that the Gospel is not simply something we believe—it is something we live.
I still miss him.
But I also carry him with me.
Every time I choose kindness over recognition, service over status, and faith over fear, I hear the quiet echo of a father whose life continues to point me toward God.
When people ask me what my father was like, one simple sentence comes to mind.
He lived the Gospel. ❤️
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