My stepdad died on Father’s Day

On Father’s Day 2026, my step-dad fell from a ladder and died in his back yard. Even typing that it feels like I’m writing some sort of demented, fictional story. You think, “okay, this is terrible… but we can handle it. We have Jesus. He will get us through.” And He does. Time and time again. But the problem is that His way of getting us through doesn’t look the way I thought it would.

The day it happened, I was with my husband and children at Texas Roadhouse (our favorite) for a Father’s Day dinner. The waitress was at our table to take our orders. She started on the opposite side of the table, working her way to me. In the meantime, my phone dings. It’s my mom, “Hey, I just got home and I found Dean on the ground. He fell from the ladder and hit his head and he was not conscious.” My heart sinks. It’s my turn to order. I glance up at the waitress, down at my phone, around at the table, “ummm salmon… the small one….” looking around at everyone in disbelief, “…the rice and…. I’m sorry… I just got a really bad text… and a salad with ranch… and … I’m sorry …. oh, um, the garlic butter….” She moves to the next person and we complete our orders. I read the text aloud to everyone, my husband (Jacob) and I say our goodbyes and leave before the waitress has a chance to relay our orders to the kitchen.

This is the day that changed my life forever. There are things that happened that day that would imprint on my mind the way I feel baby animals imprint their mother or the way a cattle rancher brands the herd.

I would soon meet the ambulance and the rest of my family at the hospital. We would wait in the private waiting room they give to families when things are really bad. After they had him stable (intubated) and scans completed, we would be called back in groups of four to see him.

I was in the second group. When I went back, my brother Jesse, nephew Justice, and my mom were back there. After a few minutes, the doctor would come in to tell us that based on the scans, it was determined that this was “not a survivable event” and there was nothing they could do. I’ll never forget the crying, the questioning, the disbelief in that room. HOW?! How could this happen? He’s 71 years young and was in the middle of building an outdoor kitchen. His truck was in the shop getting repairs and he still had to pick it up. He had plans. Like plans he is in the middle of! Things to do… But now, he doesn’t.

It’s safe to say that even today, on the one month anniversary of his passing, I still struggle with that. Knowing that he had plans that will never be finished.

The nature of his passing makes it hard to fully comprehend that he’s gone. The first couple of weeks after he died, (and why is “died” so hard to say?) I saw him everywhere. Even at his funeral I’d catch a glimpse of someone out of the corner of my eye and think it was him.

There is a song that’s a favorite of mine right now. It’s called ‘All Them Horses’ by Noah Kahan. A line in the song says, “See the dried flood lines on the neighbors porches. Do you remember crying for all them horses? They did not look scared at all. They did not look scared, they did not look scared at all.” When I first listened to it, I took peace in that line. But now I’m starting to think that the way they looked on the outside did not match the way they felt on the inside.

Losing someone the way we lost Pappy (what we called him after my child started calling him that), leaves a wake of destruction in its path. It took me a week before I even realized just how tragic the situation was.

This kind of loss changes people at a cellular level. I’ve found that it makes me stronger and somehow softer at the same time. I’m hyperaware of others who have been through the same type of loss of a loved one — unexpected in nature. I’ve been gifted a type of wisdom and perspective that can only be seen through the lens of grief. Things that were once important to me no longer matter as much.

Pappy had lived such a wonderful life and was full of good advice and stories. He made every single person feel loved and wanted and welcome. He rarely got upset about things telling me, “the only thing you really own in life is your emotions – don’t let people take away your happiness”. He loved cooking for people, telling stories, aggravating people for his enjoyment, and laughing. His laugh is something I’ll never forget; it’s truly the best.

For now, I’ll hold onto pictures of him, voicemails I’ve saved from him over the years, and cherish last night’s dream where my Aunt Chrisie brought him to visit us. She was smiling and he was smiling … almost glowing. I hugged them and the dream was over. There was a sense of peace and calming.

I know he’s in a better place and I’m so happy for him …but for the rest of us, I weep.

“They did not look scared at all. They did not look scared, they did not look scared at all.”

P.S. Losing Pappy has left a giant hole in our family, and it has also left my mom trying to figure out a life she never expected to be figuring out alone. There was no life insurance, and along with grieving her husband, she’s now facing funeral expenses and decisions about their home and his truck that she never thought she’d be making.

We’ve set up a GoFundMe to help take some of that weight off of her. If you feel called to help, you can find it here. And if you can’t, your prayers for my mom and our family mean just as much to us.